Forced Offer (2 page)

Without answering him, Belinda walked over to the table where the candle sputtered and sat heavily on one of the chairs.

Lord Berrington came over and standing before her slammed his fist on the table so hard that the candle jumped and almost toppled. Belinda started and looked at him in alarm.

"I want some answers to my questions, Miss Presleigh, and I want them now!"

"I—I know nothing. I only came in answer to your letter…"

"My 
letter?
" he asked, his brown eyes wide with amazement, "What letter?" A part of Belinda’s mind noted that those were the eyes she had lain awake so many nights thinking of.

"The…the…letter you wrote me—"

"
I 
wrote you a letter? Where is this letter? Did you bring it with you?"

"No…I…I…left…it…in my bedroom—"

"Conveniently so, I should say," muttered the earl. And when she said nothing, but stared at the candle like one hypnotized he went on,

"You called out to your mother. Was it she who arranged for you to be at this meeting?"

Belinda pressed her lips tight and said nothing. Fierce family pride now invaded her and made a shield against the onslaught of angry words. She would not expose her mother to his ruthless accusations, no matter how much her mother may be at fault. 
And Belinda's mind was now rushing inexorably to her mother's obvious guilt.

Berrington may find out everything her mother had done, which Belinda now suspected was a lot, but she would not help him with it.

"Are you going to sit there like a statue or are you going to answer my questions?" Berrington now asked.

Belinda still said nothing as she stared at the long flickering flame like the moth that she was, for hadn't he been the proverbial flame and she the sorry moth? Her mother would never have been successful in this plot had she not been a willing participator.

She would not sit here and accuse her mother when she now felt as guilty as she now knew her mother was.

Lord Berrington had 
asked 
her who she was. A fine blow to her pride, if there was a shred of it left, she thought, for at the very least she had thought that Lord Berrington knew her. But apparently, the many times they had been at the same balls were as nothing to him.

And not even her introduction to him, forced on him by her mother, had made the slightest impression on him.

"This letter," said the earl again. "What did it say?"

"You—you should know, since you wrote it," Belinda said in a dull voice, feeling the sting of tears and willing herself not to cry.

"I wrote a letter, but it wasn't to 
you 
I wrote it," he said in a loud, angry voice. "Why should I write a letter to you, miss, when I didn't even know who you were?"

Go on, thought Belinda, turn the knife over, it still has not lodged in my heart, it needs an inch or so more…

Berrington now recalled how the obnoxious Mrs. Presleigh had tried to corner him a few times into dancing with her daughter—this girl who now turned away from him fearfully, her face ashen. Not once had he bothered to look at her before.

He did recall her sister Roselle, a beautiful blue-eyed confection of a girl who had died years before—of pneumonia or something. This girl was nothing like her sister—the exact opposite, in fact.

Berrington slid ruthless eyes over Belinda now, as eyes downcast, she suffered his examination in the silence that followed.

She was tall and very thin, he recalled, for she had reached above his shoulder as he had almost dragged her up the stairs. Most of the women Berrington had been attracted to were small and with the plumpness that was so much in fashion.

He saw that she had her hair tied back into a dull-looking thick braid and that nothing in her face was likely to attract a glance from anyone.

"It was your mother who slammed the door and locked us in here, wasn't it?"

Still Belinda said nothing. She realized nothing she said would change his opinion of her, so she might as well save her breath. In fact, the few words she had uttered had incensed him.

Once she looked up, for his eyes seemed to pull her, then she quickly looked down again. She heard his angry voice again, like the pounding of a hammer.

"Did you and your mother plot this together in order to trap me?"

Belinda looked up at him, and with tremendous effort stopped herself from crying. She could just imagine how he would jeer at her tears should she be foolish enough to cry. If she could not speak up to him, as she had no defense for her mother’s deeds, at least she would not cower before him.

"You did, then," he said.

Belinda's mind flew to what her mother must have done. Too late she realized her mother must have replaced the envelope with one in which she had written Belinda’s name. She must have bribed a footman or someone. Belinda looked up at Lord Berrington and cringed.

The look in Lord Berrington's eyes was full of loathing and disgust.

She stood up, unable to bear his rage any more and went to another smaller table that was against a wall, in shadow. She sat on a stool, her arms folded in front of her.

