Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
She was running…running as fast as she could.
The forest floor was dewy beneath her feet, the night fog weaving thickly between the trees. Even with her lantern, she could only see a few inches ahead. Yet she wasn’t afraid of the woods. For the monster didn’t live in nature’s labyrinth but in the lavish manor ablaze with light.
Why, oh why, did I take this position?
She cursed her stupidity and her arrogance.
She ought to have listened to her mama, who’d warned her that no good would come from putting down roots.
Her folk had traveled for generations, yet in her conceit, she’d believed that she could do better.
That she was meant for more than the simple life her family led.
Shame choked her and shaped her breath into sobs.
Because of her mistake, she had no one now.
She was shunned and disgraced and so very alone.
The fog drifted, and through the veil of tears, she saw a web of moonlight draped across an entrance…
a shelter in the woods. A place where she would, at least temporarily, be safe.
Right now, the monster would be climbing the steps to her attic quarters.
Night after night, trembling in her cot, she’d listened to the menacing thump of his boots.
She’d screamed the first few times—loud enough to wake the dead.
Yet no one came to her aid. When she’d summoned the courage to tell the lady of the house, she’d received a beating for her trouble.
Shut your gob, you troublemaking slut, Mistress had hissed. My husband is an important man of the highest standing. If you dare to slander him again, he will see to it that you pay…you and that stinking, no-good, peddling family of yours.
She had no choice but to run. One day, when she’d saved enough, she would get farther than the forest. She would run and run and run…so far that the monster couldn’t find her.
When will I ever be free?
For now, she would hide in this cave. She entered warily, in case this was the refuge of other frightened animals.
Raising her lamp, she saw that the snug space was empty…
and gasped when she saw a dazzling wall of pearls.
Astonished, she went over and touched her fingertips to the glowing spiral embedded in the rock.
Not pearls, she recognized with wonder. These are shells. Hundreds of them.
The circular pattern covered the entire wall, flowing with a continuity that seemed to have no beginning or end. It seemed to move, a line of light twirling against the dark, and it filled her with a strange sense of hope.
Outside, the monster howled. “There is no escape, Rose. You are mine.”
But for now, concealed in her hideaway, she was safe.
Evie shot up with a gasp.
She was alone, in bed at Bottoms House. James must still be out with his brothers; he’d said not to wait up. Bringing her shaking hands to her face, she dashed away the wetness clinging to her cheeks.
A dream. It was a dream. It didn’t really happen.
Yet her heart was thundering because it had felt real. Frighteningly familiar. Even though she hadn’t suffered the same violation as Rose—who must be the Rosalinda of legend—she had known the same fear. The flavor and texture of it coated her tongue, dripped sickly over her insides.
She, too, had run. Shackled by her gender and youth, she’d never gone far. Most times, she’d favored hiding, and she was good at that. At making herself as unnoticeable as moss on a stone.
If Wilmington cannot find me, he cannot hurt me.
That had been her motto. Even so, evading him completely was impossible. He would hunt her down, and in his mild, matter-of-fact way, tear her confidence to shreds.
“What a disappointing investment you are proving to be, Evie.” He would say it almost conversationally.
“Fat and plain, a four-eyed blemish on womanhood. You’ve inherited neither your mama’s charms nor her pleasing demeanor.
You will end up on the shelf because no man will want you.
And even though you are not of my blood, I shall have to bear the burden of your existence. ”
That was Wilmington at his kindest. When he was drunk and raging, the monster would truly emerge.
“You’re an ugly, useless cunt. A worthless bitch.
” Red-faced, spittle flying from his lips, he would cage her against the wall and spew vitriol at her while she cowered.
She’d learned to endure such moments by reciting plant taxonomy in her head.
Plantae… Tetradynamia… Siliculosa… Cheiranthus… Cheiranthus cheiri… the common wallflower.
Over and over again, so that while her body trembled, inside she felt nothing at all.
The change from girl to womanhood, however, had made the situation intolerable. Then, she’d had no choice but to fight back. To do…what she’d done.
