Chapter Thirty
The next day was filled with exploration of the estate with the Bumgarten girls, a horseback ride, and a better dinner than usual. Elizabeth took it upon herself to investigate the kitchen and made suggestions that Arthur asked Daisy to implement. The cook was relieved to find someone who understood the necessity of fresher food and a full complement of spices, and produced some surprisingly fine fare.
Lady Evelyn took it upon herself to coach the girls in the manners and customs of English society, and they practiced during tea. Arthur enjoyed giving them a “practice hand” when a gentleman was needed, but Reynard scrambled out of the way. No one was especially surprised when he announced at breakfast the second day that he had overstayed and had to leave for London immediately.
Daisy’s sisters appeared at the front doors to see him off; one with a packed lunch, another with a book of poetry, and a third with a note containing several puzzles and riddles to occupy him on the journey. He acknowledged their generosity with a stiff nod, then bolted into the carriage as if the hounds of Hell were after him.
Ashton chuckled as he watched Reynard escape the threat of respectable femininity. No one deserved the special Hell of Impenetrable Virtue more than the Fox.
That afternoon, a copy of the Times arrived, bearing the engagement notice of the Duke of Meridian to Miss Marguerite Bumgarten. Arthur sat in the study staring at it for a time before asking Ashton a question.
“Do you think women know if you haven’t . . . um . . . you know . . . been to bed with a woman before?”
Ashton sat beside him on the window seat, considering the question.
“Some women might. If you’re referring to a certain woman, I suspect it won’t matter. You know, in the old days, twelve- and fourteen-year-olds were married and shoved into bed together. They managed.”
“Twelve and fourteen? Really?” Arthur grimaced. “That’s barbaric.”
“So you would think. But some of those marriages lasted and were quite productive. Daisy’s ancestress, for example. Twelve when wedded, thirteen at first childbed, and she had seventeen more children by the same fellow.”
“Her ancestress? How do you know about that?”
“The old trots made her show proof of nobility in her lineage before they would let you two court. They paid me to guarantee it was genuine. I saw what she discovered, and it was real enough. She’s a several-greats granddaughter of Charles the Second. On the wrong side of the blanket, of course. He didn’t have children by his queen.”
“So it’s true, then. They really did demand she prove noble heritage.”
“Oh, it’s true. They were furious when I confirmed her findings. I guess she told you about it. That’s why they sent the note and tried to trap us together—kill two birds with one stone.” Ashton sighed. “I’m not proud of helping them. But at first I thought you and she weren’t suited at all.”
“You were trying to protect me. Again.”
“Afraid so.”
“And now? What do you think of me marrying her now?”
There wasn’t the slightest hesitation in Ashton’s response.
“I think you’ll do well together. She’ll be a good wife.”
Ashton patted his arm and walked out, leaving Arthur to ruminate. He had seen feeling-laden looks pass between Daisy and Ashton several times in recent days. He couldn’t recall her ever looking at him like that. Even as a romantic novice, he knew it meant something important.
“A good wife, indeed,” Arthur muttered. “But will she be mine?”
* * *
That afternoon, Elizabeth came across some papers in the bottom of her traveling case and carried them to Daisy.
“I almost forgot, I got your letter asking about our connection to the Howards and had a friend in Boston look up some records. This came the day before we left. It appears that a young woman came from England with a young daughter. It’s on the ship’s manifest.” She pointed out the names. “Hannah Howard was the mother and Gemma Rose was the child. The girl grew up to have a child of her own, though I believe it must have been out of wedlock, because she gave the child her surname: Henry Fitzroy Howard.” She sat back and handed Daisy the paper. “It turns out he was my great-great-grandfather, on the Strait side.”
“She really was our ancestor? Gemma Rose?” Daisy looked stunned, then shot to her feet and headed for the door, where she paused. “You just confirmed . . . we are not only of noble lineage . . . we have royal blood!”
She rushed downstairs to the study where Ashton sat pouring over ledgers and waved the papers as she stopped before the desk.
