Amy Lake (19 page)

* * * *

After that night Claire began to see less of Lord Tremayne in the evenings. The midsummer days were long, and she took walks down to the river after supper, hoping he might join  her. The water flowed golden, lit by the setting sun, and all manner of creatures crept to its shores for their evening’s drink. Her heart might break, Claire often thought, and still the beauty of Wrensmoor would be some solace. She refused to feed the geese–considering them sassy and plump enough already–but snuck occasional handfuls of cracked corn to the peacocks and quail. She wandered along with the earl’s two hounds for company and wondered if her husband ever saw her from his study window.

Edward often remained closeted there until after she had gone to bed, drinking ,if Claire was any judge of it, copious amounts of brandy. He would then come to her bed in the middle of the night and, without a single word spoken, throw back the bedding and cover her body with his. As his passion became ungovernable, he would cry out and then groan her name over and over. Claire. Claire. Claire.

 * * * *

Claire awoke alone. She was fastening the ties to her morning robe when Connie brought in tea.

“Thank you, Constance. I’ll have it out on the balcony.”

“Oh, milady, t’ early morning air’s no good for you,” said Connie, scandalized at the thought of her mistress drinking tea while out of doors. “Just lie back down, and I’ll leave the teapot on your nightstand.”

“Nonsense. It is a beautiful morning. I’ll be perfectly fine. ”      

 She opened the doors to her balcony and stepped out into the cool air. Mist rose from the river. Small white smudges on the opposite bank showed where the sheep grazed, and as Claire watched them, she saw someone riding over the crest of the hill.

She knew of only one horse at Wrensmoor that black and that big. It was Achilles, and Edward had ridden out again this morning without her. She sighed.

“Milady?”

Claire turned to see Connie hovering nearby, still hoping, Claire supposed, that her mistress would get back into bed. “Yes, Constance?”

“Um, ’is lordship says as to warn you that the rector’ll be payin’ a visit today, ’im and ’is wife. And they allus come powerful early, you know.”

“Oh, good heavens,” said Claire, “that’s right. Well, I trust his lordship will be back in time from his ride. Connie, will you please send Flora in to help me dress?” 

“Yes, milady.”

* * * *

“Good day to you, Lord Tremayne. And my lady.”  The rector bowed over her hand, and Claire resisted the impulse to snatch it away before he bestowed his usual smacking kiss.

“Mr. Redmonds, Mrs. Redmonds.”  The earl’s face was blankly polite; only Claire knew how much he had wished the rector and his wife would postpone their visit. A year or two from now wouldn’t have been too soon, according to her husband, but that had been too much to hope for. It was customary in the village for anyone who was anyone to pay at least one courtesy call on the earl when he was in residence–especially now, with his new bride!–and Mr. Redmonds was not one to neglect the courtesies.

It wasn’t quite fair to paint the wife with the husband’s tar, thought Claire. She liked Bessie Redmonds well enough, and so, she suspected, did the earl. The rector’s wife was a plump, amiable lady of perhaps fifty years, who dressed quite fashionably for her position in life, and who sported a pair of enormous dimples whenever she smiled. Mr. Redmonds, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter, and Claire had given up trying to find words to describe the man.
Fawning
,
obsequious
,
insincere
–all these came to mind, but didn’t quite do justice to his oily, sycophantic nature. Apparently he had been rector at St. Andrew’s for as long as anyone could remember and had remained a great favorite of Edward’s father until the end of the old earl’s life. Now that was a mystery, indeed.

They moved into the drawing room, Mr. Redmonds prattling away the entire time. The windows of the church seemed much on the rector’s mind today. Claire had already heard about “our glorious fenestrations” during a previous visit to the rectory, and her poor husband–heaven only knew how many times he had listened to this same speech.

“And, Lady Tremayne, the stained-glass windows are, as you know, the finest in Kent, and all due to his late lordship’s kindness. I’m sure there is no luckier parish than ours for the prodigious care taken by our noble patrons–”

“How does the Lynch family fare these days?” interrupted Edward, addressing Mrs. Redmonds. Claire already knew of this large and extended family, which  was notorious in the village for its loutish, heavy-drinking men and its slatternly women. Apparently the earl and Mrs. Redmonds had engaged for some time in a gentle conspiracy to tempt some of the younger children to school and the older girls into service at the castle. At least in that way they would be fed.

