In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

{Note to readers: the final chapter of this story will appear when it is finished, hopefully by early July.}

The first pink glow of the coming dawn began to lift the night shadows from the empty mill yard outside the Master’s bedchamber. The faint sound of clanking metal and hissing steam from the distant engine room penetrated the sleeping bride’s dreams as the solid form she was nestled against began to stir at the call of duty.

“Don’t,” Margaret called out in hazy desperation, clutching at her husband’s nightshirt to keep him close. “Stay with me a little longer,” she whispered softly into his chest, feeling a twinge of shame for her outburst. She could not bear his withdrawal yet from this perfect haven of peace. The wakening dread of another grieving day loomed ahead of her. The impending loneliness of the hours without him caused her to cling to him.

She was weary of the heaviness in her heart; she wished to stay in the safe comfort of his arms forever. Margaret traced her fingertips over the thin-clad chest in front of her, in fresh wonder of her privilege to touch him in such a way. The exuberance of their newly wedded bliss had been marred by tragedy, the natural joy of such an occasion cut short by affliction. He deserved so much more.

He had patiently borne the vicissitudes of this trial and had offered gentle comfort at every turn. A surge of profound love filled every fiber of her being and flowed out through her fingers as they continued their hesitant exploration of his strong form. She wished to give him all her tender affection.

His slowed breathing and perfect stillness gave her courage to touch the bare skin exposed below his neck. Then, with daring purpose, she stretched her neck to place two feather-light kisses along his throat.

The tightening grip at her back sent a sensual thrill coursing though every nerve. She ceased her gentle assault with pounding heart, the blush of sudden shame stilling her hands and keeping her eyes closed.

Seconds passed until he moved to bring his face to hers. She felt the touch of his lips and moved her own in loving accord.

The gentle fervency of his hesitant kisses turned every tired fiber in her body to tingling energy. She slid her arm around his neck and kissed him with more abandon to let him know she was in no fragile, untenable state. She wished to lose herself in the exaltation of love, to cast aside the shroud of mourning to know and feel what it was to be alive.

He groaned at her inviting response and rolled to trap her beneath him, kissing her with matching ardor until he remembered that only yesterday her mother had been put to her final rest. He tore his mouth from hers. “Are you certain this is what you wish?” he rasped, hovering over her with trembling longing to love her as he had not done in days, starved for that intimate bond of affection only so recently gained.

The light of love in her eyes took his breath away as she reached up to smooth his roughened jaw and curl a small hand possessively about his neck. She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes locked with his.

He let out a ragged breath before swooping down to crush his mouth to hers.

*****

The Master of Marlborough Mills strode through his factory with bristling energy. The muscles of his long legs slackened to be released from hours of desk-work. Now free from ledgers and accounts, his mind returned to those rapturous moments of fervent fusion in the day’s first light.

A pulsating thrill coursed through his veins as he remembered how she had clung to him, pulling him ever closer with a desperation for his touch that had torn at his heartstrings and urged him on to a feverous pitch of tender passion. He had loved her without restraint and she had wanted him – needed him – to take her to that place where only they two existed and the world was set right.

The knowledge that it was he, and he alone, that could give her such comfort gripped his heart with a fervor of wild emotion that blazed through every portion of his being, leaving him stunned at the notion that he should be what she was to him: the reason for everything he did. For now, every task he performed, every decision he made – small or great – and every endeavor for the future rebounded to her safekeeping and comfort. That he should be her happiness….

The image of her face, glowing with peaceful contentment in the aftermath of their ardent lovemaking, sent tremors of feeling to his very depths. In the midst of all her distress, he had been able to erase every trace of sorrow, if only for a moment. The way her eyes lit with tender adoration would be seared in his memory forever.

The mere thought of her filled the air around him with vibrancy of purpose and power. He felt that constant, aching desire to hold her….

“Master…Master!” The insistent call cut through his mental wanderings and he stopped to face his overseer, who looked aggravated in his endeavor.

“Yes?” Mr. Thornton returned, lifting his chin in authority as the clattering din of the factory continued around them.

“That man, Higgins, wants a word with you. Says he has important matters to discuss. Shall I tell him to meet you after hours?” Williams offered, hoping for a chance to berate the new mill worker for his impertinent intrusion upon the master’s time.

