Chapter Eleven
Blurred faces. Far-off voices taunting. Dreadful names, chanted at her as she descended from the prison carriage for her trial. Hurtful words, as clear and sharp as a razor’s blade, cutting her over and over.
She had not expected this reception. She had not been prepared to be pelted from all angles by rotten fruit, have her hair pulled, and her gown ripped. Who were these people and why did they hate her so?
The crowd was a cresting wave of hatred, looming all around her, ready to crash down and drown her. Shouts of, “hang her, hang her,” echoed off the stone walls as she passed on her way into the courtroom. “Murderous bitch, sinner, pox-ridden harlot!”
Lisbeth looked desperately for one friendly face, one set of sympathetic eyes in the crowded courtroom. It made her dizzy. Was there not one person in all of London who cared if she was innocent?
Nathaniel’s family was there, united in a group of vile looks.
These people had been her family, had loved her as a sister, or so she had thought.
They knew her; how could they believe she had killed her husband?
Where was her father, her grandmother, her sister? Was there no one here who loved her?…
Lisbeth blinked furiously upon waking. Tears fell in relentless streams down her cheeks to stain her pillow. She had learned long ago, it was better to weep in the privacy of her room than to let others see her weakness.
It was always just before dawn that she felt the most alone. Surrounded by all the worldly goods she could ever want, and yet her life was empty—meaningless. There was nothing and no one to love her. She could hardly expect less when she had ceased to even like herself.
It wasn’t until she was undressing for bed last night she realized Bellamy, dratted man, had stolen her pistol. Not that a pistol could protect her from him. Not any longer. Oliver Whitely had shaken her to her core, and she had not a clue how she should feel about it.
She had to concede everything that had happened last evening she’d deserved.
Acting like a Bedlamite over a silly piece of paper was bad enough, but to faint over a watch?
A watch she hated because it had belonged to Nathaniel.
She only carried it to keep her focused on her task of proving her innocence.
Having decided she must stop this destructive behavior she had tried not to write her schedule for the next day. But at four this morning, candle in hand, she had found herself heading for her desk in the library to do just that. Some habits were just too hard to break.
She had avoided Nathaniel’s study like the plague.
His room was more than the place where he had died.
Dark shadows had haunted it long before the ghost of her husband.
It had been his private domain, his place of secrets, as well as his place of hatred.
She knew it was silly to be scared of a room, but she was afraid.
Afraid of the memories there, the nightmares they evoked, and her weakness.
More than anything she was terrified of what she might find in there about herself.
She could hardly read her own handwriting the first time she had attempted to write out her schedule. Her hand had shaken so violently it was amazing the scribble even resembled words.
Perhaps a few more days grace, then I might be strong enough to venture where devils danced, she’d thought.
No!
A demon faced is a demon vanquished, her father used to say. Lisbeth was sure it wasn’t going to be so easy, but she had to try. She could no longer put it off. It would only play on her mind as it already had for weeks. She must do it. She must do it tomorrow!
She wrote that dreaded schedule out again and again and again until it was neat as a pin, satisfied at last the staff would be able to read it without making judgment on the state their mistress had been in while writing it.
She placed the schedules on the hall table, as usual, and went back to her room.
The top one addressed to the Earl of Bellamy.
Standing at her bedroom window she watched the gray haze of dawn blush to pink with the promise of a new day. The dawn always called to her, offering her a chance to try again. The glass was cold from the frost of the early morning, and she used her forefinger to draw an O in the fogged-up pane.
Oliver.
To know his name evoked a certain intimacy that she was not yet ready for.
Intimacy demanded a certain expectation of truth, of friendship.
She needed a friend. She couldn’t deny it.
Although, it was not likely the kind of friendship he was hoping for.
Was it so selfish of her to want his friendship, knowing she would not be able to offer him the same?
While she accepted that she needed him, she also acknowledged that she needed to protect him, just as much, from herself.
Her blackness.
Her curse.
Her worthlessness.
So many things could go wrong and yet he refused to try and accept her schedule. He could not understand how it had helped her survive the foulest of days. How she needed it, still.
