Chapter 7
ALEXANDER
Ihad never known a touch as tender and gentle.
Or as comforting. From a battered bandbox, Madeleine produced some rags and a tin of liniment.
The box was the only item she brought with her, and she had refused to part with it, sliding it under her skirts as she sat.
I didn’t argue with her, already feeling dismay that her entire cache of worldly goods was in a case of such disrepair.
She turned her back, removing her gloves, not allowing her hands to be visible. She carefully set my leg on the seat beside her, pulling off my boot and inspecting my foot. I was shocked at the size of it and the large discoloration on the ankle.
“You are fortunate this did not break the bone, my lord,” she murmured, running her fingers over the hot skin.
I only grunted in response, unable to form words as she applied some of the ointment and began kneading it into the skin.
I could smell the liniment, the aroma of herbs not unpleasant.
Her touch was so light it didn’t bother me, and to my surprise, the pain eased slightly.
There was a slight feeling of roughness to her skin, but I did not comment, assuming it was from years of toiling, and I did not wish to embarrass her further.
I watched from under narrowed eyes as she worked.
She had a small wrinkle between her eyes as she concentrated, and she hummed under her breath, a welcome sound in the carriage.
I was certain she did not realize she was doing so, and I chose not to remark on it.
There was none of her nervousness, or qualms about touching a strange man—she was determined and calm.
“Where did the liniment come from?” I queried.
“One of the servants had a mother who was a healer. I twisted my foot badly, and she kindly made it up for me. Between that and the bandages, it healed quickly.”
“Ah.” There was a healer in the village by Wheaton whom I consulted with from time to time.
“I had to hide it from my father.”
“The liniment?”
“All of it. The small rags I tore for bandages. The fact that I spoke with people in the stables. Or aided the servants.”
“Your father is the devil,” I stated mildly.
A ghost of a smile graced her lips, but she remained quiet, stroking her fingers gently along the injured area, never hurting, only soothing.
She stopped and reached into the bag again, producing some rolled rags.
She tied one around my foot so it was tight, but not painful.
She handed me a small bundle of linen, and I opened it to find an apple, bread, and cheese nestled inside.
“You did not eat at the inn. I thought perhaps you would need sustenance.”
Something warm cracked inside my chest, leaking throughout my person. She was incredibly kind and caring. Sweet in her thoughts and gestures. Given the situation she had left behind, it was a pleasing surprise to discover that she wasn’t bitter and angry.
“Thank you.”
“Keep your foot relaxed and up,” she encouraged. “I believe that aids the healing as well.”
I munched the apple and ate the bread and cheese.
I longed for a whiskey but knew that would have to wait until we reached Wheaton.
Madeleine pulled on her gloves, then placed her things back in her bandbox, but as we hit another jarring bump, it fell from her hands, a few items falling to the floor and seat of the carriage.
Some small pieces of paper fluttered in the air, and I pulled one down, examining it.
It was a sketch done in pencil. I was amazed at the detail in the small etching. How lifelike the petals and stems were of the flowers. I lifted my gaze, meeting hers.
“Is this your illustration?”
“Y-yes,” she stuttered.
“Have you others?”
She nodded, and I held out my hand. “I would like to see them, if you please.”
She hesitated and then reached into her bag, pushing a few scraps of rag paper into my hand. Each sketch was a delight for the eyes. Flowers, horses, a meadow. One of Lydia, the likeness so clear on the small scrap, it was as if I were staring at a portrait.
“Madeleine, you are talented.”
She didn’t respond.
I held up the minute pile. “Why on such scraps?”
“Only what my father discarded. I didn’t dare take a sheet from his desk. And I had only the very stubs of pencils to use.”
“I do not understand your father’s mind-set. Why you have been treated as a maid.”
“Nor do I, my lord.” She sighed as I handed her the pretty scraps. “Sometimes I wish it were not so. Sometimes…” She trailed off.
“Sometimes?”
Her voice was so low I had to strain to hear it.
“There were moments I hated my father. I wished him gone. I prayed he wasn’t my real father, and I would be taken elsewhere to live a different life.
I wanted to run, but I had nowhere to go.
There were times I wished to spit in his tea.
Infest his study with mice, which he loathed, so he would return to the city until they were gone.