Mr. Thornton cast his eyes over the multitude of synchronized machines to meet Higgins’ inquiring gaze as he bent over his station. “No. I’ll speak to him,” he clipped, leaving Williams standing in the long aisle.

“I called out when yo’ passed, but yo’ head were elsewhere,” Higgins complained with a slight grin as the Master drew near.

A twinge of embarrassment flashed color into Mr. Thornton’s cheeks as he furrowed his brow in consternation.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the worker offered in low tones, believing he understood his employer’s distracted state.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve got some figures for yo’ and a host of questions I need fair answer to afore we set to anything,” Higgins announced, training an eye on the moving arm of the loom in front of him as he deftly continued to work his station.

“Meet me at noon tomorrow, then….I’ll provide the lunch,” the Master added as an afterthought, with a slight lift to one corner of his mouth.

Higgins grinned and nodded in acknowledgement. “How’s Miss Margaret?” he continued, his face returning to solemn consideration.

“She bears up well.”

“And the parson?” Higgins asked.

The Master discerned the worried gleam in the worker’s eye with a warm glow of appreciation for his genuine care for the aging vicar. “Not as well, I’m afraid,” he admitted, feeling strangely free to converse openly with this man.

“It’s a sore trial to lose your wife. I dun think the wound ever mends. I think on mine yet ever day, and it’s been these seven years,” Higgins related, maneuvering the loom in front of him all the while.

Mr. Thornton could only nod, absorbed as he was in how it could be that he had never considered the father of two daughters as a bereaved widow. He doubted he would ever look at Higgins in a callous manner again. And with these thoughts turning over in his mind, he strode away to continue his round through the mill.

*****

When the toil of the cotton mill had ceased and the masses had been freed until morning, Mr. Thornton followed straightaway the path to Crampton with an eagerness to see the one whose beguiling image had chased his thoughts all day.

He had taken only a few steps inside the house when she came rushing to greet him. Soft gleaming eyes told him of her own lonely longing. No words were needed as she willingly thrust herself into his waiting arms.

The anxiety of hours vanished as he felt the press of her form against his. She offered and he received sweet kisses of glad reception. Chaos might reign without but this touch of lips, this assurance of her affection, stilled all the restless rattlings of his soul and chased away the contumelies of existence.

Relaxing his hold on her, he looked into her eyes with wonder, his arms wrapped around her waist in possessive pleasure. She was here, swathed in the requisite clothes of this era – his very own goddess of love and delight. The memory of the morning’s bliss stirred his desire.  He pulled her close for one more kiss, staving off the urge to take her home at once.

Instead, he climbed the stairs to go to his grieving father-in-law whilst his wife stayed to sew in the parlor below.

Mr. Hale clung to these nighttime visits as a drowning man gropes for something solid to save him. The days he spent silently spinning doubts and flinging hard-wrought questions to the Divine, whom he was oft times more tempted to curse than praise. To his son-in-law’s patient ear, he delivered many of these doubts and fears, the dark and twisted knots of which seemed to unravel in the open discourse with one who was unmoved by the rough course of faith through the deep sea of grief. The younger man offered carefully reasoned words to steer the shipwreck back to chartered territory as one who has himself navigated such perilous waters.

Margaret remarked to her husband at the end of each of these long sequestered talks how much her father seemed altered for the better by his visits.

It was the third such evening, when Mr. Hale endeavored to apologize for keeping his daughter from her rightful home that John discerned the moment was ripe to lay bare the path intended for the widower’s future.

“Margaret does not wish for you to be alone,” Mr. Thornton gently explained.

“I’m certain I can manage. I have my books…” the old man returned, casting a blank gaze to the volumes on his desk.

“There is no need for you to keep a separate house. Marlborough Mills has many empty rooms at present. You could have your own study as well, to which you could bring your pupils.”

“I should not like to interfere…” Mr. Hale protested, shaking his head as his brow crumpled in doubt.

“It is not an interference to welcome family under my roof. It would please me very much to be able to take up our conversations most every evening. And surely, you must know Margaret would be very content to have you near,” John declared.

The older man fumbled with his fingers, rubbing and interlacing them in in dazed contemplation, his eyes vacantly trained upon this restless motion.

“You do not need to answer at present. But I hope you will consider it,” the son-in-law said softly.

