Chapter Twelve
Dazed with sleep and the worst headache she had ever known, Marianne first became aware of the sunlight as a patch of yellow that she could make no sense of.
Perfectly rectangular, the patch hovered just in front of her, however much she frowned and twisted and longed for darkness.
Her eyes were gritty and sore; she had no wish to open them, but eventually the yellow light won.
Moaning slightly, she opened her eyes just a crack and took stock of her surroundings.
She was in a long, spacious room which ended in floor to ceiling windows looking out over an overgrown lawn.
Sunlight streamed in, dappling the walls and floor.
She was laying on something moderately soft, though her head rested on a block that was hard and unyielding.
Once again, a sense of familiarity clawed at her.
Marianne sat up, swinging her legs onto the floor and clutching at her temples as her head spun in protest at the sudden move. Dots danced before her eyes, but she still recognized the rosewood chiffonier and the globe resting atop the bookcase.
I am in the parlor at Medstead Hall.
Unlike upstairs, the heavy furniture was not covered in dust sheets.
She was sitting on the damask sofa with scrolling arms that had once been Victor’s favorite.
Marianne could almost imagine she had slipped back in time.
At any moment, Toby might waddle through the door and ask in his piping voice if she might play with him outside.
She didn’t want to focus her eyes, but she knew that at the end of the now overgrown lawn, she would find a laurel hedge with a perfectly trimmed low archway at one end.
Through this archway, cut for her by Alfred the gardener, she and Toby would skip—she crouched low to avoid the overhanging branches—and emerge into a beautiful meadow.
The meadow stretched all the way down to the river; it was one of the first things Marianne noticed and loved about Medstead Hall.
This could have been a happy, family home, she thought now.
But in reality, she had always been happy to leave and loath to return.
Although she had been careful to never allow Victor to divine this.
If her husband had known how much pleasure she derived from the archway in the hedge—and the escape it provided—he would have insisted it was closed up.
Gently massaging her temples, Marianne reflected that during the course of her marriage she had become almost as skilled a manipulator as Victor himself.
Whatever she loved, she affected nonchalance over.
That way, he did not take it from her. Whatever bold, unpleasant pronouncement he made, she would meekly accept and wait for him to lose interest in.
When a man believes he is always right, validation comes as no surprise.
She recalled the sour-faced nurse who had dosed a fretful young Toby with Godfrey’s Cordial, ignoring Marianne’s horrified protests.
With minimal power in her own household, Marianne had been obliged to wait patiently for Victor to come home, then speak casually to him about how effective the methods of the peasant classes had proven to be.
“After all,” she said, smoothing her skirts with affected nonchalance, “it is usually the poor women working in the fields who are obliged to quiet a crying babe with opium.”
The nurse was dismissed before nightfall.
The only time her strategy failed was in the matter of poor Alfred. He had lost his position; she had lost her good name.
Lost in her memories, she didn’t hear the man approach. When he started to speak, she startled.
“You are awake, I see.”
Marianne put a hand to her pounding heart.
Edgar Chawton, her former brother-in-law, stood before her, his hands folded behind his back and his protruding belly pushed forward with self-importance.
He rocked on his heels as he regarded her, a habit also common to Victor.
His shirt was stained, his tailcoat hung askew, and his graying beard looked in need of a trim.
Marianne thought it best to keep these observations to herself.
“Good morning, Edgar,” she replied as evenly as she could manage.
He let out a short bark of laughter. “It is past noon.”
She recalled their nighttime meeting in the kitchen and the ensuing blow to her head.
“Forgive my idleness.”
He smiled meanly back at her, his dark eyes glinting with malice. “I shall be keeping you down here from now on. You will stay where I can see you.”
At all times, Marianne wondered with alarm, already feeling the need to relieve herself after the long night.
Outwardly, she summoned a smile and forced herself to sit more comfortably on the damask sofa that she had never liked. “I am happy to be here. In truth, I had forgotten how lovely the light is in this room.”
Edgar rocked on his heels, momentarily discomfited. “It is a fine house, bought with my family’s wealth.”
“A beautiful house.” Marianne nodded slowly, careful of her aching head. “One that any man would be proud to call home.”
Edgar looked at her speculatively. “You speak as if you did not always look down upon my brother for his lack of family name and title.”
Marianne knew she would gain little by pointing out that it was Victor himself who had become obsessed by the acquisition of a title. Instead, she offered a compliment.
“How could anyone look down upon a family which owns three successful mills?”
Somewhat mollified, Edgar perched his round backside on the edge of a wingback chair.
“That’s my management, you know?” He spoke with the flat vowels of a Yorkshireman. “But I was happy enough to take the reins while my brother lived the life of a gentleman.”
Your brother was no gentleman, Marianne thought, as images of Benedict’s gentle smile filled her mind. But Edgar’s ruminations had not yet finished.
“Victor bought this house and a pretty bride to go with it, but neither got him where he deserved to be.”
This refrain was so familiar, Marianne almost closed her eyes with weariness. How could she answer? Pointing out that Victor did not display the manners of a gentleman would do her no good, nor would any reflections on the fickle nature of Society.
“But all of that will change the day after tomorrow.”