The fact that she’d been under duress didn’t stem the flood of guilt and dread.
Did the dream portend that her sins would soon catch up to her?
She hadn’t heard from the blackmailer again—had buried the whole business in a pit of denial during James’s illness.
But the extortionist could demand more money at any time, and God help her, she didn’t know if she could make good on her vow to leave James, even to protect him.
Not now, when he was smiling at her again. When he’d held her and listened while she purged her regrets…some of them, at least. Their talk and the kiss that followed had sown seeds where hope had lain fallow.
“There will be other chances,” James had said.
He’d given her his word—which, for him, was as unbreakable as a vow.
True, he hadn’t done more than that yet…
but he was still getting his strength back.
Moreover, she felt as if they had been given a fragile second chance and knew, intuitively, that he felt it too.
If they were to make their marriage work this time around, they couldn’t rush things.
They couldn’t make the same mistakes as before.
She didn’t know how she would manage her secrets, but knowing how much her husband valued honesty, she resolved to be as truthful as she could.
In the meantime, James had had heaps of visitors.
Mr. Friend and Lord Dunsmuir had been practically glued to his side, pestering him about the campaign until, finally, she’d set her foot down and told them her husband needed rest. They’d left him with a pile of speeches and notes for the hustings.
She’d argued that James oughtn’t push himself so soon, but he had insisted he was up to the task.
It was good to have her bull-headed husband back.
So good that abandoning him and the life they shared seemed impossible.
Perhaps her dream hadn’t been an omen about her blackmailer, but about something else.
Xenia and Gigi had alluded to the dreams they’d had of Thomas and Rosalinda.
Their visions had started when they arrived in Chuddums and started falling for their respective mates.
Both ladies were convinced that by finding their own true love, they were helping to undo the curse.
By exposing the truth of what happened between Thomas Mulligan and Rosalinda, they would finally bring Bloody Thom peace.
Could it be that James and I are a part of this? Is a happy ending possible for us? If he knew my secrets, could he still love me?
Rosalinda’s question echoed in Evie’s heart.
When will I ever be free?
The next morning, James left for an early ride with his brothers.
Which was just as well since Evie had a list of tasks to tackle.
She and Xenia accompanied Gigi to Chuddums, where market day had taken over the square.
Stalls were overflowing with produce, freshly caught fish, and assorted local specialties.
She met with the flower seller to make the selection of flora for Gigi’s ball.
Evie carefully chose flowers not only for their aesthetic value but also for their meaning: garlands of myrtle and ivy to symbolize fidelity, pink roses for admiration and joy, and orange blossoms for eternal love.
She and the ladies also stopped at the dressmaker’s shop.
In addition to her own ball gown, Gigi had insisted on ordering ones for Evie and Xenia, and during their fittings, the trio enjoyed tea and gossip with the talented modiste, Mrs. Sommers.
By the time they returned to Bottoms House, the men were back.
Xenia went to assist Ethan with his latest composition, and Evie headed to the drawing room, where the butler had said James was entertaining guests.
At the door, Evie hesitated. She wanted to support James in his ambitions…
to be a true helpmeet. A politician’s wife was an important partner in his success: her social savviness and influence could make or break a campaign.
While Evie couldn’t claim to be a skilled hostess, she was willing to try to be what her husband needed.
Yet James hadn’t invited her to this gathering.
Beyond her presence at the hustings, he hadn’t asked anything else of her…
of a public or private nature. He had been kind and gentle, but he had made no marital overtures, which she’d attributed to his physical recovery and the demands of the campaign.
But perhaps it was something else—something to do with her.
Maybe he no longer desires me. Maybe he realizes that I am not pretty or popular enough to stand by his side. Maybe he thinks I will dull his shine rather than enhance it.
Self-doubt coiled around her like a vine.
She saw herself as others had seen her: awkward, plain, worthless.
She nearly turned around and left. Then she heard a burst of laughter and exuberant exclamations.
She recognized the voices of Mr. Friend and Lord Dunsmuir…
but who did that sultry female voice belong to?
Before she could think twice, she opened the door and entered.