More silence.

An image of the future’s promise appeared to John’s thoughts. He smiled at the possibility of the vision’s persuasive power and opened his mouth to share it. “I should like very much for you to be around to read to my children.”

Mr. Hale snapped his head around in questioning surprise.

John dropped his gaze for a moment as a rush of warmth gave a tint of color to his face. “Of course, there is no news at this time. But I expect it will not be long…” he stammered in a low voice.

“Of course,” his father-in-law echoed as he looked wonderingly about in wholly new contemplation. “Are you certain there are enough rooms?” he asked after several moments of pregnant silence, lifting a hesitant gaze up to his daughter’s husband.

*****

“He will come, then?” Margaret guessed eagerly from her husband’s triumphant smile as he descended the stairs.

“He has not given the precise word, but I feel certain it is settled,” he said, coming to where she stood and reaching out to draw her close.

She threw her arms around his neck, jumping into his embrace. “I knew I could trust you!” she breathed in joyous relief.

“I will take every opportunity to please you, for such reward,” he replied, only half in jest, unable to contain the broad smile that pulled up the corners of his mouth.

Ignoring his teasing remark, Margaret slackened her hold as a contingent concern came to mind. “What of Dixon?” she queried, gazing up to him with cautious hope.

“What of her?” he echoed, wishing the subject away.

“We must take her on as well.”

“Must we?” he returned with a pained expression.

She nodded, her eyes dancing at his affected protest.

“Then, I suppose she must come,” he conceded with a sigh of defeat. She tightened her grasp around his neck once more in beaming gratitude.

“Now, I believe I am sorely in need of reward for my magnanimity,” he announced with a devilish grin, his arms tightening about her waist.

A matching smile spread over her face as she stretched up to oblige him with a kiss.

Original Handcut Silhouette by Kathryn Flocken

Chapter Fifteen

Aloysius Bracknell studied the stately house on the Royal Mile, where Winifred Lansing had just been shown into. He had kept vigil in front of the George Inn from early that morning after he had assured himself that she had taken residence there, the previous night. To his contentment, her tall, broad-shouldered travelling companion had not taken rooms at the George Inn. Instead, he had said his farewells and left. Miss Lansing was on her own, and therefore better to keep under his thumb. Bracknell intended to be there when she came out of her solicitor’s office, and he vowed to learn everything about her inheritance. Then he would threaten her into marrying him and have his hands on that lovely money of hers.

However first, he needed to have some additional leverage. He knew where he could find that but had just to figure out how he could lay his hands on it. So he turned and began walking in the direction of Princess Gardens. He grinned when he saw that his bargaining piece had just come into his view at that exact moment.

“My dear Miss Lansing, it is my duty to inform you that the Earl of Trewarth is a long-standing client of mine. I also act on behalf of his grandson, Jasper Danvers. You should know that he came to see me last night and sought information about you. As soon as he told me of his marriage proposal to you, I thought it was my duty to enlighten him about your identity. Viscount Trewarth knows that you are his second cousin and that you stand to inherit your father’s fortune. However…”

And here, Mr Spencer, took Winifred’s hand in his.

“I have not divulged to him the volume of your inheritance, Miss Lansing since this would be a violation of my professional secrecy. On December 13^th of this year 1802, you will inherit a fortune of 500.000 American dollars, which amounts to 75.000 Pound Sterling.”

Winifred felt the blood drain from her face as the realisation dawned that she would be in possession of a veritable fortune. How unfortunate that she had not had that money to her disposal, just a few months earlier! She could have sought better medical care than what Dr Cavendish provided for her dying mother, and maybe even find a renowned London physician to try and cure Mama. It was too late now, and what was she to do with such an enormous amount of money?

“My child, are you well? You are as white as a sheet! I shall ring for tea, this instant!”

Mr Spencer darted to the bell pole while Winifred’s mind raced as she pondered over the shocking news, she had just been given.

“Mr Spencer, does Jasper know about my wealth? What did he say when he learnt I was family?”

“No, Miss Lansing, I have not told him the amount of your inheritance. It is none of his business. He was pleased with the knowledge that you two are related, I must say. He said it made you the perfect candidate for the title of Countess Trewarth.”

“Oh, did he? And why would that be?”