The problem was she’d been prepared to use him when things had been all on her terms. Now, Lord I-know-you-are-all-bluff was trying to play Saint George to all her private dragons.
She had not asked him to champion her. It must be a family trait, as his brother had the same sense of chivalry.
She wondered how different things may have been for her if she had taken up Henry’s offer to buy her passage to the Continent and away from Nathaniel.
Lisbeth knew what would happen if she let herself give in to Oliver.
Inch by inch he would steal her resolve, her will, and her very thoughts.
Until one day, she would not know what she was doing or why.
He would convince her this quest was foolish and she should abandon her plan, live a quiet life, become his mistress, and dismiss all hope for a future of her own making.
It was not enough. She would not live like that; she couldn’t.
Dawn had broken, the clouds had rolled in, and rain now splashed against the glass pane in fat drops. Lisbeth knew deep in her heart that today would make or break her.
*
Lisbeth had her hand poised over the door handle of Nathaniel’s study.
It was late afternoon and rain fell steadily outside, a constant hum layering the silence of the hall in which she stood.
She felt a fine sheen of perspiration on her upper lip and brow.
Her heart was beating a tattoo that was making her lightheaded.
She’d stayed in the same position for nearly ten minutes with her hand hovering ridiculously over the handle.
Her housekeeper wasn’t helping by standing to her left twisting her apron in her hands and saying, “I’ve done nothing but dust in there. I never moved a thing ’cept to dust.”
Lisbeth wished she were alone but was at the same time comforted by Mr. and Mrs. Rollands’s presence. Had they not been there, she may well be thumping her head against the door by now. Still, the nervous twitching of Mrs. Rollands was pushing her already frazzled nerves to the breaking point.
Lisbeth gave her housekeeper an imploring look which only made Mrs. Rollands twist her apron more.
Lisbeth’s eyes burned with unshed tears, not only because she didn’t want to do this but because Mr. and Mrs. Rollands had always been so kind to her.
Because she cared about them, because they were as upset as she was about this whole ordeal. And it had yet to even start.
Her stomach lurched up to her throat again at the thought of entering the room, of making the first step.
She had put it on the schedule and that was that.
Rollands’s look of surprise and then concern this morning had been enough to gage his thoughts on the subject.
She almost wished he’d at least tried to talk her out of it.
It might have made her more determined to face the demons she felt lurked behind this solid oak door.
Time was ticking away and with every tick-tock of the grandfather clock, Lisbeth felt her courage drain away.
Be strong! It’s just a room. Put your hand on the knob and turn it. Come on, do it! She stamped her foot in a fit of temper with herself, which made her housekeeper jump, murmuring, “Oh, my lord.”
Lisbeth closed her eyes. Put her hand on the door handle. It was cold, icy and condemning. It was so cold it seemed to burn her palm, like touching snow with no gloves on.
She pulled her hand off the handle again.
She paced around in a circle with her palm to her forehead and the other hand on her hip, trying to both compose and lecture herself.
She was just about to seize the handle again when the front door knocker banged loudly, echoing like thunder down the hall towards her.
This time all three of them jumped. Lisbeth’s hand came up to cover her heart; she was sure it had stopped for a brief moment.
The Rollands looked at Lisbeth.
She stared back at them.
Rollands coughed. “Shall I answer it, my lady?”
She couldn’t imagine who it would be but found herself nodding.
Her mind was still on the study door and what lay behind it.
She could see her reflection in its highly polished surface, and it was a coward’s face.
Her lack of courage was a slap to her flagging spirits.
She tore her eyes away and turned towards the door Rollands was opening, relieved, even if only for a moment, for the reprieve.
The gust that flew down the hall towards her was in the shape of a man. For a split second she thought it might have been Nathaniel’s ghost come to mock her. The man seemed enormous in a greatcoat and hat. He threw off his hat as he advanced and she gasped.
Oliver!
Her hand flew to her heart in relief, but his face was thunderous. She stepped back from the door as he continued towards her.