Married At Midnight (11 page)

England Summer, 1850

They called her the
little princess of Blackstone.

He just called her brat.

She was no princess, o' course, just a duke's daughter, but even his own da called her that out of pity, because they kept

her locked away in a schoolroom all day, where she learned to tally and read at the age of seven as though she were some bloody bookkeeper.

That's what his da said.

Thomas just kept his mouth shut, because no one knew she stole away from her studies to meet him each day. No one ever looked for her, and Thom supposed they kept her locked away in that rotten schoolroom because her da just didn't wanna

see her. That's what he thought, all right. Her da was a rotten old bugger, who yelled more'n he breathed.

Nah, she was no princess ... she was just his best friend in the whole bloody world.

Laying belly down upon his pasteboard sled at the crest of their favorite hill, Thomas peeked through the tall grasses at the

little girl sitting down below. His heart raced as he shimmied nearer, parting weeds and silly flowers to get a better look.

Every day he'd come to meet with her here, same time, same place—ever since the day they'd met in the garden his da tended for her father. He'd been eight then, she'd been seven, and they'd become fast friends, racing through the mazes together and rolling beneath hedges, giggling as they escaped hideous creatures in pursuit—mostly her bellowin' da.

But now that he was thirteen ... his heart was beginning to do strange things whenever he saw her. It beat so fiercely at times

he thought it might grow legs, burst from his chest, and race away. And his breath .. . hells bells ... he could never seem to

catch it anymore. It was happening again just now, his body reacting strangely. He knit his brows as he watched her, and he drew in a breath, sucking a weed up his nose. He sneezed it out in disgust, and glowered down at her.

Damned if she didn't look sad, he thought, though he really couldn't be certain at this distance—until she slumped forward,

and her sobs reached his ears. He frowned and lifted himself up from the ground, slapped at his clothes to relieve them of the dirt. Abandoning his pasteboard, he started at once down the hill. She'd prolly tripped over that silly dress she wore and couldn't get back up, he thought with a smirk. He missed the clothes she used to wear.... the way they used to play together, scuffling in the dirt.

She didn't seem to notice him even once he was standing over her, so preoccupied was she with her caterwauling. Thomas simply stood, waiting for her to look up. Used to be that he woulda simply popped her on the head and took off, and she would have run screaming after him. Now, he couldn't bring himself to touch her. Her hair was so pretty, curls, perfectly arranged in such a manner that even her earnest wailing couldn't properly muss it. He stood there, mesmerized by the way the sunlight glistened over the lustrous coppery strands.

Dammitall.

He had the sudden most disconcerting urge to sit down beside her and embrace her.. . stroke her beautiful hair and comfort her. It wasn't like her to cry. He remembered the time she'd scolded him for sobbing after he'd run into the naked statue in

her father's garden—the one with the silly leaf over his man things. He'd grown a knot on his forehead the size of an apple,

but she'd told him to grow up and had boxed his ears soundly. Devil take her, if she'd been a boy, he woulda just boxed her right back.

But she wasn't a boy.

And it was becoming more and more apparent. His heart lurched and beat a little faster at the thought.

She was his best friend, and she was a bloody rotten girl—and if the fellows ever discovered he still met with her here every day, he'd never hear the end of it. His face warming, he stood there, wondering if he should speak up ... or maybe tap her on the head to gain her notice.

For the first time in all the years he'd known her, he felt like scurrying away before she could chance to spy him. Longingly,

he gauged the distance to the crest of the hill and considered dashing back and diving behind it for cover.

He didn't move however, simply stood before her, his feet pasted to the ground. And then she suddenly glanced up, and Thomas felt a

sudden leap within his breast.

Watery green eyes stared at him.

She gave a little shriek at the sight of him, and he leapt backward in alarm, responding with a yelp of his own. But she didn't move, and he thought for certain she prolly couldn't in that silly dress she wore.

"You scared me!" she accused him, and didn't look a bit grateful for his presence.

"I. .. er . . ." He glanced away at the hill where his pasteboard sat waiting, feeling suddenly timid, as though she'd caught him

at something he wasn't supposed to be doing—and that didn't make any sense, 'cause he wasn't doing anything a'tall. He merely wanted to show her his new pasteboard ... wanted to take her sliding, hear her gleeful giggles and shrieks. But the thought of being so close to her, putting his arms about her middle, made his chest hurt somehow. "I saw you weepin'," he finished lamely.

"Well!" She glared at him, her brows drawn together in that familiar scowl. Her hands went to her hips.

