Chapter 10
John Fletcher flinched at the sound of the figurine hitting the wall. The delicate statuette shattered into so many pieces, he knew reassembly would be impossible. He sighed. That particular piece of porcelain had been a favorite of his, although he’d be hard pressed to say why. Perhaps it was the way the artist had so exquisitely managed to capture the flush of innocence on the face of the shepherdess. But now she lay in a dozen pieces on the floor, so he turned his attention to the woman pacing angrily about the room, wondering how many more fine objects would be destroyed before her temper ran its course.
“He married that whey-faced bitch?” Isabel shrieked. Her face was turning a most unattractive blend of crimson and purple, but, having seen this before, John remained silent. There was nothing to do until her fury had exhausted itself, and Isabel was once more able to think clearly.
Rian’s brief return to the city from his trip north had not included a stay at the family townhouse. Instead, he had gone directly to the home of Matthew Turner and, after concluding his business, had accepted the hospitality offered and stayed with him. It was, therefore, reasonable to assume that Rian had no knowledge of the letters Isabel had sent him before they were forwarded with the rest of the correspondence to Oakhaven. Better to believe that than to think he had read them and chosen to deliberately ignore all her prettily worded invitations.
Despite their parting, Isabel refused to believe that she could not win back Rian’s affections. Returning him to her arms, as well as her bed, was just a matter of time. John, however, was not so certain. Though he admired her confidence, he felt it was misplaced this time. Isabel had overplayed her hand. An opinion he was prudent enough to keep to himself.
Unlike the servants who staffed the townhouse, those at Oakhaven proved to be almost rabid in their loyalty to those they served. The promise of a gold coin was not sufficient temptation to make anyone share secrets with him, so the closest he could get was a tradesman from the village whose interaction with the estate consisted of delivering occasional supplies. It was not the best source of information, but it was all John had to work with. Though not privy to any intimate details regarding the family, the man passed on what he knew, and in his longtime role gathering information for Isabella, John had learned that even the most mundane information could prove useful.
The news that Rian Connor had taken a wife had been anything but mundane. John had withheld the information about Rian’s marital status for almost a week before common sense told him that suppressing it any longer was foolish. If no one else beat her to it, that gossiping harpy Lady Maitling was sure to mention it.
Isabel’s mercurial temper was something to behold, unless you were on the receiving end of it. John waited patiently, watching from beneath half closed lids as she struggled to regain some sense of decorum. She sat with a dejected whump, accepting the glass of sweet wine he poured for her and emptying it in one go. For a time nothing was said. He knew Isabel was thinking, her mind furiously tumbling from one thought to the next, deviously plotting her next step. Her plan to win Rian back had been shattered just as irrevocably as the shepherdess figurine. Now with that particular door closed, Isabel’s mind set about dealing with her problem from an entirely different angle. Suddenly she looked across the room at John, a wicked smile lifting the corners of her carefully painted mouth. He thought she had never looked more sinister.
“How difficult will it be for you to arrange another meeting with Phillip Davenport?” she asked, getting to her feet and refilling her glass.
John gave a slight shrug. “Not difficult at all.” He hesitated for moment before continuing. “However I distinctly recall your desire to never have to deal with him in person again.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” She gave him a calculating look. “As a means to an end, he could prove to be a most useful individual, and I’m certain I could hide my revulsion for as long as it was necessary.” John accepted the glass of wine she held out to him, wondering what type of scheme would involve Phillip Davenport.
“This news has changed everything,” he commented.
“Rian Connor has gone too far,” Isabel said, the flare of her nostrils proof her fury still simmered just below the surface. “I will not be humiliated like this. It’s time he learned he cannot simply cast me aside without there being consequences.” She took a sip of her wine. “Someone is going to have to answer.”
