When It's Perfect (31 page)

Briefly rubbing his eyes with his fingers, he yielded. “What is it?”

Gracefully, she stood so that she could look down on him—a display of power she’d used on her children for years.

“Miss Marsh is not of our class,” she began slowly, hands at her sides. “Regardless of her feelings for you, and your need of an heir, I forbid you from marrying the woman. She is too old, and quite frankly, too independent to be a suitable wife for an earl.”

Dazed, Marcus simply looked at her, trying his best not to burst out laughing.

Too cool, Mother, and too convincing. You’re losing your skill.

Perhaps his lack of argument made her sense that she’d gone too far, that he didn’t believe her. Annoyed, the dignified Countess of Renn picked up her skirts and swept past him, head held high as she fairly waltzed from the drawing room.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

11 April 1855

…I will tell you this, dear Marcus, because I love you, but I
beg you please never to mention it to anyone. I had a dream last
night in which you had returned to St. Austell to see me married.

But Miss Marsh was the bride, not I, and you were walking
down the aisle at Holy Trinity, with her as your new wife.

Mother was nowhere to be found, and in the distance I saw a
man without a face, staring at me, and you, and Mary. I felt
such hatred from him. I don’t think I’ve ever awakened from a
dream more frightened
…

H
olding her feathered hat on her head to keep it from blowing away in the brisk wind, Mary entered the cathedral doors at the back of Holy Trinity Church. For moments, as they slowly closed behind her, she allowed her eyes to adapt to the dimness within. Then after adjusting her skirts and brushing breeze-blown hair away from her face with her fingers, she straightened and stepped farther inside in search of Claudette Coswell.

The church, an unusual style for Cornwall, displayed finely sculpted figures on its tower. Mary found it lovely, but all too silent for the moment, damp and chilly. It wasn’t exactly the appropriate place for

her ensuing discussion, either, but she needed to get this done now.

She shivered, then rubbed her arms with her palms before beginning a walk down the aisle toward the altar, behind which she noticed the glow of one small lamp, the only light to be seen in the sanctuary itself.

She’d been told by the Coswells’ housekeeper that the vicar’s wife would be working with the organist for the remainder of the afternoon in preparation for Sunday’s Mass and that she could find her here. The organ remained silent, but as Mary made her way closer to the light, she detected the unmistakable sound of muffled voices.

Claudette must have heard her approach, for she suddenly peered out from behind the wooden pulpit, the light from the music lamp illuminating her spectacles. “Miss Marsh,” she said in genuine surprise,

“how delightful to see you. Are you looking for Niles?”

Mary realized they weren’t alone, as Claudette had to have been speaking to someone, probably Alice Mayweather, the organist, whose large bottom no doubt perched precariously on the edge of the cushioned organ bench. But she wasn’t here for gossip; she needed to get to the business at hand, spending as little time as possible on needless conversation.

She smiled as she approached. “No actually, I was looking for you.

Would you mind if we spoke alone for a few minutes?”

“Not at all,” Claudette replied as she stepped away from the organ, seemingly relieved to escape her duties.

Alice stood as well, peeking over the rim of the organ. “Good afternoon, Miss Marsh.”

She nodded once. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Mayweather. Please forgive the interruption. We won’t be but a minute.”

The woman stood staring, her wrinkled forehead denoting an intense interest, though she said nothing else. Mary turned as Claudette approached her, and together they began walking in the opposite direction, toward the doors she’d entered only moments before.

“Would you mind if we sat?” she asked as they neared the rear of the sanctuary.

Claudette motioned toward the last pew, squeezing her large body and wide skirts in after Mary, both of them sitting at once, angled toward each other.

It took her only seconds to gather her thoughts and begin. Folding her hands in her lap, she looked the woman squarely in the eye.

“I’d like to ask you something very personal, something about Christine Longfellow,” she said softly.

