“She seemed so very happy when she left to marry the duke. And we were all so thrilled for her, certain that she was about to live a veritable fairy tale. But then Master Ash appeared in the dead of night years later, still a boy, so secretive as he bundled his mother inside. Miss Mary was heartbreakingly different from what we remembered, pale and sickly and sad. It was as if every bit of joy and life had gone out of her. And then she died not long after.” She sniffed, pulling a handkerchief out of her bodice and reaching under her spectacles to blot at her eyes. “At least her suffering was over.”
Bronwyn felt as if a veil had been teased back, giving her a hint of understanding into the muted grief that had been on Ash’s and Mrs. Wheeler’s faces the evening before, when the previous duchess had been mentioned. The housekeeper’s disturbing description, however, only brought about more questions than answers. “What happened to her?”
But the woman did not hear her; already she was shuffling off to the next portrait, the moment of grief past as she began spouting some new information about another ancestor of Ash’s who Bronwyn would never remember.
As Bronwyn followed after her, her mind whirling, she couldn’t help but think once more of the look on Ash’s face the night before, the mask quickly dropped into place to disguise it. What had happened to his mother? And what had happened to Ash after his mother died? Mrs. Wheeler had mentioned that Ash had been a boy when he had brought his mother here for her final days. No, she thought, frowning, she had specifically said he had come in the dead of the night, that he had been secretive. And Ash had mentioned before that he and his father had not had a good relationship. Had Ash smuggled his mother to this house to escape his father?
Too many questions, each one making her feel more in the dark regarding the man she had married.
Blessedly the tour of the house and grounds ended shortly thereafter. Bronwyn, exhausted and confused and feeling the pressure of her new position more than ever, made her way back to her rooms. Each servant she passed bowed or curtseyed with a “Your Grace,” making her feel as if she would jump out of her skin. As she gripped the banister to ascend the stairs, she stopped, unable to lift a foot to the first tread, a sense of being closed in overwhelming her. She had to get out of here. She had no idea what she would do, where she would go. But in that moment she unerringly knew she needed to escape these walls, which seemed to press in on her more every moment.
Without a second thought she spun about and, taking up the brilliant blue skirts of her new gown—her mother and Lady Tesh must have had every seamstress from here to Whitby working on her new wardrobe to have it done in time for the wedding—she sprinted out the front door.
The band constricting her chest eased some the moment she was able to breathe in the fresh air blowing off the sea and felt the setting sun on her face. But it was not enough; she needed to put greater distance between herself and her new home, to a place where she did not feel a stranger to herself.
Pivoting in the gravel drive, she strode off then, unerringly making her way through the side gardens, to that place that felt home to her more than anywhere else in the world.
Chapter 11
Though he hadn’t been in residence at Caulnedy for long, Ash had already made it a habit to spend as much time out of the house as he was able. There were too many memories at every turn; wherever he looked, he saw his mother in those final days, when her body, broken and weak, could no longer house her battered soul. The guilt that he hauled around like a lodestone doubled in weight at the image, making it almost unbearable to carry.
Except when he had been with Bronwyn. In those moments, when he’d held her in his arms and joined bodies with her, there had been nothing but the two of them.
Which had been the thing that had prompted not only his leaving her bed as soon as she’d fallen into an exhausted slumber the night before, but also his early morning flight from the house. The strength of their connection when they had come together had shocked him to his core; he had never known the like before, with anyone. Granted, he had always made certain that any affair he entered into had strict rules put into place before it was even begun; it must be a short-lived relationship that was based on physical needs alone, with no expectations for more.
With Bronwyn, however, while it had been determined beforehand that it would merely be for scientific purposes—on her part, at least—and had a set end date, there had been an intimacy, a closeness that had taken him by surprise.
It should, perhaps, not have surprised him. They were bound together for life now, after all. Despite their mutual agreement that this portion of their relationship was to be temporary, there was nevertheless an awareness of that lifelong bond. No doubt something of that sort would make a person feel differently about the intimate aspects of a relationship. And she, who was so innocent, who had never been with another, could very well confuse physical intimacy for emotional connection. No, he could not allow that.
But that was not his only reason for leaving the house to gallop over Synne’s landscape. No, it was only the more palatable. The other reason he had fled, the more potent of the two, was that he had ached to remain in her arms.