Lord Berrington's eyes had followed her as she left him. Then he, too, stood up and rummaging on a cupboard, found a corkscrew and went to the endless rows of wine bottles and took one of them back to the table. He uncorked it, tossed the cork aside, and drank from it thirstily.

"Damn!" he uttered loudly, and again drank from the bottle. With each sip he repeated the word, at times so loud that Belinda would be startled out of her trance.

After a while he stood up and went over to where she was. "This isn't going to work, you know—I am not going to marry you."

Belinda cringed, but she said nothing, for any word from her seemed to bring out his wrath.

An hour or two went by in silence, except for the slight shuffling noises Berrington made when he changed his position.

Belinda lost herself in her thoughts in an effort to block the vision of the angry man in the gloomy cellar. But her thoughts brought little comfort. How easily she had become a pawn in her mother's hands. Was she so stupidly trusting, or had it been that she painfully, eagerly wanted to believe in the interest her mother had expressed Berrington had in her?

Belinda now realized with dismay, as she kept her face averted from Lord Berrington, that had she not wanted to believe in her heart in what her mother disclosed to her, she would not have acceded to her mother's prodding.

This had obviously been an invention by her mother to convince her into partaking of this—this—Berrington had called it a plot. It certainly was that, she could not fault him for his choice of words, however harsh and accusing they were. Her mother had plotted this scenario in careful detail.

Coming out of her painful memories, Belinda glanced at Lord Berrington as he stood up to get another bottle of wine. On the way to the shelves he glared at her, and she could see the wine he had drunk had affected him, for his step was unsteady.

Not wanting to awaken in him any more animosity toward her Belinda quickly turned away from him.

Belinda's heart felt as if it were falling in an abyss from which she could never recover. She hardly knew which was worse, the embarrassment or the humiliation she was drowning in.

Chapter 2

Belinda blanked her mind out from the angry man sitting nearby and thought of the events that had led to this horrible situation she was in.

She remembered the first trip to London, for her sister Roselle’s first Season and her mind brought back to her the pain of another time, when she had been very young. Her mother’s voice rang out in her mind as the past rushed up to her.

"Close the drapes Minnie, so Belinda don't see the gibbets," said Mrs. Presleigh. The Presleighs were travelling from their home in the country to London in their large chaise, which was as big as a London mail coach.

They had stopped for the night at an inn and were rested, but being travel-worn, Mrs. Presleigh was snappy for which reason Mr. Presleigh buried himself in a newspaper or in sleep.

Mr. Presleigh snored softly, sitting opposite Mrs. Presleigh. The eldest daughter, Roselle, sat at the opposite end of the same seat. It was a long, cushioned seat and her maid, Minnie, was comfortably seated in the middle. Mrs. Presleigh sat by a window and Belinda sat at the opposite window. In the middle of the seat was Mrs. Presleigh's large portmanteau, the contents of which she was examining with close attention. So she didn't notice that a few minutes after Minnie closed the drapes on both sides of the chaise Belinda pulled back a corner of the curtain and looked out. She didn't know what a gibbet was, having never been to London, which they were on the outskirts of now, and curiosity drew her.

A muffled scream stuck in Belinda's throat as her stunned eyes fell on the putrid bodies hanging from stakes stuck to long poles. Some of the bodies were so wizened from exposure that they seemed dark and mummified with matted filthy hair that hung on their sides; others seemed hardly to have been a human at one time, their grotesque forms resembling more gargoyles than humans. And on still other poles, unbelievably, there were only heads, stuck at the end of the pole.

Belinda felt a sick wave go through her as she dropped the curtain and felt the gall rush up to her throat.

"Mama, I'm going to vomit! Stop the carriage!"

"My goodness!" Mrs. Presleigh yelled out to her abigail, "Minnie, open the window at once!"

Minnie quickly threw open the window of the carriage and helped Belinda, who barely made it in time. Even so, the side of the carriage was splattered with vomit, as white-faced, Belinda vomited again and again and then struggled with dry heaves, hunched over the window, supported by Minnie.

"Good Lord," said Mrs. Presleigh, annoyed, "and I thought you had hardly touched your food. Sop a cloth with this water, Minnie, and wipe her. Thank goodness you were able to open the window in time, Minnie. I can hardly imagine how we would have fared during the rest of the trip with all of us splattered with vomit.