Claudette’s relaxed smile faded considerably as the meaning of the request took hold. She shook her head a fraction. “I’m not certain I can discuss this—”

Mary grasped the older woman’s hand with hers, effectively cutting her off. “It’s very important, Mrs. Coswell. You can be assured I’ll never reveal secrets to those who don’t need to know them. I simply want to help the Earl of Renn discover what he can about his sister’s last days, and I’m hoping you can tell me more.”

Although only a trace of light surrounded them, Mary recognized a shimmer of trepidation cross Claudette’s face. She quickly glanced at the altar, then behind her before gazing back into her eyes.

“This is not an appropriate place for such a discussion, Miss Marsh,”

she warned in a low, slightly wavering voice. “I’m sure you know that.”

Mary inhaled deeply, but didn’t let go of the woman’s hand.

“I do know. But we’re alone.”

Claudette’s eyes widened and she sat back minutely, swiftly understanding. They may be sitting in a building of God, but there were no men to judge, not even the vicar. No ladies to gossip. No scandal.

Claudette nodded again, this time with more conviction, then whispered, “I’m not aware of much, but I’ll try to help. What would you like to know?”

Mary sensed that she needed to time this perfectly, to question the woman without demands. Her approach would be crucial.

Quietly, she said, “I know Christine visited you only days before she died and that she was very distraught.”

The older woman frowned. “Yes.”

Mary had hoped for more than that, but she persisted. “She spoke to
you
, though, didn’t she? Not your husband in his capacity as vicar.”

Claudette sagged a little into the pew. “Yes, she wanted to speak only with me, a woman, regarding a—a delicate issue.”

“I understand,” Mary returned with conviction. Although she wasn’t cold, the dampness inside the church, the ominous darkness made her shiver again. Still, she restrained herself from commenting on it, or glancing around. She needed to remain focused. “Did she ask for your help or advice?”

Claudette paused for only a second or two before saying, “I told her the very best thing she could do was to discuss her unfortunate situation with her mother.”

Gwyneth knew
…

Mary swallowed. “And did she?”

Claudette clutched her hand, as if needing her, or giving her strength. Her skin appeared pale and waxy in the shadow, her expression tight with consternation as she bravely gazed into her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “If the earl had been here, I think she may have gone to him instead, regardless of his sex. She trusted him, more than her mother, I think. Always had. But then I don’t suppose he would have done anything. She still would have married the viscount.

This kind of thing… it happens frequently and their wedding wasn’t too far off.”

Mary felt like crying even as her heart began to race, but she tried not to show emotion, especially her eagerness to get to the truth—and her ultimate fears. Slowly, without rousing alarm, she whispered, “Did Christine explain to you how or where this… incident happened?”

Claudette squeezed her hands now, clearly agitated, tossing a swift peek toward the altar and the long organ pipes, in front of which sat Mrs. Mayweather, penciling notes in her music.

Mary remained motionless, waiting with more fright than hope.

Finally, the older woman lowered her head, shaking it sharply in denial. “It happened in a coach.”

Oh, God
… “A coach?”

Claudette took a deep breath but never looked up. “One night last April, I believe. She didn’t come to me until she realized she carried his child.” Claudette pushed her spectacles into the bridge of her nose with two fingers, holding them there. “She seemed so angry, so scared when I talked to her,” she added in a whisper. “I think—I think she had been unwilling.”

And that clarified everything.

Mary made a tiny sound in the back of her throat, feeling the tingle in her nose and cheeks that signified the coming of tears. She blinked quickly as her vision blurred but didn’t hold them back this time.

“There was nothing anyone could have done,” Mary said softly, more to herself, she suspected. Without a witness to rape, a woman is at fault.

Even if the coach driver had heard something suspicious, being employed by the viscount precluded any help he may have been to the authorities, should Christine have chosen to report the incident as a crime. Both Claudette and Christine knew this, which motivated them simply to hush it. Mary also fully understood the very narrow edge where coercion turned to force. How long had Christine denied the Viscount Exeter that night before giving in? Or did she never do so,

inciting him to take her by violence?