“Because of the conditions of his grandfather’s will, Miss Lansing. Has he told you about that?”

“Yes, he said he needed a bride of noble Scottish descent. Oh…”

Winifred’s eyes grew large. “Of course, I am all that, am I not?”

“Yes, Miss Lansing, you are.”

At that moment, the butler brought in the tea tray, and Winifred busied herself with pouring a cup

for the both of them. The fragrant beverage helped to restore her.

“Now,” Mr Spencer continued, “your father’s money is tied up in solid investments, from which you

will receive a yearly return on the first day of January. Furthermore, according to American

Inheritance laws, your money will be yours after your marriage. Not even an English husband could

lay his hands on that money without a specific marriage contract stipulation. Even if you were to

accept Viscount Trewarth’s hand in marriage, you will stay financially independent from your

husband.”

Winifred frowned, deep in thought. So she would be able to seek her own fate, to mould her own

future, and to stay free, if she wished to. Only…

She was no longer free, was she? Her heart had already been claimed.

“What exactly is in the Earl’s will that Jasper needs to accomplish if he wants to gain his title,

Mr Spencer?”

The elderly solicitor shook his head and smiled wanly at her.

“I cannot divulge that to you, child. If you feel the need to know, you must ask His Lordship the

Viscount Trewarth.”

Winifred nodded. “Yes, of course, Mr Spencer. I understand.” She rose, having the feeling that the

solicitor had finished. “I am staying at the George Inn,” she told him.

“Miss Lancing,” Mr Spencer said softly, “do not feel compelled to accept Viscount Trewarth’s

marriage offer unless you are entirely at ease with it. This is just the advice of an old man, my dear,

a father and a grandfather. I have several daughters and I know how beguilingly men can behave.”

“Thank you, Mr Spencer,” she replied. “I will take that advice and reflect on Jasper’s offer first.”

“You speak of him on a first name base, my dear. Have the two of you got deeply acquainted, then, during the journey?”

“We have, Mr Spencer. I have come to like Jasper Danvers yet I do not entirely trust him. I shall have a thorough conversation soon, and make up my mind.”

Mr Spencer stayed her when she was about to leave. “Miss Lansing, Viscount Trewarth is in the waiting room. He has asked to see you before you left. Would you consent in speaking with him at this very moment?”

Winifred hesitated, torn by suddenly conflicting emotions. Her heart leapt full of joy at the thought that Jasper was here, and eager to stay in contact with her, now that she knew where she stood. Her mind admonished her with the knowledge that Jasper had everything to gain by a marriage to her. He needed to persuade her, Winifred realised only too sharply. She had not yet given her consent.

As if he had guessed her thoughts, Mr Spencer continued, “You can also walk straight up to the front door and leave, child. The viscount will have to bend to your wish.”

In the waiting room next to the front door, Jasper was pacing like a caged lion. He needed to speak with Freddie, and urgently so. He was already late as it was and he wished to continue his journey north. Jasper’s presence was needed at Trewarth Castle.

Damnation! Why was Freddie stalling so long? Was she still mistrusting him, then?

He knew the answer to that. He had to present her with a better lure than the protection of the Trewarth name and he might just have the thing to win her over. If only she consented in having a proper conversation with him, blast it all!

That was when he heard the front door open and close. For just a moment, Jasper froze, realising Freddie was leaving. Then he hurried to the window and saw her cross the street. And then…

Bloody Hell!

Winifred crossed the almost deserted High Street, her mind reeling with what Mr Spencer had told her. She was wealthy and she could do what she wanted, as soon as she turned one-and-twenty in December. What did she want? What…

Her gaze focussed on the two figures that came strolling toward her, and her chest clogged with panic. Aloysius Bracknell had little Fiona’s hand in his and smiled wickedly at Winifred.

“Good day, Miss Lansing,” he drawled, picking up the little girl. He turned slightly, to show the point of his knife, poised against Fiona’s side. “Please, accompany me without making a fuss.”

Winifred’s gaze darted to Fiona, who sat on Bracknell’s arm, still as a statue, and with a white little face. Her beautiful blue eyes were as large as saucers, fear making them stare beyond Winnie.