“It’s true! My mother had a friend in Boston go through shipping records, and they found Hannah and Gemma Rose. Gemma grew up and had a son—out of wedlock—and gave him her last name. He was Henry Fitzroy Howard, my mother’s great-great-grandfather!” She smacked the papers down on the ledger in front of him. “We were right! I am—we are descended from royal blood.”
He shoved to his feet, gripping the letter and documents, and lurched around the desk. They bore the seals and insignia of the North Atlantic Shipping Company and the Massachusetts State Bureau of Records. The connection had been made; her ancestral trail had crossed the Atlantic. He grabbed Daisy’s hands and began whirling her around and around.
“This is wonderful!” he declared, his face hot with excitement. “To have our suspicions confirmed, to solve a historical mystery that Broadman Huxley missed . . .”
He staggered to a stop, but didn’t let her go. She knew she should break that contact, but the heat and raw pleasure of his touch was too compelling. Through recent restless nights, she had almost convinced herself that her responses to him had been embroidered by the lure of the forbidden. But now, as she stared up into his face, feeling his presence stirring her whole being to life, she knew it had been all too real. All too rare.
Then he lowered his head and—
A faint sound, a gasp or a hoarse word from the hall, made her turn her head sharply and his lips grazed her cheek.
Standing in the hall, Arthur stared at them in confusion at first, as if he didn’t understand why they would be on the verge of . . . His eyes widened with hurt and disbelief mingled in them. He turned on his heel and strode down the hall, his footsteps echoing back to them.
She backed a step, then another, and then rushed into the hall.
“Arthur?” She hurried down the hall until she stood in the entry and looked up the stairs. He was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, she raced up the stairs and summoned the courage to invade the west wing and knock on his bedroom door. With her heart pounding, she opened the door . . . to an empty room.
She stood for a moment looking at the displays of butterflies under glass on the walls, the poster bed, and the order and simplicity of his private space. Feeling like the intruder she was, she backed out and closed the door.
She rushed down the hall, to her room, where a basin and pitcher of cold water allowed her to splash her face and try to regain her self-possession. She looked at herself in the washstand mirror and heard again her mother’s harsh words—“selfish, thoughtless”—blended with the old uncles’ vicious condemnations—“harlot, hussy, whore.”
This couldn’t happen again. She would not let this happen again. She had to find Arthur and make this right, no matter what it cost.
* * *
Arthur had done an about-face and run back down the hall. He paused by the library, but Red was there puffing a cigar while Lady Evelyn read the newspaper aloud from the window seat and waved his smoke out the open window. He tried the grand parlor, but her sisters were there, practicing dance steps and laughing while CeCe played for them.
Frustrated beyond bearing, he stormed out the main doors and stalked to the garden, where he kicked the dribbling fountain, ripped up dry stalks of flowers beyond their season, and let out a few curses he had never said aloud in his entire life. Chest heaving, he turned to the house and glimpsed the gusseted downspout he had used to climb to the roof when life inside Betancourt became unbearable.
Heedless of his suit and polished shoes, he climbed it and was soon creeping across roof peaks and valleys, avoiding places where the slate was loose or missing. The sight of so much roof needing repair was depressing, but by the time he reached the parapet overlooking the entry, the exertion had burned away much of his anger. He sat and dangled his feet over the edge of the wall, comforted by the breeze he usually encountered here and by the panorama of Betancourt laid out beneath him.
He hadn’t been there long when he spotted Ashton exiting the house and heading for the stable, carrying a valise. Minutes after that, his brother reappeared on horseback and took off down the drive to the main road. He was leaving? He ought to leave, the bounder—trying to kiss Daisy—although, it hadn’t looked like she was objecting, and, truthfully, that was the most hurtful part.
There was something between them . . . the way their eyes sometimes met and lingered. He had sensed it, but just hadn’t wanted to face it. Now he couldn’t scrub from his memory the sight of them embracing. He should be outraged, feel betrayed, furious. But mostly, he just felt empty.
It seemed like an hour later, it might have been longer, before he heard footsteps on the roof nearby and looked up to find her standing there, seeming a bit unsettled by their precarious location.