What exactly Isabel meant by ‘consequences’ was something it did no good to dwell on, but John suspected it would not bode well for her former lover. Completely calm now, she walked over to a small side table where a silver tray held an assortment of invitations. Picking them up, she shuffled them as thoroughly as a deck of playing cards, her brow furrowed in concentration. Not finding what she wanted, she dropped them back onto the tray, turned and looked at John. “I don’t think the newest Mrs. Connor should be left to flounder in the depths of the countryside, do you? A man of substance such as Rian Connor would surely welcome an opportunity to introduce his wife to society.” The smile on her lips turned icy.
“And how do you propose bringing about such an introduction?” John asked, keeping his own expression stoic.
Isabel’s eyes glittered malevolently. “What would be better for a coming out than a ball?”
“And who did you have in mind to host such an event?”
The sound of her laughter rang in his ears for a long time.
* * * *
Perspiration ran down Lettie Davenport’s back. A rivulet that bisected her shoulder blades as she forced herself to ignore the searing pain that came from dragging her useless leg behind her while she made her way around her bedroom. One more circuit, she told herself between gritted teeth, just one more and then I will rest. Protesting such abuse, her body sent a spasm of fire to claw along her lower back, hip and down her leg.
Step and drag…step and drag…
Every day the small woman pushed herself a little farther, and every day she got a little stronger. For too long she had kept to her bed. It had been too easy to play the role of the invalid wife. Her only consolation was that the deformity caused by her husband’s rage, had also stopped him from demanding his right to her body. For some perverse reason Phillip would not force his attentions on her now that she was physically unable to deny him. Though she had never done so before, the fact that she’d possessed the capability had all been part of his sick fantasy. The possibility, no matter how remote, that one day Lettie might turn on him, was enough. But now, slaking his lust on a body that was broken and damaged was, to his mind, the same as beating a dead dog.
For Lettie it was the silver lining in the thunderhead that threatened her sanity. By choosing to defy Phillip’s authority and help Catherine escape, she had sacrificed the use of her leg. It seemed a small price to pay compared to what Catherine had been forced to endure, and what further abuse would surely have been forced upon her had she not escaped.
Regrettably, the actions of that night had brought about other changes. Her servants were being dismissed with no warning, replaced by faces unfamiliar to her. The latest example had occurred this morning when a girl, barely more than a child, had come in place of her personal maid.
“Where’s Mary?” Lettie asked, doing her best to conceal her concern at this latest change.
“Gone, Missus,” the girl replied, carefully setting down the basin and jug of water she carried.
“What’s your name?” Lettie asked, frowning slightly as the girl shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“Grace, Missus.” The rough quality of her voice betrayed her street origins. A child of the gutter and back alleys, grateful merely to survive from one day to the next. She would have no expectation of bettering her situation. It was safer for Phillip that way.
Lettie observed the girl’s clothing with a small wrinkle of distaste. She had no idea what color the faded dress hanging from her thin frame might once have been. The ridiculous frilled cap covering her head had possibly once been white, but no longer. The girl raised a dirty finger and slipped it beneath the cap, and scratched vigorously at her head. Lettie felt a shiver go down her back. No doubt the child was crawling with lice.
Seeing Grace’s look as she struggled to hide her fear and confusion, Lettie realized it was useless to ask anything more about the missing Mary. This child had no answers. In all likelihood she had no idea who Mary was, especially as it was plain to see she had never been in service before. This could very well be the first time she had ever been inside a house such as this one. It was a wonder she had managed not to drop the pitcher of water she’d carried. Compassion stirred in Lettie’s breast. Perhaps if she herself stopped acting like a frightened rabbit, it might lessen the girl’s anxiety.
“Is Martha still here?” Lettie asked.
“I d-don’t know who that is, Missus,” Grace stammered.
Quickly Lettie gave a brief description of the woman she was referring to, relieved when the dirty grey cap bobbed a couple of times. The scared look in Grace’s eyes was replaced by a hesitant, but intelligent gleam.