“How…what…”

“Did the cat got your tongue, Freddie?” Bracknell sneered. “I figured I needed a strong incentive to convince you of the seriousness of my request to you. I want you to sign your inheritance over to me. Without this little beauty, you would never do that. Now, follow me over to that carriage over there.”

“Please, Mr Bracknell, there is no need to take the child…”

“Papa!” Fiona’s high-pitched voice rang clearly in the still winter air, and several people turned their heads at once. Winifred acted on an instinct she did not know she possessed. She snatched Fiona from Bracknell and ran. Her breath came in gasps, yet she did not seem to get enough air into her lungs. Her legs seemed wobbly. Her arms felt heavy and powerless. Her head was spinning and felt as if it would separate from her body.

Winifred sank to her knees and felt Fiona slip from her grasp. She became aware of the sounds of a brawl and focussed her eyes on the two male forms that were rolling – growling and tugging – in the snow on the pavement. Jasper! Thank God…

“Papa! Oh, Papa!”

It was Fiona’s voice that brought Winifred back to the matter at hand. She rose to her feet with extreme difficulty and dragged Fiona further aside and away from the fighting men. Still shivering from the shock of the event, she hugged the child close to her. Fiona was crying and sobbing out her father’s name, frantic with anxiety over his safety.

Jasper finished the fight with a grunt when he placed a hard uppercut on Bracknell’s jaw. The villain’s head snapped back and hit the stone wall behind it. Bracknell slid to the ground and was out. Jasper jumped to his feet, snatched Fiona from Winifred’s arm, and clutched her to his chest.

“My sweetling, are you hurt? Do you feel any pain? Oh, my darling, my baby…”

By now, a small circle of onlookers had formed, and one of them, a broad fellow in worker’s clothes stepped forward.

“ Dae yae be needin’ assistance, sir? I can bring ‘em tae th’ magistrate if yae like?”

Jasper nodded. “Yes, get him out of my sight, or I just might kill him!”

“Cooda kill’d ‘em mesself, the bastard! He wasa traein’ ta steal yer wee lassie, wan’he? Is the wee thing all right?”

Jasper looked closer at Fiona who was already smiling at him again. “Papa, I am fine! You were so brave, Papa! You saved me!” She threw her arms around Jasper’s neck, laughing.

Had he saved his little girl, Jasper asked himself. No, without Freddie’s reaction, he could have done nothing at all. Stupid, reckless Freddie. Rage coursed through him when he realised just how reckless she had been. Without a further thought, he whirled to where Freddie was standing, one hand against the wall, as though she wanted to steady herself.

“You…you thoughtless, reckless, hare-brained woman! You could have Fiona injured, do you know that? You should never have taken her from him, not with a knife pointed at her!”

Freddie was looking at him with large, luminous chocolate coloured eyed, and yet, Jasper registered, she was not seeing him. Her face was ghostly white, and she swayed a little as if reeling under his attack. Then Jasper saw the steady drop of bright, red blood, staining the snow at her feet, right before Freddie crumpled to the ground.

Winifred opened her eyes to a dark, unfamiliar room. Beside her bed sat a pretty young maid with auburn hair. She smiled at Winifred and said, “Oh, miss! Yae’re awake. I must go an’ tell the master. He’d be wanting ta be tol’ when yae wake up. Just yae lie doon an’ dunna move, right?”

The girl was out of the room before Winnie could ask where she was.

She was still numbed, her mind fuzzy and her body aching with a low, throbbing pain that seemed to concentrate in her right upper arm. She felt weak, lazy, and very, very tired. She closed her eyes again and drifted back into darkness.

A few minutes later, Jasper stood gazing down at the fragile figure in the large four-poster bed.

Mrs Dawkins had provided Freddie with one of her own voluminous cotton nightgowns, and it made Freddie appear a child in an adult’s attire. Her short dark hair lay spread around her face, emphasizing the heart-shaped vulnerability of it.

“I check’d fur fever, melord,” Mrs Dawkins whispered, stepping closer to pull Freddie’s blankets a little bit higher. “Miss Lansing hasna got one, and she’s sleeping peacefully. Best to leave her now, if yae please.”

Jasper nodded. “Would you please stay here, Mrs Dawkins? I want to ensure that Miss Lansing has the best of cares.”

“Aye, melord.”