She shook her head as she glanced at Belinda now slumped on the corner of the seat, her face thin and transparent, her hair pulled back in a braid at the back of her head. Mrs. Presleigh then turned in relief to the sleeping face of her beautiful daughter Roselle, on whom she doted, and her face softened.

The eighteen-year-old beauty looked lovely and fragile and the contrast between the sisters seemed now stark.

Mrs. Presleigh signaled to the outriders to have the driver stop the carriage.

Mr. Presleigh and Roselle awoke when the movement of the carriage had ceased, the noise and fracas of before having not done it.

"What is it, why have we stopped?" asked Mr. Presleigh, his voice groggy from sleep.

"Belinda has vomited over the side of the carriage, dear," answered Mrs. Presleigh, "and we must have it cleaned before we move on.

"Besides", she added, the fresh air and a little exercise will do us all good."

"Are you all right now, dear?" asked Mr. Presleigh of his daughter, reaching over to hold her hand.

"Yes, Papa."

"Poor dear," said Roselle absently. "Why was it you were sick? Surely it wasn't the food at the inn; it was the best we have eaten so far."

Belinda did not try to answer. Instead, she asked Minnie for a little water to rinse her mouth. She got down from the carriage, helped by one of the outriders and walked a little, gulping the fresh air. Soon a little color had come back to her face and she smiled wanly at her father who was gazing at her with concern.

The rest of the journey continued without any more mishaps and they were soon arriving at their house in London. Mr. Presleigh had purchased the house several months before and it was the first time his family was to see it.

Mr. Presleigh directed the second carriage, which carried luggage, bedding, linen, china and silverware to stock the house with. He had made a large profit on shipping investments and the house was now their latest acquisition, much to their relatives' envy. It was now opened for the first time, and the occasion, which was Roselle's first London Season.

Mrs. Presleigh had great hopes of her securing a great match and thereby bringing back the luster to the family that had been lost in decades past. Mrs. Presleigh longed to belong once again to the inner circles of society that were habitually closed to her. Roselle, who was the apple of her eye, seemed the one who could bring this about. Five years younger than Roselle, Belinda took little of her mother's attention.

London was whirring with news of the war and Mr. Presleigh hurried to have a footman buy several newspapers after which he retired to the musty library with his booty.

The house was not large by the standards of the square in which it was, but it was a sound investment. It had four large bedrooms upstairs with an upstairs sitting room. On the ground floor, a drawing room and dining room had windows to the square, and a large pantry and kitchen were modernly placed adjoining the dining room, together with a back parlor for the private use of the family. The third floor held the servants' quarters and there was an ample cellar and storage area underground.

The house had a nice orchard and garden in the back surrounded by a high wall. Belinda wandered out to the back and breathed a sigh of relief that such a pretty place was to be hers for several months. Since she would not be able to enjoy walks in the woods and the countryside, at least she had an orchard and garden at her disposal here. She developed an instant fondness for the house and felt safe inside its walls. Here she would take many strolls down meandering paths along flowerbeds and shade trees. She knew that her walks in this garden and orchard would be the only part that would give her pleasure and a bit of happiness and she was glad of this for impressions of the gibbets refused to leave her mind. She wondered out to the back of the house after she had changed her clothes. There were still a couple of hours before she would be called to dinner and as always, her absence would not be noticed.

Mrs. Presleigh and Minnie doted on Roselle. Even now they were spreading the magazines on the table in Mrs. Presleigh's room as they pored over the issues of 
La Belle Assemblee 
after having ordered tea to be served in their rooms. The rooms were soon warm as the footmen lighted the hearths. And it was a good thing, thought Belinda, for Roselle was of a delicate constitution and felt any change in climate. Even now Mrs. Presleigh had ordered a concoction of honey and lemon to be made for her, as she had a persistent cough that had traveled with her the three days to London.

Many hours would be spent planning Roselle's wardrobe. They had traveled to London a few weeks before the start of the social season in order to get a head start. It was not even April yet.

"May I take my tea in the garden, Mama?" Belinda had asked her mother.

"Yes, yes, of course," her mother had said absently, "but do take a wrap, dear," she added, "as there is still a cool breeze." And turning toward her favorite daughter had soon forgotten Belinda in her concern for Roselle's health.

"Ah, here is the warm honey, my sweet," she said to Roselle, "we will soon be rid of that nasty cough."

* * * * *

But Roselle's cough got worse, rather than better, and by the end of the week she was bedridden.