“Tell her that I said you are to have a bath and your hair washed. Your clothes are to be taken away and burned and you are not to attend me again until you are clean and presentable. Do you understand?”
Grace nodded, more slowly this time, as she repeated what she had been told. Satisfied, Lettie leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes. It was a few moments before she realized the expected sound of the bedroom door being open and closed had yet to come. Opening her eyes, she saw that Grace was still standing by the side of her bed.
“What’s the matter?” Lettie said, noticing the girl was now trembling. “Did you not understand my instructions?”
“Oh yes, Missus, but I’ve had a bath once before”—the girl sniffed—“and I didn’t like it much.”
“I’m not surprised,” Lettie murmured under her breath, trying to imagine the conditions under which the child might have endured such an event. “Well, it won’t hurt for you to have another one,” she said cheerfully. Her smile did not alleviate Grace’s fears, and her limbs still shook. At a loss to understand what it was that frightened the child so, she asked, “Are you afraid of getting wet?” Grace shook her head in an emphatic denial. Well, that was a good thing, Lettie thought. “Then what are you afraid of?”
The girl opened her eyes wide. “Mam says I’m not to take my clothes off for no one.”
“And your mama is quite right, but it will be easier for you to get clean if you remove your clothing first,” Lettie explained.
“But you said to have them burned!” The girl gave her an accusing look. “And I ain’t got no others.” Her small hands curled into fists and she deliberately placed one on each bony hip. It was such a perfect imitation of an adult stance that Lettie could only smile at the copycat motion. Obviously Grace had seen it many times.
“Grace, where is your mother?”
Huge tears now washed down the small pointed face, cleaning a path that only served to accentuate the remaining grime. “Gone,” she mumbled, immediately covering the clean tracks on her face by wiping at them with her sleeve.
“Gone?” What on earth did that mean? As gently as she could, Lettie asked, “Do you mean she has died?”
Grace looked at her with eyes that were too knowing for such a young girl. “No, Missus. Mam’s just…gone.”
“Where did she go?” Lettie paled at the idea that any mother could simply disappear and leave her child behind. She had to be mistaken, but Grace only shrugged her thin shoulders in reply. Unsure if she wanted to hear the answer, Lettie nevertheless pressed on. “Why did she not take you with her?”
“’Cause she didn’t have ’nuff to eat, not with the baby an’ all. So she sold me.”
“S-sold you?” Lettie’s voice was filled with horrified disbelief.
Grace nodded serenely, not at all disturbed by what she had said. Either the child had misunderstood the circumstances that led to her mother’s departure, or the exchange of human life for coin was such a commonplace event in her world that its occurrence was not strange. Lettie sincerely hoped that the first reason was the correct one, but a nagging voice in the back of her mind told her that the second was closer to the truth. Phillip had bought the child from her mother. The idea made her feel faint and she lay back on the pillows, fighting to catch her breath as the room swayed ominously around her.
“Missus?”
“Pray give me a moment, child.” She heard the sound of water being poured into the porcelain basin, and then small hands were wiping a wet cloth across the back of Lettie’s hands. She roused herself, recalling what had initiated this conversation. “Your mother was correct when she told you not to remove your dress,” Lettie said, doing her best not to shudder. “Nevertheless you need to be bathed, and your clothes have got to be burned.” A look of outrage pinched the child’s narrow features, prompting Lettie to hold up a hand. “Tell Martha I said to find you some more clothes to wear after you have been bathed.”
The hasty departure of young maids from their service over the years meant there was a variety of garments left behind that could be put to good use. Grace turned to leave.
“And Grace, tell her I said to make sure she uses hot water,” Lettie instructed as the door closed.
Every day brought with it more changes, and this unusual child was simply the latest being thrust upon her. Lettie wondered about Mary. What reason had she been given to explain why her services were no longer needed? Had Phillip said anything at all, or had he just dismissed her with no explanation? Worry caused a frown to wrinkle her forehead. Had her husband paid Mary what she was owed in wages? Though she wanted very much to believe the answer was yes, in her heart she thought it unlikely. A tear slowly trickled down her cheek.