He left the room and went to his study where he poured himself a stiff whisky. God Almighty, but what had Freddie put him through with her stubbornness! The disturbing events of that morning returned to his memory with renewed vigour. He had seen Freddie cross High Street, and darted after her because he could not fathom why she would not want to talk to him. By then, Bracknell had come into view, holding a petrified Fiona. How the devil had that come about?

Fiona had begged to go with him when he readied himself for the meeting at Spencer’s. Unable to refuse her he had consented, taking her and Moira who had been given the task of minding the child. They walked the short distance from his house to High Street and had to pass Princess Gardens, a large park, created along with New Town in the 1770’s, a result of the draining of Nor Loch. Fiona squealed with delight and pulled Moira’s sleeve to beg her for a walk in the gardens. Jasper had readily given his permission, and agreed to collect the pair on his return.

Bracknell must have kept an eye on both him and Freddie, Jasper realised. A sobbing Moira confirmed that a man dressed as a gentleman had approached them in the gardens. He had begun a conversation about Fiona being a lovely little thing, and Moira had not been alarmed. That was why she failed to see the fist coming at her, to knock her out. She had woken in a cluster of bushes, gagged and tied up on hands and feet.

A dark, throbbing rage rose in Jasper, tightening his throat with the recollection of it all.

That blackguard had threatened and scared his precious little girl. He deserved to be torn apart, limb for limb, and thrown to the dogs to be devoured. How good it had felt when Jasper hit the scoundrel, over and over again until he lay limp and unconscious in the snow.

Yet it was Freddie who had created the opportunity for Jasper to attack Bracknell. She had been the one who snatched Fiona from her abductor. Lord! How close Fiona had been to being stabbed, and Jasper still inwardly raged against Freddie for taking that immense risk! What if Bracknell had reacted and stabbed the child? Jasper could not imagine he could ever forgive Freddie if that had happened.

But it had not happened…Instead, it had been Freddie who received the blow.

And now, she was lying upstairs, injured, and fragile. She had lost so much blood. On his behalf. That realisation stung as hard as if it had been thrust by the same knife that injured Freddie!

Jasper asked the coach driver to take him and Fiona to the Royal Circus which was not even half a mile from George Street. The Royal Circus was a circular street, lined with stately Georgian houses. There was a small park in the middle. Danvers House sat at the corner of Circus Gardens and faced the park. It was built in grey sandstone and had four storeys. A small flight of steps led to the white front door.

“Why has Freddie not come with us, Papa?” Fiona asked when they alighted from the coach.

“Freddie has matters to see to on his own, sweetheart,” Jasper replied while he retrieved their bags from the coach guard.  “Papa will take care of you tonight.”

To Jasper’s astonishment, Fiona fell silent after that remark. Her little face screwed up in deep thought as if she had some difficult problem to solve. With a sigh, Jasper took his small daughter by the hand and ascended the steps. On his knock, the door was opened by a long, thin butler, whose solemn face relaxed in a happy smile, once he saw the pair.

“Master Jasper! We were not aware that you would come, sir, but I bid you a hearty welcome!”

Jasper felt a jolt of pleasure upon hearing the soft Scottish brogue the butler used. Yes, he was finally in back Scotland after almost eleven years. At least, that was something to rejoice over.

“Ah, Dawkins! You have not changed at all over the years, I see! This is my daughter, Miss Fiona Danvers. Fiona, this is Dawkins, our butler at Danvers House.”

“Welcome, Miss Fiona,” Dawkins said in a solemn voice and bowed. Fiona giggled in response and gave a clumsy curtsy.

“We came all the way from Newcastle today, Dawkins, so we are in serious need of sustenance and a bath. How large a staff do you have in residence at the moment?”

“Well, sir, there is Mrs Dawkins who acts as the housekeeper, and Mrs Palfray, the cook, and our daughter Moira, who is the upstairs maid. My son Fergus still works as the gardener and footman, and we have Kate, my wife’s niece who is the downstairs maid. The women do the cleaning between themselves, sir. Would that be adequate or shall I hire some additional staff?”

“Not for the moment, Dawkins, thank you. Just have Fergus bring up some hot water for Fiona’s bath and have Moira prepare two adjacent bedrooms for me and my daughter. We will have a light supper afterwards in the small dining room.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mrs Dawkins, a short, rotund, and motherly woman of middle years appeared in the hall as Jasper and Fiona were getting out of their coats. She was accompanied by a pretty girl with auburn hair and green eyes.

