Chapter 4 #2
“Chester?” Thomas’s weak voice floated down from the top of the stairs. “Is that you?”
Julianna looked up to see Thomas had struggled from bed and was clutching the stair railing as if that thin spindle of wood was the only thing holding him upright. It probably was. He was far too weak these days to do it himself.
“Wait, Thomas.” She started for the stairs. “I’ll help you.”
But Fred was quicker and closer, his long stride eating up the ground to the stairwell and then taking the steps two by two until he was at Thomas’s side.
No. No, no, no!
Julianna’s breath came fast and shallow and her fingernails cut sharp half-moons into the flesh of her palms. He could not be here. He could not upset Thomas.
She rushed up after him, but by the time she reached the landing, Fred was already in the sickroom, helping Thomas back into bed.
“You look terrible,” Fred said to her brother.
“That’s enough. I’ll see you out now, Mr. Sedgewick.”
His correct address was my lord but she didn’t care. She would never, ever use that title because it was meant to show respect she would never, ever feel.
“Julie-bug,” Thomas said softly. “I asked him to come.” To Fred he said, “We’ve an agreement I take it, since you showed up. You’ve brought the papers?”
“What papers?” she asked but both men ignored her.
She squelched the urge to empty the teapot on top of their heads. Or better yet, the chamber pot. If only because she’d be the one who then had to clean it up.
“What’s happened to you, Thomas?” Fred asked. “Is it truly tuberculosis?”
“No,” Julianna cut in. “We don’t know what it is. He has not seen a doctor in years.”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “Of course it’s tuberculosis, Chester.”
“Call me Fred, Tom. For Christ’s sake.”
“Did you bring the papers?” Thomas coughed hard, blood flecking the corner of his mouth.
Julianna moved to his side, dabbing it away with a cloth, but Fred hardly seemed to notice the interruption.
He only glanced around the room, studying it.
“I did not. I came as soon as I received your letter. But I’ll have my solicitor prepare the contracts as soon as possible and I’ll make arrangements for a license.
Send the papers to the Manor, Thomas, as soon as you’ve signed them.
Or better yet, I’ll tell the courier to wait for them. We’ll see this through with alacrity.”
“See what through?” Julianna heard herself ask.
Although: contracts, licenses, Thomas’s worry that she be ‘taken care of.’ She knew what they spoke of and her heart plunged down to her feet.
It did not make its way back into her chest when Fred turned to her, finally, and said, “You’re to be my wife, Miss Farrow. Your brother really ought to keep you better informed. ”
And then he strode out of the room and down the stairs.
Julianna swiveled her head to her brother who was looking down at his hands, and then to the departing back of Fred Sedgewick. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Julie-bug, it’s done.”
“No. You had no right, Thomas. I won’t do it.”
“You will, sister. You must. This is the only way I can see to protect you. You will not be ill-used by him though. I can promise you that.”
“No. We will talk about this as soon as I see that…monster…out.”
She flew after Fred, hoping to catch him. Confront him, perhaps and make him change his mind. But she needn’t have bothered rushing because he was standing in the middle of the cottage, casting his eyes about.
She saw the way it must look to him. Clean but threadbare, the ceiling beams stained from old smoke and the rug worn thin in the middle.
“We will marry,” he said without even turning toward her. “Unless you’re of the impression that poverty suits you? It does have a kind of rustic charm, I suppose. If one doesn’t look too closely.”
“Is that why you came? To sneer at what’s left of us?”
“I came because your brother demanded it of me. And rightfully so. I owe you a debt that must be repaid. I will see it done and you will use the funds for his treatment. The contract will be generous. You need not worry.”
“How dare you walk into this house and—”
“And what, Miss Farrow? Provide you with the funds you so clearly need? See to your ill brother’s health? What is it exactly you’re afraid I might accomplish here?”
“Get out.”
Fred turned to face her, finally. He was too close now, close enough that she caught the scent of him she remembered from her childhood, beneath the soap and leather and expensive coat. She held her breath to eradicate it from her senses.
“You’ve become stubborn since I last saw you,” he said. “Or, no. You’ve always been stubborn. You’ve just grown into it.”
Julianna’s mouth fell open. “You do not know me. Do not presume that you ever will.”
“No? You’ve endeavored to throw me out twice in under half an hour, despite the both of us knowing you’ve not the slightest chance of succeeding. What would you call that if not stubborn?”
“Please leave, Fred. You cannot be here. I cannot have you here. To force me to look at you—to speak to you—is beyond cruel.”
For the first time since he’d strode inside Farrow Cottage, Julianna saw her words have some effect on his expression. He clenched his jaw, which made his dimples appear. A detail she had not needed to witness.
“Do you think,” he said, almost too low to hear, “that you are the first to call me cruel? It is an accusation I know too well to let it affect me, Miss Farrow.”
“Stop.” Thomas’s breathing was labored, but he made himself heard from up the stairs. “Julie-bug, stop.”
Julianna closed her eyes and thwarted her desire to bury her face in her hands. Even if this was Thomas’s dying wish, she could not do it. She could not marry this man. He’d killed her parents for heaven’s sake!
But she lowered her voice nonetheless. “I’d rather rot in hell before I sign anything that pledges myself to you.”
“Luckily, you won’t need to sign anything. Your brother will.” She noticed he kept his voice quiet now too, only for her ears. “We’ll wed when the license has been procured, and then you may rot wherever you’d like. Hell or otherwise.”
Julianna truly could not breathe. It felt as if the walls were closing in on her. As if the fire in the hearth had died and leeched all the warmth from her bones. Damnation, she might actually swoon.
But then she took one more look into his awful face and said, “I won’t do it. I won’t marry you.”
“You will.” He turned from her, once more striding for the door. The parting blow came from over his shoulder. “Oh and Miss Farrow, do try to wash the dirt from your face before the wedding. One does like a bride to look presentable.”