Lettie wasn’t stupid. It was her position to manage the household staff and she knew exactly what Phillip was doing. He was making sure there was no one left who would remember Catherine had ever been there. No one to recall the punishment Lettie had suffered at his hand for her own defiance. How long would it be before she was the only one left who remembered Catherine? And what then? Would Phillip dispose of her also? She had no doubt he was more than capable of performing such a deed. His fury at discovering her part in Catherine’s flight had been the most frighteningly savage experience of Lettie’s life. She had thought he meant to kill her then, instead of leaving her broken and bleeding on the bedroom floor, and promising the same for any who came to her aid.
It wasn’t until he had mercilessly dragged her by the arm back to her own room that he permitted Mary to attend her. By then the damage to her body had been complete. It might have still been possible for a skilled physician to repair her broken and twisted leg, but Phillip refused to send for one. A doctor meant questions would be asked, questions Phillip didn’t want to answer. Eventually the swelling went down and the bones knitted themselves as best they could and Lettie survived. Broken, but still alive.
When she had recovered enough to comprehend she wasn’t going to die, she had wept bitter, angry tears and railed at God. What more did he want from her? Hadn’t she suffered enough already? But deep in her heart she knew that even if God heard her, he would not answer. If he had not protected her on her wedding night, or at any time since, why should he take pity on her now?
That was all right, Lettie told herself. On the Day of Judgment he would not be able to turn away when Leticia Moreland Davenport stood before him demanding an answer. In the meantime she was determined that her husband should not arrange the meeting before she was ready, and that meant strengthening her body.
In the beginning she had only managed a few faltering steps before falling to the floor, trembling so violently from the exertion it appeared she was having a seizure. Now she could complete five circuits about her room before she began trembling and nausea threatened.
Step and drag…step and drag…
Of course Phillip could not find out she was rehabilitating herself. As long as he thought her infirm and helpless, he would have no reason to lock the door to her room. Something he had been diligent about at the beginning of her confinement, but now had become careless about.
Step and drag…step and drag…
With an exhausted sigh she managed to reach the bed and pull herself back up onto the pillows. Dipping a cloth into the dish of water Grace had left on her bedside table, she wiped the sweat from her face and forced herself to take deep cleansing breaths until her thudding heart resumed a calmer beat.
The clock on her mantel told her it would soon be time for her afternoon coffee, and Lettie didn’t want Grace to notice anything amiss. A child of the streets, she saw more than she let on, but Lettie wasn’t certain how far she could be trusted. As soon as her hands stopped shaking and she had tidied herself up, she picked up her needlework and resumed her embroidery.
The transformation was amazing. With her skin scrubbed and her hair washed, Grace hardly looked like the same little girl who had stood before Lettie a few short hours ago. As she had predicted, Martha had managed to find some decent clothes to replace the lice-riddled ones that Grace had been wearing. Neat and clean in a dark blue dress with a yellow apron and matching cap, she carefully carried in Lettie’s tray.
“Why, look at you!” Lettie exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You look simply delightful. Don’t you feel better?” Grace turned bright red at the compliment and, now that she was clean, Lettie estimated her age to be no older than ten, twelve if she was being generous.
Averting her eyes, the girl plucked nervously at her apron. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, Missus. No one is,” she mumbled, her voice so low Lettie had to strain to hear her words.
“Who said you can’t talk to me?” she asked, whispering to the girl.
Grace looked up and then glanced over her shoulder as if she fully expected to see someone standing behind her. “The master,” she answered fearfully.
What a cruel and unfeeling bastard her husband was. God alone knew what lies he had told the new help about the reasons for his wife’s confinement. “Well, you don’t have to talk to me, but can I whisper to you, Grace?” A sudden gleam of intelligence sparked in the girl’s eyes. “It will be our secret, I promise,” Lettie added.