It almost eased him to see the spark of anger in her eyes. Almost, but not quite, because there was something different

about the way she looked today.

"Well what?" he snapped, annoyed that she was staring at him as though he were some wart-covered frog.

"You could have said something!" she announced somewhat less petulantly, and then added sullenly, "I've been waiting for you."

As she had done without fail for the past four years, so why did the thought suddenly make him feel so light-headed?

"Well," Thomas countered, trying to sound cool and collected. "I'm here, aren't I?" He swiped his damp palms upon his trousers, and frowned at the strange catch in his voice.

"Did you ... um ... fall?" he asked her. "Is that why you were crying?"

"No." Her voice was oddly subdued, and her eyes misted once more.

He scratched at his head, and asked, "Aren't you hot?"

"Hot?"

"Well, you look hot to me."

"No."

"Then why are you crying?" he asked her, and knelt before her upon the grass.

She shrugged.

"What's the matter, brat?" he taunted her. She shook her head, fat tears sliding from her lucid green eyes, and Thomas

sobered. "Toria? What's wrong?"

She began to weep in earnest, casting her head into her lap, and Thomas, without another thought, scooted closer and

placed an arm around her shoulders. He lowered his head to her wet cheek, and whispered against her face. "Toria ...

what is it? It can't be so bad as all that."

"Oh, but it is!" she wailed, and buried her head more deeply into her crossed arms. Thomas moved closer, heat rising into

his face as he did so. She shrugged away a little in her hysteria, elbowing his cheek in the process, and his face burned hotter

as he realized how close he'd been. He winced but didn't move away. He couldn't. She smelled nice, like a field of flowers

after a gentle rain. He tried to concentrate upon her words, but couldn't quite manage the feat.

"Don't you understand?" she sobbed.

God only knew, he didn't. He hadn't heard a bloody word she'd said. He didn't know his body anymore

—it was a strange beast these days—or his voice—or even the little girl he'd known for an eternity. He rubbed at his cheek to soothe the soreness.

"I might never see you again!" she exclaimed, her head still buried within her arms, and her sobs muffled there.

Good grief, she was even beginning to act like a girl. "Hells bells, Toria!" Thomas declared, reasoning with her. "You see

me every day!"

"Not anymore!" she whispered brokenly, shaking her head sadly, sobbing as she lifted her face to look at him.

He frowned. He somehow understood she was telling him something important, but couldn't concentrate with those green

eyes focused upon him so intently.

"My father says no more! Oh, Thomas!" she whispered woefully. "He says I may never see you again, and he's going to make your papa send you away!"

Her words registered at last.

Thomas blinked as comprehension dawned. "Send me away?" She nodded, her cheeks streaked with tears, and Thomas

felt the blow of her words like a fist to his gut. "Why?"

"Because he says 'tis unseemly that I should play with you—a boy, at that!—and if your papa wishes to remain employed

at Blackstone, he must send you far away!"

"Send me away?" Thomas felt numb. "Where?"

"Away to school, I think," she revealed, her brows slanting sadly. "He says your papa will do it because he knows what is best."

Thomas sank from his knees to his bottom and declared, "My da will never send me away!" Even as he spoke, he knew it

was a lie. His da had seven mouths to feed, including his own, and his da would do whatever it took to be certain the entire family was safe and sure. If the duke of Blackstone meant to send him away .. .

He stared for the longest time at the windflowers dancing with the gentle breeze. "When?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," she cried, and threw her arms about him, embracing him. "Oh, Thomas!"

"Hells bells," Thomas exclaimed, and sat, benumbed with emotions he couldn't begin to untangle. He really thought he hated

her da, but he wasn't about to tell her so. He put his arms about her, returning the embrace, uncertain whether the tears that stung at his eyes suddenly were for the family he knew he would leave ... or for the best friend he didn't think he could live without.

They sat there, embracing, the two of them, and Thomas didn't feel the least bit ashamed for the kiss he bestowed upon

her temple.

She peered up at him, her green eyes glistening with her tears.

Thomas looked down into her face and simply stared, memorizing every line of her face, the curve of her lips, every last

freckle upon her nose.

She'd been his best friend for five years, his confidant, his playmate. And now he realized with the knowledge that he was

losing her... in his heart he'd begun to think of her as something more . . .

"Promise you'll never forget me!" she implored softly, her tears spilling onto his shirtsleeve.

"I promise I never will," he swore. And meant it with every piece of his soul. He plucked a wind-flower and pressed it into

her hand. "Promise you'll never forget me, Toria."

She hugged him tighter.

"Promise!" he demanded.