The image of the fear and loathing such a young and sheltered woman must have felt at the hands of her betrothed made Mary want to scream. Instead, she covered her mouth with her palm, squelching a sudden wave of nausea.

After a moment of silence, and a feeling of utter helplessness that passed unspoken between them, Mrs. Coswell sat up primly again, mustering strength as she at last pulled her hands back. She lifted them to her forehead, smoothing her hair back from her pale face as she regained her composure.

“Please understand this, Miss Marsh,” she muttered thoughtfully.

“My main concern at the time was to support Christine Longfellow while encouraging her to inform her mother, someone she trusted, of as much as she dared. Whether she did that, I don’t know, but it will forever be true that she took the breath of scandal to her grave.”

Mary understood nothing better than the avoidance of family disgrace. She had lived her life with just such concerns. But she also heeded the tactful warning as the vicar’s wife intended it.

“I will be very careful with this information, Mrs. Coswell, as you have been,” she asserted with her own hint of caution. “But you know the earl is here, in Cornwall, to discover just such truths about his sister.

He is a man who will know what to do.”

Claudette almost slumped in relief. Mary saw it in the lady’s bright and knowing eyes. Yet there still remained one final comment for her to make that would solidify an agreement between them of the gravest responsibility.

Mary eyed the woman directly, her gaze conveying her conviction. “I realize it isn’t your place to protect the ladies of Cornwall, Mrs. Coswell.

But one would hope that should the viscount again choose to marry, news of his violent nature will make its way into the drawing rooms of the socially naïve.”

Claudette frowned in confusion for a second or two. Then, very slowly, she lowered her lashes, nodding negligibly, understanding that to guard against another such incident, whispered gossip would have to be spread, and spread between ladies slowly and secretly. Wild pronouncements would never do. Nobody would believe them and, insane though it might be, the Viscount Exeter would, under such circumstances, find himself exonerated.

“I only hope her brother doesn’t kill him first,” Claudette whispered with not a trace of humor in her tone, and not caring in the least how inappropriate that sounded in a church.

Mary melted at the thought of telling Marcus. He would be devastated, enraged, but he had to know. It would explain so many things for him.

At last she stood, touching the older woman on the shoulder in a measure of comfort. “The confusion and hurt Christine must have felt in those final days had to have been enormous. I’m so very glad she had you to talk to. ”

Claudette patted her hand, offering her a fractured smile. “And I’m glad she had you as a friend, Miss Marsh.”

A friend would have known. A friend should have seen it.

Choking back fresh tears, Mary squeezed the lady’s shoulder once, then turned and made her way to the back of the church and out into the open air.

« ^ »

Baybridge House

22 April 1855

…Something has happened. I cannot go into it now, in this
letter, but I am so very worried about my future. Oh, Marcus, I
wish you were here! Miss Marsh’s friendship is a great comfort,
but I can’t tell her, or George. You’re the only one who would
know what to do…

S
he couldn’t tell him in bed. Not when he’d sneaked into her room to make love to her, to hold her in the early hours of the morning. She’d wanted to love him one last time, before the coming of the storm.
One
more day
.

Mary stood on the cliff overlooking the sea, uncaring that the strong wind blew her hair loose from the ribbon at her nape, that heavy clouds gathered overhead to darken the sky to a dull charcoal gray. One lone

boat drifted across the bay in the distance, tossed by the choppy ocean currents, a single lantern swaying. She stared at it, wondering at the solitude of those on board, a solitude she would soon feel again.

Although her family loved her and occupied her time, although she had satisfying and creative work to keep her busy, she would always be alone. She had seen to that, and couldn’t change her past transgressions. It had been her fault that she would die a spinster, and she had accepted her fate ten years ago. But now, after weeks in Cornwall, growing to know Marcus intimately in bed and out of it, her heart ached intensely when she thought of leaving him. She wished she knew what he was feeling, but she hadn’t dared ask him, and he hadn’t been forthcoming about it. Sharing feelings would serve no purpose.