Crossing her heart with her finger, she then spit into the palm of her hand as a way of sealing her oath, knowing she had impressed Grace by doing so. No doubt the child believed ladies of quality were incapable of spitting. Unless of course Grace didn’t think Lettie was a lady of quality. Now her small brow wrinkled as she wrestled with the prospect of disobeying the master of the house, to become an ally to its mistress. The choice was not an easy one, but finally she made it. Favoring Lettie with a shy smile, Grace bobbed her head one time and then busied herself pouring coffee. After handing Lettie the cup, Grace gave another small curtsey and left.
She returned again later with Lettie’s evening meal, and then a short while after that to remove the tray. Lettie was thankful that Phillip had not replaced the cook, at least not yet, because it meant Grace would be able to fill her stomach and eat decently. There was some comfort in that at least. Now, lying quietly in her bed, Lettie’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. After her last visit, Grace had not closed the door to the room properly and it now stood ajar, wide enough for the sound of two distinct masculine voices to reach her.
A glance at the clock on the fireplace mantel said it was past the hour for a social call, but even if it were not, they never received visitors. Step-dragging her way to the open door, Lettie opened it a little farther and pursed her lips as she concentrated on the conversation drifting up from the foyer below. Neither voice was one she recognized. One was commanding, the tone that of a man who was used to being obeyed, while the other’s tone was the more subservient manner of a servant. Lettie could only surmise the latter belonged to one of the new staff Phillip had recently engaged, and it seemed he was being given a set of instructions.
“When do you expect Mr. Davenport to return?” the first man asked.
“Momentarily, sir,” the servant answered. “Would you care to wait?”
There was a clucking sound, a clear indication of the visitor’s frustration at not finding Phillip at home. Ordinarily he would have been here, but Lettie knew the demands of a new mistress were currently occupying his time.
“No, I will not wait,” the visitor said.
For the next few moments all Lettie could hear was the sound of the man’s heels striking the tiled floor. The visitor was leaving, and she waited for the familiar sound of the front door being opened. Then the man spoke again.
“Make sure this letter is placed directly into Mr. Davenport’s hands, do you understand?” He sounded annoyed at having to depend on an underling to complete his task. There could be no doubt it was of some importance.
“Of course, sir,” the other man murmured respectfully, “and what name shall I give my master?”
“Fletcher, John Fletcher. He will know it, but make sure he knows that although I am the one waiting for his reply, the request comes from Lady Isabel Howard. It would be in his best interest to make sure he answers without delay.”
There was no response from the manservant. Now she heard the door being opened, and Mr. Fletcher, whoever he might be, left. She did not shuffle her way back to her bed until the sound of fading footsteps assured her there would be no more surprises.
The unexpected physical tension that came with eavesdropping had created a dull ache which now spread through Lettie’s lower back. She barely noticed the pain however, as her mind was fixed on the conversation she had just heard. The name John Fletcher was unknown to her, but she could not say the same about the name Howard. Once before, a messenger had been sent by Lady Isabel Howard, and, for a while, Phillip had been filled with a secret excitement. Unfortunately it did not last, but Lettie had long ago ceased to be surprised by her husband’s mercurial nature.
Lying back and staring up at the faded canopy above her bed, she chewed on her lip. What possible connection could there be between Isabel Howard and Phillip? And why would a messenger demand a reply be forwarded to him, and not her ladyship? The entire episode reeked of secrets and lies, and made Lettie shake her head. She didn’t know what was happening but she could not shake the terrible feeling that somehow Catherine was involved. Her husband’s obsession with his beautiful young cousin was all consuming. Perhaps Lady Howard had given Catherine shelter? Lettie pulled her wrap tighter as a sudden chill swept through her, bringing with it a dreadful sense of foreboding. No, however Lady Howard was involved, Lettie had the ominous feeling no good would come of it.