Add salt peter to his food. My thoughts were wicked, and my father often told me I was wicked as well. As if he knew my thoughts.”
I withheld my laughter at her supposed wickedness.
“My thoughts would have been far darker,” I assured her. “Nor do I believe you to be wicked.”
She shook her head in disbelief, settled her bag back under her skirts, and stared out the window.
The afternoon light accentuated her profile. She would be a great beauty once she was stronger. Healthier. I suspected she had many hidden depths which needed to be encouraged. I imagined her smile would be a wondrous sight.
I was surprised to realize I would like to see that smile.
To have it directed toward me.
I was also astounded to discover that she was quite fascinating.
“Do you have other interests?” I asked.
She frowned. “At one time, I did, my lord. Many.”
“Such as?”
“I played the piano, did needlepoint, had dance lessons, and studied French. My mother taught me to sew and how to garden. She was a different sort of lady, and she loved to cook. She taught me several dishes. I used to love to read and to stroll in the garden. I loved to swim. To play cards. Do figures.”
I gaped at her list of accomplishments. She had been raised as a lady with some interesting twists to her personality.
“Figures?” I asked, curious.
“My grandmother was a little eccentric. When her husband died, she eschewed society. She taught my mother everything she needed, but also many things ladies are not shown. I can use a sword rather well too.”
“How remarkable.”
“My father didn’t think so. He thought I was vapid and useless.”
“Frankly, my sweet, your father is an arse.”
She laughed, the sound honeyed and high, making me want to laugh with her. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth as if afraid to hear herself enjoying a light-filled moment. She was beautiful in her levity, and I found myself even more drawn to her.
“Do you ride?” I asked, needing to distance myself from my thoughts.
The light on her face dimmed. “Yes. But not since my mother passed.” She swallowed and looked away.
“I had a horse I loved. She was a gift from my mother, and we would ride together. When she died, Father sold Star, making me watch as she was taken away.” She lifted my eyes.
“I begged him not to, but he gave me a choice—sell her or he would shoot her.”
I shut my eyes at the cruelty she had endured. Reaching for her hands, I held them in mine.
“How old were you?”
“Four and ten.”
“May I ask how she died?”
“She was ill. One day, she seemed fine. The next, she was not. She died a few days later.”
“You must have been devastated.”
“I was. I still miss her. My entire life changed after she died.”
I asked her some more questions, enjoying listening to her pleasant voice, discovering an intelligence she kept hidden. We discussed art, her love of the subject obvious. She admitted she loved to sing but hadn’t raised her voice in song since her mother died.
“Except once,” she admitted, her hands twisting again on her lap. I stifled the urge to reach over and calm the nervous gesture.
“What occurred?”
“My father heard me and locked me in my quarters for three days without food. Only water—and a very small amount, at that. I never sang again.”
I felt the hatred I had toward Barnett grow. Blossom. Take on a life of its own.
His vile treatment toward his daughter was abominable. He told me to ruin her. Cast her aside, he said, his voice almost gloating in glee.
I thought of my idea of taking her elsewhere to be looked after. It felt wrong to take her to a new situation or have her work in the village. Serving others. She had done that far too long.
“Madeleine,” I said gently, waiting until she met my eyes. “I wish to ask something of you, and I would like you to speak the truth to me. There will be no consequences for honesty. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How old are you?”
“One and twenty.”
That news pleased me, a kernel of an idea growing in my mind. Like a mist flowing over a field in the morning, it was still thin and wispy but beginning to take shape.
“Have you been to London?”
“London?” she repeated. “No, I have never been.”
“I have a friend there, newly married. His wife is a gentle soul. You would be well treated there. Would that please you? To be away from your father and live in the city?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, my lord. I would prefer to remain in the country. But if you feel it is for the best, I will do so, as it will be better than what my life was at my father’s.”
“If you could choose your future, what would it be?”
Her voice was low. “I have not been able to hope for a future for a long time. When I was younger, I wanted a home of my own in the country. A husband and a family. I wished for happiness.”
I contemplated her. Thought of her upbringing. Reflected back on a conversation I’d had with Edward some time ago.
“You need a wife and an heir,” he informed me. “Soon. Your future is at stake.”