“Oh, what delight, sir! We knew you had a wee daughter and we were longing to see her! Hello, my pretty lass! I am Mrs Dawkins and this is my Moira. Come with me, my sweet. I am going to pamper you!”

Fiona followed the two women without the slightest hesitation leaving Jasper to stare after her in surprise.

“Do not worry, sir,” Dawkins chuckled. “My good wife adores children. She’ll take good care of the wee one.”

As Fiona was being bathed and given supper by Mrs Dawkins, Jasper had the leisure to have his bath and supper in heavenly solitude for the first time in days. He took his time reacquainting himself with his old rooms in Danvers House. He had not set foot here since he returned from Cambridge, he realised with a shock. He had spent many years of his boyhood in this house after the death of his mother. His father Alastair had sought refuge here from the relentless meddling of the Earl in an attempt to raise his son the way he wanted. All Jasper’s boyhood things, his books, mementoes, even his clothes from that time were still there. It almost felt like a home – but not quite …

Something was missing. Something that he could not quite name. He shoved the thought away and went to see how his daughter was faring in her new, unfamiliar surroundings.

Jasper made a point of reading Fiona a story from Jessie’s book after she was been put abed. When he was finished, Fiona meekly lay down to sleep.

“Papa, will Freddie go with us to Great-grandpapa?”

The despondence in her shaking voice made Jasper take his little daughter in his arms.

“No, my sweet. Freddie will soon go away from Edinburgh.”

Indeed, she would. She was not going to accept his offer of marriage, Jasper feared.

“I do not want Freddie to leave, Papa. Can you not stop her?”

Jasper blinked when he heard that casual remark. It was the second time that Fiona used the female pronoun. It seemed that his Fiona was even more astute than he had surmised all along. She spoke of Freddie as a ‘her’ although Jasper had never told Fiona about Freddie being female.

“No, my darling. I cannot stop her.”

Fiona began to sob against his chest, and Jasper had a hard time not to weep along with her.

Snow crunched under his feet when Jasper quickly covered the distance to the Royal Mile, the last stretch on Edinburg’s High Street leading straight to the castle. He was bound for Mr Spencer’s old townhouse where the lawyer’s office was also situated. The solicitor’s family had lived there for years, and the dwelling was passed on from father to eldest son, each time the previous owner died.

In the winter night, the streets were empty and icy cold, as a north wind heaped mounds of snow against the old facades.

Jasper tapped on Mr Spencer’s door around ten that night. He knew it was late but he wished to see his solicitor before Freddie would present herself, the next morning.

Freddie. Damn! Why the deuce had she not consented on staying at Danvers House? It had cost Jasper more than an hour to calm Fiona enough that she would finally fall asleep.

Arbuthnot, Mr Spencer’s long-time butler, opened the door, irritation etched in his aging features.

“Mr Spencer does not receive calls after seven, sir. I kindly suggest that you come back in the morning.”

Arbuthnot, however, did not recognize Jasper. The butler had not seen Jasper, since the young viscount had been twenty-one, when he came to Edinburgh with his father Alastair Danvers. It had been Jasper’s first and only visit to Mr Spencer, one that his father had insisted on, on gaining his majority. The butler most definitively had no idea as to whom Jasper was.

“I am Jasper Danvers, Viscount Trewarth,” he stated, “and I wish to talk with Mr Spencer about my inheritance. Please be so good to ask Mr Spencer if he could grant me a moment of his time.”

Arbuthnot unfroze for just a tiny bit and stepped back to let Jasper in.

“Please my lord, come in. If you would wait in the front parlour, I will ask my master.”

Jasper had barely to wait for a couple of minutes before he was led into Spencer’s study. The elderly man rose from his chair behind his desk with some difficulty, which reminded Jasper of the solicitor’s advanced age of sixty-two.

“Do not rise, Spencer. I am obliged that you would grant me a visit at this late hour.”

“You are welcome, my lord. Please have a seat.”

“Spencer, what is this business about my inheritance that my grandfather seems to have concocted lately?” Jasper began after he seated himself on the opposite side of the desk.