"I never will!" she vowed, shaking her head adamantly. "Oh, Thomas, you know that I never will!"

"I think... I think I love you," he whispered, blinking with a bewildered sense of self-discovery.

"I think I love you, too," she whispered in return.

And together they sat, embracing, words much too difficult to speak between them.

Someday, he would come back for her. Someday, he would be good enough—not a mere gardener's son. Someday...

June 1, 1863

Dearest Mr. Smith,

I realize it has been some time since our previous correspondence...

Lady Victoria Haversham tapped her quill upon the cherrywood desk, and sighed a little despondently.

Frowning pensively

as she stared at the black ink stain that remained, she tried to determine the best course of action to be taken.

Confound it all, she was running out of time!

She simply must be wed come two weeks hence! And here she was practically on the shelf—practically, ha! At twenty-four, she
was
on the shelf! She hadn't gone through the
rite de passage
as her friends had, because her father had suffered his unfortunate attack at the very age she would have begun her ceremonies—not that she held that against him, mind you. It certainly hadn't been his fault that his heart had failed him. And neither had she cared for the silly girlhood ritual, at any rate.

It was just that ... now ... at this very instant... she found herself regretting . .. Her face screwed. Well. . .

perhaps not

regretting precisely, as she truly didn't wish to be wed even now.

Certainly, it wasn't her choice of preference.

She continued to tap the tip of her pen upon the desk, staring at the letter, not entirely certain why she was writing the old gardener. He rarely responded to her letters anyway, as he didn't know how to read.

She knew dear George often held her letters until his parson came to visit, because the few times he'd replied, the letters had been composed by the parson himself.

It was simply that... even after all these years, she felt a stronger connection with the old man than she did to anyone else.

Strange that.. . And then perhaps not so strange, after all. She'd never been close to her mother, nor to her father. Not really.

Victoria swallowed her grief as she looked about the room—her office now, though it had once been her father's. The somber colors, deep blues and darkest golds, and the heavy draperies had always given her a strange sense of ambivalence. On the one hand they were familiar and comforting, and on the other . ..

made her feel quite like marching across the room and

ripping them all down like some mad woman, only to let in the sunlight. She had them drawn just now as far as they would go—not far at all—revealing the vivid green lawns and the sunlit beds of wildflowers brilliant in bloom. All of it hers now.

At least for the time being.

Devil take her father! Whyever should she have to wed simply to keep what was already hers? It was absolutely unbearable! How could he have placed her in such an untenable position? How could he have cared so very little?

Lord only knew, all she'd ever wished to do was please the scoundrel—her mother, too—though neither of them did she

ever manage to make proud. Her mother had been a delicate woman, striving so hard to win her father's favor, yet never succeeding in the endeavor. And it seemed her greatest sin of all had been to bear him a daughter, and then to cock up her

toes before she could bear him his precious son. Her father had never forgiven her for it— not her mother, nor Victoria either. Until the very day he'd breathed his last he'd lamented his lack of a male heir to carry on the family legacy. With his dying breath he'd wept for his nonexistent son, while Victoria had remained at his side, gently brushing the hair from his forehead.

And yet... not for an instant had Victoria suspected he would turn from her so completely.

In truth, her father had never spoken an ill word to her; he'd simply never been a doting father. He'd been a man who'd abhorred weakness of spirit, had determined that if he couldn't have his male heir, then he would, at least, force his only daughter to rise above such abhorrent female failings.

Victoria had tried so hard to rise to his expectations.

She'd studied her letters diligently, had exercised her numbers until her eyes had crossed and her head had ached. She'd worked them well—had an aptitude for numbers, so her professors had said. Under her father's tutelage, she'd even managed the household accounts—had managed them well, she'd thought. Gad, but her reward had been a handful of pats upon the head, and an occasional, "Good show, Victoria." Inconceivable how very much of herself she'd placed within her father's hands. Every precious ounce of her self-worth had depended upon those rare pats of approval.

No more.

The day his will had been read she'd realized the utter folly of her pride. All of his
good shows
had amounted to nought more than flapdoodle. In the end, he'd preferred to entrust his estates to a brother he abhorred, or a perfect stranger, rather than to

a daughter who had labored all of her life to be all that he'd wished of her. Very simply, if she failed to wed before midnight of her twenty-fifth birthday, every last farthing she owned would be surrendered to her bloody uncle. Everything. Not simply the inheritable estates—which had already been forfeit— but everything. But that alone wasn't so unbearable, it was the fact that with it, she would lose her freedom as well. So her choice, it seemed, was to lose some of it now to a husband she no more wanted than she wanted chin hairs... or to an uncle who would take as much joy in caging her as had her father.