"The 
modiste 
will come here instead, my darling," her mother assured Roselle, though the girl, her face wan and pale, for the first time took no interest in her appearance.

Mrs. Presleigh seemed at times impatient and at others preoccupied.

Valuable weeks that had been meant for wardrobe preparations were being wasted, as Roselle took little interest in the magazines spread before her and the snippets of material the seamstress brought with her. And fittings were now practically done away with as Roselle protested she was too weak to be moved from her bed.

The physician came every day, but did little for her, assuring Mrs. Presleigh that it was just a matter of time. They must simply allow 
la grippe 
to ride itself out.

"Minnie has caught a cold, too, Belinda," said Mrs. Presleigh. I require you to accompany me to Bond Street. There are still many accessories I must secure for Roselle before the Season starts.

Belinda looked up from her book in surprise. Her mother never desired her company for shopping. Belinda could not remember having once gone shopping with her mother.

"I'm fagged from worrying over Roselle," Mrs. Presleigh added, as Belinda donned her pelisse, for there was still a sharp breeze and the day was cold and gray.

Belinda would much rather have stayed by the fire reading but she dared not protest.

"I hear the carriage out front. Elvira will accompany us," Mrs. Presleigh said of the maid who was waiting at the front door with the rugs.

Soon they were on their way and Belinda could see her breath before her. She wished spring would arrive and blow off this lingering cold.

She looked out the window and saw a few carriages on the road. It was still fairly early, just a little beyond the noon hour.

"Perhaps another doctor should be called," Belinda, said. Her thoughts with her sister and how she seemed not to be getting better, but slowly worse. Roselle was a lot thinner too.

Mrs. Presleigh ignored Belinda's advice, as she was wont to do, dismissing it peremptorily.

"You should not concern yourself with decisions that are mine to make, Belinda. Dr. Haskell has assured us Roselle will be just fine, it will be just a matter of a few more days."

"She is not improving, Mama, but rather, getting worse," insisted Belinda.

"No more talk on this, you are irritating me, miss," snapped Mrs. Presleigh, "is that understood?"

"Here we are," she added, looking annoyed and upset. Belinda could see that she was regretting having ordered her to come with her. Elvira would have been a much better choice by herself.

Roger, the driver, got down and together with the groom, helped the ladies out.

"We shall be in this shop about half an hour, Roger," said Mrs. Presleigh as she pulled Belinda along.

Mrs. Presleigh, having brought snippets of material to match to gloves, reticules, slippers and hats was in rapt concentration for over an hour, never once asking Belinda her opinion. Rather, she relied on the shop owner's opinion or her own.

An hour and a half passed at a snail pace for Belinda, who having little to do, gazed distractedly at the wares with little interest. If it had been a bookstore the time would have flown for her. But clothes and accessories had little interest for her since she was convinced nothing looked good on her. Her mother's eyes told her this often enough. Besides, she needn't worry about wardrobes, thankfully, since she would not be making her debut.

All the fuss and commotion was for Roselle alone. Belinda would be lucky if her father acceded to taking her to Kew Gardens and the Royal Academy. There was also the The Tower that she was anxious to see.

Almack's, the hollowed temple of society, where no one could enter without the treasured vouchers, was not to be any concern of hers at thirteen. She doubted that even at eighteen it would be, for her mother would not put any interest to anything to do with her.

Were all families like hers, she wondered, with a favorite daughter or son and the rest left to fend for themselves. Or was this only in 
her 
family?

She helped her mother to carry the great deal of packages she had purchased, for Elvira's arms were full.

"We are going somewhere else?" she asked.

"We will take our tea at that little tea shop in the corner, for I find I am completely worn out," said Mrs. Presleigh, and then we will go to the milliner's."

The driver and groom, having helped stash away their purchases, proceeded to take them further down to the Blue Robin.

Belinda was thankful for the hour they spend over cups of tea and scones. There, Mrs. Presleigh found an old acquaintance that sat at their table for the duration, freeing Belinda to her own thoughts.

But toward the end of the hour, Mrs. Cavendish, as the lady was named, revealed disturbing information.

"Well, it isn't 
la grippe 
that is going around, my dear, but a deadlier ailment. Mary Jane Hersonel, Mrs. Carlson's niece, is very ill. They say she may not make it. It is an illness that weakens the lungs so that they don't function."