* * *
“I thought maybe I would find you here,” Daisy said, taking in his dejected look and feeling utterly responsible.
“How did you get up here?”
“I remembered you said you walked the walls when you were upset. We couldn’t find you anywhere else, and Edgar recalled you used to climb up the ladder from the attic onto the roof.” She still had a cobweb in her hair and dust on her dress from the climb she’d made to find him. She sank onto the parapet beside him and looked around, pushing her hair back as the breeze teased it around her face. “This is quite a view. No one had used the ladder in a while.” She brushed at her dusty skirt. “How did you get up here?”
“The drainpipe.” He gestured over his shoulder to the rear of the house.
They sat for a few minutes in looming silence.
“He was kissing you,” he finally said, frowning.
“He was. Sort of.”
“No ‘sort of’ about it. He landed one.” He pulled his legs up and rested an arm on an upraised knee. There was hurt in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Arthur. I thought you would both be there, as you often are. I was just sharing the documents my mother brought from New York—they show that the girl child born in Bristol was my many-greats-ago grandmother. It was the proof your family demanded and an answer to a mystery we had uncovered. I was thrilled to have it solved and he was, too. He whirled me around and we laughed and . . . he . . .”
It sounded worse the more she went on, so she stopped and bit her lip, waiting for his response. It wasn’t what she expected.
“He knew all about your sisters.”
“I told you I saw him several times as I was searching for proof of my lineage. I told him the truth about why I wanted a husband . . . that I needed a marriage that would help my sisters . . . that I was headstrong and selfish and felt responsible for the snubs and sneers aimed our way.”
“You shared a lot with him, then,” he said, looking pained by that.
“I suppose I did,” she admitted, her mouth going dry. She had an awful feeling where this was heading. She said to herself as much as to him: “It seems I haven’t gotten over being headstrong and selfish.”
The difficult silence was ended by an even more difficult question.
“Did you and he . . . did you . . . are you lovers?”
“No.” She looked up in distress, unsure how or even if she could convince him of that. “I would never have done that. I didn’t know you well, but I respected you enough to refuse anything that would disgrace you or myself. And Ashton is your brother. He would never do that to you.”
He turned away for a moment, clearly deciding if he believed her.
“It’s just . . . I’ve seen the way you look at each other when you think no one notices.” He turned back, his gaze harder than she had ever seen it. “He wants you.”
“I’m sure he’s wanted a lot of women.” She wasn’t proud of using that to justify what happened between them.
“And you want him.”
There it was. Tears welled in her eyes. It was no use pretending; he already knew the truth. What good would denying it do?
“Do you truly care for him?” he said, studying her as if she were under his microscope. “Or was he just a stepping stone for your ambition?”
The words cut her. If he saw her as ambitious and conniving, there was nothing she could do. But by damn, he would at least have the truth.
“I didn’t want to like him. He was smug and clever and far too sure of himself. And he assumed way too much about me. But I began to see there was more to him than the disreputable rake everyone made him out to be. We worked together over library documents and church registers and I came to respect his mind and to understand why he wanted to keep us apart. He was honest with me about it. Just as I was honest with him about why I wanted a titled husband. I never meant to care for him.”
“But you do,” he said, frowning, studying her.
“I do.” Tears burned down her cheeks. “I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt or disappoint you. I wanted to marry you and be a good and faithful wife to you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive—”
He pushed to his feet, his face set, his mind and heart now closed. He did, however, extend a hand to help her up.
“Please, Arthur, let’s talk this through—”
“I think I’ve heard all I need to hear.”
Everything felt so unreal as they negotiated the ladder and attic steps and made their way down to the upstairs hallway. He spoke not a word as he left her there, descended the main staircase, and strode out the front doors.
She made it down the east wing to her room without her family hearing or seeing her return. She sat down on the chaise, feeling drained and boneless. Her hands in her lap were white from clasping them so hard.
It was over. Now, how did she tell her mother and sisters that her fabulous marriage and their best chance at social acceptance were gone?