He spoke teasingly, no doubt enjoying the opportunity to taunt and scare her. Marianne chose to play dumb instead.
“Do you have something planned, Edgar? I’m not surprised. You always were the clever one.”
How poignant that Society small talk would come to her rescue now!
Edgar gave a reluctant smile in response to her flattery. He rubbed his eyes and dragged a hand through his thinning dark hair, leading Marianne to wonder if he had slept at all the night before.
“And you were always the pretty one, my dear. Prettier by far than Ellen.” His lip curled as he mentioned his wife.
What can I say to that?
To Marianne’s surprise and mortification, she was saved from the necessity of replying by a loud rumble emanating from her own stomach.
“I beg your pardon.” She folded her hands over her belly and ducked her face as her cheeks flushed pink.
But Edgar only chuckled. “Society ladies experience hunger do they, just like the rest of us commoners?”
He is enjoying my embarrassment, thought Marianne. I can use this to my advantage.
“I have never—” She squeezed her eyes shut, willing more blood to rush to her face.
“Never what?” He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. “Never made any accidental noises in public before?” He guffawed with laughter.
Marianne shook her head, wishing she had a handkerchief she could hide behind. If Edgar glimpsed the derision in her eyes, her game would be up.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I have not eaten since last night.”
Last night, when the future was bright and just within reach.
“There is some bread in the kitchen,” he began, begrudgingly. “I could fetch it in, I suppose.”
“Goodness me, no.” Marianne rose to her feet as graciously as her aching head would allow. “It is a woman’s job to bring refreshments. And after all, I once had the honor of being mistress of Medstead Hall.” She bobbed into a small curtsy. “Allow me, Edgar.”
He sat back in his chair and waved a pudgy hand expansively.
“Very well, my dear. You know your way, after all.” He chuckled as if at some joke.
“But don’t try anything. The doors are locked and I have the keys.
” He paused, and when next he spoke his voice had lost all trace of warmth.
“I also have people in London with eyes on your son. I can get word to them more quickly than either you or your high and mighty aunt could ever imagine.”
Marianne knew an icy stab of fear. “I am thinking only of bread and tea.”
She walked from the parlor with her head held high, pausing only after she had turned the corner and was out of sight. She leaned her weight against a wall and breathed deeply, trying to quell the mounting panic in her breast. Edgar’s pronouncements echoed through her mind:
I have people in London with eyes on your son.
And what had he said before?
All that will change the day after tomorrow.
That would be her thirtieth birthday. The day she inherited her father’s fortune.
Marianne struggled to catch her breath as anxiety rippled through her. It was clear that Edgar intended her harm. More terrifyingly, he must intend to harm Toby. Only with both of them gone could he lay claim to her inheritance.
But he needed to keep her alive for the next two days. And Toby too.
Marianne straightened her back. She must not give in to fear. She must keep her wits about her, avoid Edgar’s suspicion, and plot her way out of this mess.
Her heels rapped sharply over the marble tiles in the entrance hall as she resumed her journey. She looked keenly for signs of anyone other than herself and Edgar, not daring to walk up the stairs but peering into the dining room and the study as she passed.
Everything was quiet and empty.
In the kitchen, she found bread, cheese, and one dirty cup.
One.
All the signs pointed to Edgar acting alone, and she felt a rush of relief that the man with black eyes had not come with them to Medstead Hall. He had been lithe and youthful, whilst Edgar was past middle-age and running to fat.
Could I outrun him? she wondered.
It was a moot point, as there was nowhere to run if she could not leave the house.
Marianne sniffed, wishing she was dressed in something more practical than a ballgown. She must appear even more disheveled than Edgar, a man who usually took great pride in his appearance.
Why is he doing his own dirty work?
The question made her pause in the act of slicing bread.
Edgar hired foremen to oversee the everyday operations at his mills. His own Yorkshire home employed more staff than they had ever known here. The man rarely buttoned his own tailcoat. But here he was, alone in a big house, prepared to bring refreshments to the parlor.
It made no sense.
It is the act of claiming my inheritance, she realized.
It was too risky an undertaking to involve many others in.
And too precarious, perhaps?
The idea gave her the first glimmer of hope she’d known since leaving Vauxhall Gardens. Marianne filled a plate with bread and cheese, arranging it with as much delicacy as if it was to be served at a feast.
She must keep Edgar calm and unsuspecting until she could make a plan.
Or until Bear rescued her.
The thought of Bear made her cling onto the tabletop as her knees trembled. Would he come to her aid?
Would he know where she was?
Would he have even noticed anything was wrong?
She thought the answer must be yes, to the last question at least, and raised her eyes heavenward in silent supplication. In doing so, her gaze caught on the big kitchen window.
It was big enough for a person to slip through. Marianne knew this for a fact, as an unfortunate kitchen maid had been caught in the act by their previous cook.
The window had always been difficult to open, but surely one strong push would do it. The kitchen maid, Marianne recalled, had been a slight young thing.
Her pulse pounded. Would there ever be a better time to try than right now?
Marianne abandoned the bread knife and her platter of refreshments. She walked cautiously over to the window and examined the rusty hinge as best she could.
One strong push.
She readied herself, but then jumped in fright as one of the servants’ bells jangled from over the fireplace.
Someone was at the front door.