Saint Kate of the Cupcake: The Dangers of Lust and Baking (24 page)

At that moment, sitting in the enormous, antiquated, cold house, I felt what my life could have been, pressing heavily like a physical pressure on my brain. It was the life I could have had if I’d chosen differently all those years ago. A life that was lighter and sunnier, without the heavy dampness of living in an ancient society. My children would be home with me, tracking in sand and laughter. I could almost see the flash of their bronze skin as they passed through the white house in my mind. A few decisions here and there, and I would have ended up living in Sydney instead of London.

Stopping myself, I hauled my thoughts back to the present. It was too late for regrets. I had a life that so many aspired to, and I should appreciate what I did have. Just because I had never planned it didn’t mean that it wasn’t where I should be. I couldn’t afford to think that my whole marriage was a mistake. My eyes caught on the photographs of the boys taken when they started school at Harrow in a room surrounded by the signatures of so many other boys who had been exactly where they were, a continuity unbroken in centuries. So much history had value and importance, and wishing it away was an insult to half of them, even if it came from Jack’s side. Whatever was to happen, I had my children, who would make everything worth it a hundred times over.

The next morning, my shock and disbelief had turned to cold, hard fury. Edwina, knowing nothing of what was coming, was cheerfully ordering the staff around with great huffing and puffing.

“Edwina, we need to talk. Now,” I said icily, keeping my voice low.

Her chin rose disdainfully. “I am busy right now. I’ll get to whatever it is later.”

“I’m happy to do it in front of everyone, but what I have to say I’m fairly sure you don’t want the staff to know.”

She looked at me, uncertainty fluttering behind her eyes. With poor grace, she agreed, and we went off to the library.

“I want you out of this house today,” I said as soon as the door closed behind me. I clenched my fists to hide my shaking, wanting to inflict pain on her, to make her feel some of what she had done to those innocent young boys. I wasn’t generally someone for physical violence, but she was the lowest, most despicable version of a mother. I couldn’t imagine how she lived with herself.

“Excuse me?” she asked haughtily.

“Did I mumble?” I could barely restrain myself from punching her in the head.

“Who do you think you are to order me out of my own house?” She glared at me.

“Who do you think you are to molest your own son?” I said with utter disgust. Then, I had to ask the question every other mother would ask. “How could you?”

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stumbled and sat down heavily.

“Jack told me what you did to Crispin when he was a
child
. You fucked him up so badly, he’s hurting people, and you just pay everyone off to protect yourself. You are responsible for this. You will leave here. I don’t care where you go. I will give you no opportunity to see my children. If you choose not to leave, I will expose you. I will ring the
Daily Mail
and give them a long and in-depth interview and then every other publication that wants one. I will tell them how you sadistically beat both your children with whips and sexually assaulted Crispin.”

“You need me. You need my money,” she gasped indignantly.

“We’ll manage. This will be your only warning. I expect you gone by the end of the day.” I turned and left.

Edwina and, I assume, Arthur too were gone by dinner that night, though only to the Old Manor at the other end of the property. Frankly, I would have liked to see her go to the other end of the world. It grated badly that she wouldn’t be punished, but I knew Jack and Crispin would never do anything about it. Going to the police? Refusing all contact? It wasn’t going to happen. At least I wouldn’t have to see her every day, knowing what she’d done. At least that’s what a sane, rational person would assume. I forgot, momentarily, that Edwina was insane, and she topped up with a bowl of crazy for breakfast every morning so she would never run low.

Two days later, I was sitting in the room I had made into my study, as it was one of the few rooms that had working Internet. Wireless wasn’t possible in a house where the walls were two feet thick. I was having my morning cup of tea when in waltzed Edwina.

“Good morning.” She smiled. “I’ve come to help you out with the shooting party organization.”

“Um…no…” I said, astounded. “What are you doing here? I thought I made it clear that you weren’t to come back here.” I had, hadn’t I? I had a moment of doubting myself in the face of her certainty.

“Don’t be silly. You need help.”

“No, I don’t. Not from you. I would like for you to leave now.” I gritted my teeth.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea?” she asked, seeming genuinely confused that I wasn’t pretending nothing had happened.

“No, Edwina, I’m not. You are not to come here again without an invitation from either myself or Jack. Do you not remember our last conversation?”

“No. What?” She cocked her head, looking at me questioningly. Fuck, it was like she had wiped it from her memory.

“Seriously, Edwina. Get out!” I wasn’t going to go through the whole thing again. My God!

“Fine! I’ll be speaking to Jack about this,” she said with a huff, as if I was in the wrong. Fortunately, she left, and I followed to make sure she went out the door. I immediately sought out the head housekeeper and butler to make sure they passed on to the rest of the staff that Edwina was not to be admitted without notifying me first.

It should have been a turning point, Edwina moving out and Jack opening up to me, but it wasn’t. As if the admissions had been too much, Jack retreated behind a well-constructed wall, cleverly camouflaged with politeness and courtesy. That was the closest we ever got to genuine sharing of emotion, other than the ever-present anger that was buried uneasily in shallow graves.

“You can’t order Mother out of the house,” he said on Friday night after returning from seeing his parents at the Old Manor.

“Yes, I can. How can you expect me to just pretend that everything is okay?”

“Just because you want things to be different doesn’t mean they are. We need her money for the house. Nothing about that has changed, and we can’t afford to upset her too much.” He ran his hands through his hair agitatedly.

“She beat you and abused your brother. How can you stand to be in the same room as her?”

“Stop being a child!” he thundered. “I’m the one it happened to, not you. If I can deal with it, you certainly can.”

“You’re dealing with it?” I scoffed.