Not that Edward had ever told her about his efforts on behalf of the various Lynch children, but Constance was one of the family’s older girls, and she had been lavish in her praise of Lord Tremayne. “Saved my life, he did,” Connie had told her, and after hearing Mrs. Redmonds’s description of the family, Claire was inclined to agree.

“Old Jinks broke his leg in a fall,” Mrs. Redmonds was now telling Edward. “Which is a blessing for Meg, as he’ll not be beating her ’til it heals.”

“Goodness,” said Claire, startled at this piece of information. She was growing used to thinking of Wrensmoor as an idyllic place to live, but obviously it wasn’t so for everyone. “Can’t someone assist the poor woman?”

“I could take Jinks out one of these days and show him the other side of a fist,” suggested Edward.

Claire looked at him in alarm. “But if you strike him, will he not be that much more likely to take his anger out on his wife?” she protested.

“Oh, not to worry, my lady,” said the rector. “His lordship couldn’t get Jinks to stand up long enough to knock him down, even when he
had
two good legs.”

This comment met with general agreement.

Tea arrived, and the conversation turned to Wrensmoor. The rector took a strong lead in  rhapsodizing over the castle’s happy existence: its favored location, its wonderful furnishings, the beauty of its windows,
et cetera
, until Claire thought her eyes would cross. Once she thought she saw Edward wink at Bessie Redmonds, and the woman did try to deflect some of Mr. Redmonds’s more effusive comments.

“I’m sure Lord Tremayne is quite relieved to have your approval,” said Mrs. Redmonds tartly, after the rector had commented favorably on the moral lesson to be gained from the scene depicted on one of the larger tapestries. “No doubt there are any number of young people who have been led astray by rugs and tapestries of poor character.”   

“Indeed, my dear, indeed.”

Sarcasm was apparently wasted on the rector. Still, there was no real harm done until Mr. Redmonds changed his focus from the castle to its new mistress.

“And let me add, my lord,” said the rector, “that you are the most fortunate of men to have found Lady Tremayne!  She is, if I may say so, almost the
image
of our beloved Melissa.”

Claire’s eyes widened in shock, but she was spared the need of making any comment when this proved too much for Mrs. Redmonds. “Melissa!  William, what on earth can you be about?” she exclaimed, almost bouncing off the chair in her indignation. “They look not the slightest bit alike!”

“Oh, of course, my dear, not on the surface,” rejoined her husband. “But good breeding will always tell, you know. The refined demeanor, the delicacy of Lady Tremayne’s constitution–they are precisely the same.”

Edward was staring at the man.

“You, my lord, appreciate the similarity, do you not?” continued the rector, who was by now unstoppable in his praise of Claire’s weak nature. “A personage of such rank as the Countess of Ketrick –well, such ladies are not meant for the usual employments but to adorn our lives with their fragile grace.”

“Indeed,” was all Edward managed to say, and it was fortunate that the Redmonds left soon afterwards, or Claire might have risked her fragile hands in a punch to the rector’s nose.

* * * *

The house party had gone on for weeks, but Edward had just come down from Oxford the evening before. He loved his brother–heaven knew he enjoyed Frederick’s company more than he ever had his father’s –but, somehow, he was finding more and more excuses to avoid Wrensmoor. His brother’s friends were the cause, he supposed. He wondered how Melissa could stand the lot of them mooning around, accosting every female in the castle and drinking up crate after crate of Frederick’s brandy. He’d nearly stepped on Cecil Drere last night, passed out in the hallway.       

But Melissa smiled and smiled and never uttered a word of complaint. Edward found Frederick somewhat deficient in appreciation for the saint-like forbearance of his wife. After all, was it not almost common knowledge that she was breeding?

* * * *

Claire watched her husband mutter and shift uneasily in his sleep. These restless episodes had been occurring more often during the past week. She wondered if she should wake him, or if she would soon be startled–scared half out of her wits, actually–by another fierce nightmare’s cry.

