EIGHTEEN #2
“Once there, my family learned of my plight and were suitably horrified. We discussed many options. Legally, I was George’s property.
If anyone harbored me, he could demand my return, and a judge would force it.
George would never agree to a divorce—a separation of room and board.
He would sooner see me dead. Finally, my aunt suggested I go into hiding.
Employment positions for a lady, such as governess or lady’s companion, were deemed too risky, as I would be too visible to visitors.
However, we reasoned that if I took employment as a household servant—a housekeeper, for example—George likely wouldn’t find me. ”
“No one would ever expect a lady to embrace such a fall from grace.”
“Precisely. So . . . that was what I did. A friend of Uncle’s knew of a family in Penrith who were in need of a trusted housekeeper.
I purchased used clothing of the appropriate fit and style.
Then, before sunrise one morning, Uncle delivered me in a dog cart to a neighboring village where I caught the mail coach north.
It was all so very ordinary and banal. Uncle returned home and told all our acquaintance that I had needed to return home unexpectedly.
As George never permitted me to visit, no one there has found my disappearance suspicious. Or so Uncle assures me.
“My employers in Penrith were patient as I learned my new duties. Uncle worried that letters could lead George to me. So we created a relay with the post. My uncle would send a letter to a cousin in Manchester, who would then send it onward to an innkeeper or some other person nearby who would give it to me.”
“A wise course of action.”
“Yes, it was, but George hunted me relentlessly. I had to change situations almost every year. It was . . . dreadful.” An understatement that. “Before Avoch, I was with the elderly Mrs. McIntyre in Ayr for nearly 18 months before I was discovered and had to flee in haste.”
The terror of those weeks, flinching at every shadow and movement.
“I managed to secure a position with Colonel Gordon. Like most of my employers, the good Colonel does not know my true antecedents. I made friends with Mrs. Campbell—a farmer’s widow—who lives several miles from here, as you saw that day in the rain.
I pay her a small sum to receive the occasional letter.
She has a son in Manchester, so a letter posted from there shouldn’t raise any suspicion.
I learned of George’s death from one of Uncle’s letters. ”
“Could you return to your uncle’s house . . . now that George is gone?”
Wasn’t that her tentative hope? Seeing her family again, wrapping her arms around her aunt, smelling Uncle’s pipe smoke on his jacket . . .
“Perhaps?” The word emerged as a question.
“Lady Isla mentioned that the news of my abandonment isn’t widespread?
I didn’t know that George and Drempton had hidden it.
Granted, George never permitted me to leave the house or receive visitors in the year before I fled, so there was no acquaintance to remark upon my absence . . . or its lack.”
“You speak with trepidation instead of hope.”
Cecily scrubbed her palms along her thighs.
“I fear, were I to reemerge somewhere, that Drempton will continue his relentless campaign. In the months before I escaped, his behavior toward me was . . . obsessive. Even now, he appeared on my uncle’s doorstep over a month ago, demanding to know my whereabouts.
Drempton has been actively searching for me. ”
Matthias’s brows drew down.
Cecily wasn’t entirely sure of Drempton’s purpose, but she imagined it would involve some violence to her person. Perhaps he intended to force her to the altar with himself, or at the very least, imprison her as a mistress.
“Surely Lord Drempton has no hold over you?”
“Not legally, of course. But I am a widowed, penniless woman. A few words in the correct ears, and I would be cast out into the street, unable to retain dignified employment. My uncle would have to disavow me in order to salvage his own reputation. I would be left without recourse.”
“I assure you that will never happen,” Matthias spoke with a savage conviction. “You will not be left to the mercy of that reprobate’s whims.”
Cecily took in a stuttering breath. Would that she could believe him.
No amount of threatening would stop wagging tongues, particularly with gossip this delicious—a noblewoman abandoning her husband and taking up work as a housekeeper to avoid said husband.
Never mind that she fled to save her own life.
The news would fly through the kingdom like wildfire.
Drempton and George had stayed mum for a reason.
Or rather, Drempton had likely convinced George to stay silent in order to avoid scandal.
Now, she assumed Drempton maintained that silence as a form of currency.
A way to ensure her cooperation. If the baron found her and then felt his grip slipping, he would not hesitate to make her perfidy widely known.
“You doubt me?” Matthias continued.
“I don’t doubt that you mean your words. But Drempton is a cunning adversary. You would be a fool to underestimate him.”
“I don’t underestimate him.” He leaned toward her—solitary elbow on his knee, eyes bright and warm. “But I have the highest faith in your ability to overcome his machinations, and my readiness to assist you.”
Her shoulders dropped, tears pricking again.
“You do not consider me a disgrace for abandoning my marriage?”
His brows drew down. “Are you mad? You feared for your life. George forsook his vows to honor and protect. You were merely attempting to survive his own dishonor.”
Cecily pressed her fingertips to her eyes—and then his handkerchief—but it was no use. The tears flowed fast.
Matthias’s words were a balm to the festering wound of her pain. He was the first stranger to know the sad truth of her. The first to whom she had confessed the whole. His acceptance and understanding eased her misery.
“Tears are good,” he said softly. “They wash out the pain.”
She nodded on a sniffle, giving him a wobbly smile.
Once she finished drying her cheeks, he took the handkerchief she proffered and returned it to his pocket.
“You will heal.” He fixed her with his calm gaze. “And with practice, we will both learn to dance.”
He stood and held out his hand, a gentle invitation.
Biting her trembling lip, she took a deep breath.
As before, he waited patiently.
Slowly, she slipped her hand into his once more, permitting him to tug her to her feet. The instinctual fear lingered, but telling him of her pain had helped.
He led her to the center of the room. Two steps, and Cecily was in the curve of his arm. His stump rested gently against her ribcage, and his warm hand engulfed hers overhead. Unlike before, every point of contact hummed with energy.
Her body filled with a crackling sort of warmth, the kind she hadn’t felt in nearly a decade, since those early months of marriage when she still found George appealing as a man. However, her attraction to her husband had never been quite this . . . intense.
But Matthias . . .
She lived in his own house, and so she understood his habits and proclivities as well as any wife. Not once had she seen him drink to excess or say a cross word to a servant. Even his interactions with neighbors, while awkward, were never angry or cutting.
Though her heart beat like a mad thing, Cecily could sense trust rising underneath. Perhaps . . . there truly was hope.
Slowly, she hummed a melody in three-four time, her feet moving in the familiar down-up-up pattern of a waltz. Matthias attempted to follow her lead.
“Pardon,” he winced for stepping on her foot.
“Apologies,” he murmured after turning too quickly and causing her to lose the rhythm.
“Oof!” he gasped as he tripped on the carpet and stumbled out of their hold.
Cecily couldn’t help her laughter. It bubbled up, frothing like sea foam at sunrise. “You are truly not meant for the waltz, my friend.”
He blushed pink. “I fear my career as a dancing master was cut short before it ever began.” He pointed at his missing arm with a self-deprecating grin.
Cecily doubled over, laughing until her sides ached. A rush of affection filled her limbs.
This! His ability to make light of his impairment delighted her to no end.
“I have a different idea,” he continued, a grin on his lips. “Instead of attempting a waltz, why don’t we abandon the pretext, spare your toes, and I offer you a simple hug?”