“What did you think was going to happen? That she would apologize and hand herself in to the police?”

“No—”

“If you confront her again, she’s going to deny it, and we’ll be in a worse position because she will strike back. Just pretend I never said anything. God, I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut.
Fuck!”
he swore violently.

“Ignoring something isn’t dealing with it. You’re suppressing everything, and one day you’re going to explode when you can’t push it down any more!” I accused him. “By letting her get away with this, you’re telling her it’s okay! What if she touched the boys? Are you saying that’s okay too?”

Jack glared at me, his eyes wild, his breathing heavy and labored behind his tightly clenched jaw. A shiver of fear raced down my spine, causing my heart to beat faster. A zing of adrenaline gave me a burst of mental clarity: He was holding onto his control by a hair, something I had never seen in him before in all the years we’d been together. His hands were clenched in fists by his sides, shaking with effort to remain still.

Subconsciously, I took a step backward, then another, until I reached the bathroom door. I went in and locked the door. I sat on the closed toilet lid for what felt like hours, unsure of the man outside the door. I had pushed too far. He was right; I wasn’t the one who suffered. I just couldn’t understand the way he was willing to let this go. If our positions were reversed, I would have…But really, what would I have done? Something like this changed you. How could I, someone who had grown up in a completely different environment, say how I would react? Was my desire to make this “better” helping? My head dropped into my hands. I was not equipped to deal with this.

When I finally crept out of the bathroom, Jack had gone. He didn’t come back for several days.

The shooting weekend went off without a hitch the following weekend with none of Edwina’s interference. Jack was polite but even more distant. Despite his admission that he didn’t want me to leave, he kept pushing me away any time I tried to apologize or talk about it, and I was almost ready to admit defeat. Being around him was exhausting, and I eventually gave up trying to talk to Jack anywhere but at the therapist, where I roused myself from my haze of misery to work on our marriage.

I hadn’t forgotten about Crispin, though.

“Have you spoken to Crispin yet?” I gently asked Jack every weekend.

“No, it’s not just something you can do over the phone. I’m waiting for the right time.” He rolled his eyes, exasperated that I kept asking him. Finally, I’d had enough. If he wasn’t going to do it, then I would have to. As much as I thought it would accomplish little, my conscience wouldn’t give me peace. He was hurting young women, and, for their sake, I had to try.

Amazed that I was voluntarily ringing him, I half-hoped that the call would go through to voice mail. Instead, he answered.

“Well, if it isn’t my slutty sister-in-law,” he drawled.

“Crispin, I would like to talk to you. Would you be able to come to the Hall sometime this week?”

“You’ve reconsidered? I thought you said you told Jack?” He sounded unsure. I’d managed to floor him.

“No, he knows. This is about something else.”

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Okaaay,” he said slowly. “I should be able to come for a few hours on Thursday. I’ll be there early afternoon.”

“I will see you then.” I hung up the phone. I thought the house would be the best place to meet him. There were always people around to hear my scream for help if need be.

I had afternoon tea waiting in the library. Crispin entered with his usual slimy smirk. He sat down on the couch next to me, sitting slightly too close.

“Tea?” I asked, surreptitiously moving a little further away as I poured for both of us. Handing him the cup, I held mine in front like a tiny china shield. “I wanted to talk to you about something that came up in our therapy sessions,” I began as gently as I could.

“Jack is going to therapy?” He scoffed.

“It was about you.”

“What about me?” He immediately jumped to the defensive.

“It was about seeing your mother doing something…inappropriate,” I hedged. Crispin slammed down the teacup onto the table, sending tea splashing.

“That’s a lie!” he shouted.

“You’re reaction says not. I am so sorry that happened to you. Have you thought about talking to someone about it? It might help.”

“What?” He leaped to his feet.

“Crispin, you are hurting young girls. There are too many rumors for it not to have some truth. You need to stop and deal with what happened to you before you go so far that even your family will not be able to cover it up. You will go to jail. If you care about yourself or your family, something needs to change. I have some names…” I stood up and handed him the piece of paper with the contact details of some therapists I had found who specialized in childhood trauma. The look of stunned incredulity on his face changed to something darker. Slowly and deliberately, he tore the paper into small pieces and threw them in my face.

“You bitch,” he said slowly. “You know nothing. How dare you, a lying, cheating slapper, tell me that I need help?”

“Because someone needs to, and your family are all too repressed to talk about this sort of thing.”

“My family are perfectly fine. Do you know how many people wish they were us? We have wealth and history and can trace our family tree back to the twelfth century!”

“How many of those people would want to be you if they knew the truth? Your mother is an incestuous pedophile, your father is completely absent and so inbred his mental faculties are in question, and you beat up and rape young girls. You and Jack still suck up to your abuser, refusing to force her to acknowledge the damage that she did. Why would anyone want to be you?” I spoke the truth thoughtlessly to punish him, completely losing sight of trying to help him. For a brief moment, his pain showed before he shut down completely.

“Fuck you!” He strode from the room and slammed the door behind him. I sat back down in the chair. That had not gone how I’d hoped it might. I didn’t think I had made anything better, and the thought that at least I had tried was a hollow one.

Chapter Twenty-One

T
HE
T
EMPTATIONS
O
F
S
AINT
K
ATE
W
AS
R
ELEASED
with mixed feelings on my part. Everyone raved about it, saying it was beautiful, brilliant, etcetera. All I could think about was Anders, in bed, and his enjoyment of the things I had made. Even with how it ended, I found myself wishing I could be back there with him and make that time last forever, stuck on a loop. I had dreams where I would be with him, and on waking I would try to force myself back to sleep to get away from the current hell of my life.