He had not realized until just then how starved he was for a connection to another person. And it troubled him. Over the years he had become an expert at keeping people at arm’s length. Even with Beecher, whom he was closer to than anyone else, there was a wall he kept up between them. The silent shame he suffered under guaranteed that, a shame and guilt that no one truly knew the extent of. While the world was aware who his father was, a man who had been needlessly cruel, who had seemed to take pleasure in hurting others, they did not know the full scope of that horror. How he had beat his servants, had forced himself on the helpless women in his employ. How even his own wife, the delicate, sweet, kind creature that had been Ash’s mother, had not been safe from such brutality and had ultimately lost her life when she had attempted to step in and save another woman from such an attack.
And Ash, who had sensed something was wrong but, in his innocence, had not understood what, had been so damn selfish that he had only thought of himself and the beatings he was avoiding by going away to school. Not once had he considered that the women left at home, his mother included, had been forced to bear the full weight of the old duke’s wrath. And when Ash had finally returned, and become aware of what had been happening beneath his very nose, he had been too late to save his mother. He’d been too late to save any of them.
He shuddered, running a hand over his face, as if he could erase the memories that haunted him even now. His horse, no doubt sensing his disquiet, threw its head in agitation, dancing to the side. He welcomed the distraction of pulling the animal to a stop on the grassy hill that overlooked a wide valley, of calming it with a soft voice and pats to its quivering neck; the focus needed for such a thing helped to dispel those horrifying memories.
No matter how much time he took in tending to the horse, however, he could not stop thinking of Bronwyn. What was she doing just then? Was she settling into Caulnedy? Did the house please her? Was she thinking of him and their night together as well? He had been trying to quiet those questions all day, with little to no success. But the day was lengthening, the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon, and he knew he could not stay away from Caulnedy any longer. Dragging in a deep breath, he turned his horse back toward the manor house. Surely now that he knew what to expect from the more physical aspect of their relationship, he reasoned, he would be better prepared to handle it. And he would not look too closely at just how much he anticipated returning to her.
As he cantered through the tree line into the front drive, there she was, as if he had created her from pure longing. His heart sped up at the sight of her and he drank her in: how lithely she moved and how the sun hit her light brown curls and transformed them into a fiery crown about her head. So focused was he on how lovely she looked, however, he did not immediately realize how quickly she was walking. With her hands fisted at her sides and her footsteps swift, it appeared as if she were anxious to get somewhere. Or she was running from something.
She hurried through the side garden and made her way toward the meadow where he had found her and his wards that first day. Frowning, it took him only a moment to decide what to do, and in short order he was cantering his horse to the front step, dismounting, and handing the creature over to a footman before he started off after Bronwyn.
It didn’t take him long to find her. Even so, he might have missed her if he hadn’t known where to look in the first place. She was seated in the dirt near a tansy plant, her slight frame, though brightly garbed, nevertheless camouflaged by the low bushes and dry grasses surrounding her.
She flinched as he approached, eyes wide and startled as a fawn’s rising to meet his. In the next moment she twisted, as if to hide whatever was in her hand from his sight. As if she feared he might take it away from her.
His heart wrenched. For some instinct told him her reaction to his presence had less to do with her being surprised and much more to do with some fear that had been cultivated in her in the past.
“I’m sorry,” he hurried to say, palms up to show he meant no harm. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. What have you got there?”
Her gaze lost its fear, turning wary before dropping from his altogether. Nevertheless, she seemed to relax, her fingers uncurling from whatever it was she hid in her palm. He looked down to see a small green beetle there, the same type of insect she’d had with her when he’d come upon her outside the circulating library.
She watched it intently, as if studying the way it moved and how the dappled sunlight hit its brilliant exterior. She was so quiet for so long, he thought maybe she had forgotten he was there. Then, her eyes still on the creature as it merrily walked from finger to finger, she spoke.
“Did you know that tansy beetles overwinter by burrowing underground for months at a time? Of course, this specimen is slightly different from theChrysolina graminisI have read about previously. I have researched this particular Coleoptera extensively and am certain it is a new subspecies never before discovered. I am in the process of writing a scientific paper on it, and hope to one day have it published with the Royal Society of London. They are the premier scientific society in Britain, you know, and really my best option, since the Entomological Society has disbanded.”
Her voice was quiet, conversational, as if they had been speaking of such a thing for some time. Just beneath the surface, however, was the slightest warble, though from defiance or fear or deep emotion he could not tell. Her hands, too, trembled faintly.