Claire remembered the one time Edward had called out Melissa’s name in his sleep. She didn’t know what to think. Was it his sister-in-law’s death that her husband relived in his dreams, or something else?  She had seen the portrait of Frederick’s wife in the long gallery, and knew that Melissa had been a tiny woman. The Tremayne men looked to be big, so a death in childbirth– well, it was a sad thing, but hardly unheard of. Who did not look at
une femme enceinte
and wonder if she would survive her labor?

It is fortunate I am tall and strong, thought Claire. I will not be afraid.

* * * *

He woke up the third morning to find Frederick gone. Boggs could not tell him why, and Melissa–when she finally appeared early in the afternoon–dismissed the subject with a laugh.

“Some silly piece of business in town,” she said, giving him her enchanting little pout. “I’m sure I don’t know a thing about it.”

“But–” Edward was furious. How could Frederick leave when his wife was in such a condition?

“Oh, don’t worry, dearest brother,” said Melissa. “He’ll be back. And can I not always count on you?”  She fixed wide eyes on his face and stepped close to him, running her hands up his arms. Edward felt the discomfort that had recently been his fitful companion when he was in the company of his sister-in-law. He knew that what he felt was the stirring of desire, and he utterly despised himself for it. How could he dishonor his brother–and Frederick’s beautiful, trusting bride–with these debased thoughts?  He was the worst, the foulest  kind of cad–

* * * *

She could not sleep, with Edward turning and tossing so. Claire rooted around in the sheets for her chemise, blushing to remember how it came to be at the foot of the bed instead of on her. Her husband had taken her that evening with an almost frantic urgency, and Claire would not be surprised if she found the chemise in tatters.

Not that she didn’t enjoy their lovemaking as much as he did.

Oh, here it was. She pulled the thin cotton shift over her head and rose quietly. It was a warm night–Claire walked out onto the balcony, and stood for a while, watching the twinkling starlight reflected in the river below. Wrensmoor was beautiful beyond dreams, and she realized that her deepest wish was to share it with children of her own.

* * * *

Frederick returned three days later and immediately informed his guests–to their general astonishment–that they would all be leaving early the next morning. The house party was over, in short, and the host avoided the ensuing uproar by retiring to his rooms for the remainder of the day. Edward found him in his study later that evening, quietly getting drunk.

“Welcome, brother,” said Frederick, draining half a glass of brandy in one gulp. “How runs the estate?  And my dearest wife–has she been treating you with all hospitality?”

Edward heard these words with dismay, thinking that his brother somehow knew of his disgraceful response to Melissa’s innocent touch. But how could that be?  He had done everything possible to hide his reactions.

“We have been very well here,” he replied. “But I will confess that I am not sorry to see the rest of them go. I am happiest with family, you know.”

“Oh, indeed, family!”  Frederick snorted and stood up, splashing brandy on the carpet. “Let me tell you, my dear brother, about the merits of family!”

“Frederick . . .”

“And I do believe–yes, I am quite certain–that  the only thing better than family is friends.”

Edward was by now aware of two things: first, that his brother was drunker than he had ever seen him, and second, that Frederick was speaking with a bitterness that Edward would have thought alien to his very nature. His thoughts returned uneasily to Melissa, and he wondered if he should confess his shame to Frederick or simply leave Wrensmoor altogether.  Edward was still a young man and had, as yet, little experience of casual flirtation with women.

Frederick was pacing unsteadily about the room. Edward tried to help him to a chair, only to be pushed roughly away.

“Don’t need any help,” muttered his brother. “Nothing you can do to help.”

“What has happened?” cried Edward, now truly alarmed. He had never known Frederick to be anything other than carelessly cheerful. “What is wrong?”

“Oh, little brother,” said Frederick, “let me give you a piece of advice.”

“Advice?  What do you–”

“Never marry a woman you love,” said his brother. “Better yet, never love a woman at all.”

Edward frowned and was about to ask more, when they heard a commotion in the hall, and Melissa’s dresser burst in.

“Lord Tremayne, you must come immediately. Milady is terrible ill!”

From this point, Edward’s memory was scattershot. He knew that he and Frederick had run upstairs to Melissa’s rooms and burst through the door.

After that, all he could remember was the blood.