Given such a straight corner, there was no choice to be made . . . none at all...

At the stroke of midnight precisely two weeks hence, for better or worse, she would, indeed, be wed.

And yet. .. She worried her lip as she considered, for she was far from finding a suitable candidate. She shouldn't have put

this off so long.

Lord, but it didn't seem fair that a man could, if he so chose, live his life as he saw fit, answering to no one but himself. Her brow furrowed as she lifted up the quill once more, setting it to paper. She finished

the letter to the old gardener, hoping that

in detailing her abominable situation to her dear old friend, some answer would bring itself to light.

...
forgive me, please, if I've overburdened you, dear sir,
she finished.

... as
it certainly was not my intention to do so. It is simply that at times, like a mathematical
equation,
it helps

me to see the problem drawn out upon paper. The solution will present itself soon, no doubt. And I've
my

agent working diligently upon the matter as well. 'Never fear.

Delicately tapping out a period at the end of her sentence, Victoria reached up to dip the drying quill, and her gaze was

caught at once by an instant of movement out upon the lawn. Behind a distant oak she spied two figures embracing. Lovers. She blinked, watching them, fascinated, though modesty should have compelled her to turn away. It was difficult to tell at such a distance just who the lovers were, but she thought it might be Robbie, the new stable hand—comely lad—and perhaps Bethany, the cook's daughter. As she watched, Bethany ducked under and out from Robbie's embrace, and hid herself playfully behind the tree. Robbie wasn't quick enough, for he suddenly found himself staring at her from behind the fat oak.

The two of them circled the tree as Victoria watched; two lovers at play.

Her heart squeezed a little painfully, and she sighed softly. Blinking, she continued to watch. She'd never been one to woolgather much, and prided herself upon her pragmatism, but this moment, she couldn't help but feel a mite wistful over

all that might have been and never would be—a direct result of her circumstances, no doubt, for it had been a long, long

time since she'd daydreamed of lovers ... or stolen kisses beneath perfect moons . . . or of children laughing about her skirts.

She glanced down at the pen in her hand. Those things were better not considered at this late hour, she reprimanded herself.

It was much too late for girlish fancies! She wouldn't be marrying for love— not that she might have at any rate. Good Lord! did she know anyone who had married for love? Not her own mother and father, for certain! No, such musings were best

left for giggling schoolgirls— something she had never, ever been ...

Save once ...

She recalled a time when she would leap from her bed each morn, eager to discover all the mysteries the day should hold ... eager to share each and every jewel of discovery with a mischievous little boy with whom she'd fancied herself in love. He

was Thomas, the gardener's son, a fair-haired boy with an adorably wicked face, and eyes that fairly twinkled with life and mirth.

What a silly little girl she'd been.

Sighing at her childhood foolishness, Victoria stared down at her own meticulous script. Dare she ask after him now? Something like butterfly wings fluttered within her belly. It seemed rather silly to do so, as George's response was always

a simple, "Thomas is very well, thank you." Thomas himself never sent his regards in return.

Her gaze was drawn back to the window, to the sprawling lawns beyond the leaded glass panes, but

remained unfocused

upon the present. The faint, distant ring of laughter reached her ears ... laughter that brought a wistful sting to her eyes.

"Promise you'll never forget me!" she recalled beseeching him.

"I promise I never will," he'd sworn.

So much for childhood promises.

Blinking away the sting in her eyes, she forced her gaze away from the window, and shuddering free of pointless reveries, penned a brief closing to her letter, signed her name, and folded the paper. She set it aside at once.

There was no time to waste, as she still needed to pen a letter to her agent. She trusted Philip Goodman well enough to

manage the inquiries and initial interviews. He was already aware of what she expected of him; she needed now only draw

out a list of her requirements for a suitable spouse—first and foremost, he need be a commoner. If her father had imagined

for one instant she would marry some distinguished bore only to keep what was already hers, he'd been sorely mistaken!

After all her years of dealing with pompous men—men who wanted nothing more from her than quick, sweet smiles and

dutiful silence, Victoria intended to marry just whomever she pleased! Her father's will
hadn't
specified
who
she might wed, and she fully intended to have the final say in this matter. Never again would a man manipulate her life! Not if she could help

it! Victoria only hoped her father would wail in his grave over what she was about to do. Resolved, she opened a drawer

and drew out another sheet of paper. Arranging it before her upon the desk, she dipped her quill within the inkwell, and

began a very precise letter of instruction to her agent.