Mr Spencer shook his head in sad dismay. “Ah, my lord, you know the earl as well as I do. He can be demanding beyond reason and is now of the opinion that you should prove yourself worthy of becoming the next Earl of Trewarth. You must marry before February 14^th next. You must have a male heir before the same date the year after. It truly is as straightforward as that although I do not consider it easy for you to find a spouse in so short a time.”

“That is where you are wrong, my good fellow. I have met a most remarkable woman during my journey north and I believe you can enlighten me about whom she is. She is going to come to you tomorrow to find out about her family. I want to know about her family also. So please tell me all about Miss Winifred Preston.”

Spencer’s facial expression showed extreme embarrassment, Jasper realised. “The name is not at all unfamiliar to you?” he stated the obvious.

The solicitor coughed and replied, “With all due respect, my lord, but you must know that my profession requires the utmost discretion about my clients. Even if the name were familiar to me, I would not be at liberty to give you any details about it.”

Jasper considered this answer for a moment, granting that the man was only reasonable in referring to his professional pride. Yet he desperately needed to discover as much as possible about Freddie Preston, so he insisted further.

“Spencer, I appreciate your professionalism, I honestly do. But Miss Preston could just be what I need the most at this moment. She is in need of protection and she has an inheritance to collect. You are her solicitor, so you are legally bound to protect that. So kindly tell me about her. I can safely guarantee that you shall have my profound gratitude, once I come into the title. You have a son, I believe, who is due to follow in your footsteps when you retire?”

Mr Spencer knew which side his bread was buttered but he had doubts about what the viscount was demanding of him. Jasper knew this and let him ponder over the matter for a time. Finally, the solicitor sighed and said, “My lord, you must be mistaken about the name. I do not have a Miss Preston under my clientele.”

“Oh, come on, Spencer!” Jasper burst out, with a vehemence that reminded Mr Spencer of Jasper’s irate and formidable grandfather.

“I have your name from Miss Preston herself! I cannot be mistaken about you, my good man!” The viscount continued. “You clearly recognized the name so do not dally and give me the information I want.”

The solicitor wrung his hands in a way that stated his uncertainty yet in the end, he gave in.

“My lord, it was the given name of Winifred that struck a chord. However, to me she is known as Winifred Lansing. James Paul Preston was the name of her maternal grandfather.”

Suddenly, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Jasper’s mind upon hearing that name.

“Good Lord!” He breathed in surprise. “She is family!”

“Yes, sir,” Mr Spencer agreed, opening a desk drawer to show him a yellowed document. It was the Danvers family tree.

“As you can see, sir,” Mr Spencer went on, “she is your second cousin. Her mother was Rose Elizabeth Preston, daughter of James Paul Preston, who married Allison Clarissa Danvers. Allison is your grandfather’s sister, and she is now seventy-seven years old, and in good health. Miss Lansing’s father was an American by the name of Trevor Henry Lansing. He died in 1781, when his daughter was but a few days old. His entire fortune has been bequeathed to his only daughter, Miss Winifred. She will, however, not inherit until she is twenty-one, which is on December 13^th of this year 1802.”

A wide grin spread over the viscount’s face, Mr Spencer registered.

“Do you realise, Spencer, how utterly suitable Miss Winifred Lansing is in becoming the next Countess of Trewarth?”

“Yes, my lord, I do. She is – at least, partly – Scottish and she is of noble descent. Your grandfather cannot be opposed to a marriage as all his demands are met with.”

“Exactly. Yet there is one little snag. Miss Preston – or rather, Miss Lansing has yet to be convinced of marrying me.”

“Am I to understand that you already proposed marriage to her, my lord?”

Mr Spencer showed every ounce of stunned surprise he must be feeling. It made Jasper realise even more acutely than before how rashly he had acted in his dealings with Freddie.

“I have,” he answered curtly.

Mr Spencer sighed heavily. “With all due respect, my lord, that was unwise. There is a lot more about Miss Lansing’s inheritance than meets the eye. I cannot tell you about the stipulations of the late Trevor Lansing’s will because it would be an utter breach of professional secrecy and a criminal act. I am already compromising my professional integrity as it is by telling you anything at all. So forgive me, my lord, if I bid you to leave me. Goodnight.”

On the morning of the fifth day after she left London, Winifred donned the dress and bonnet, she had brought with her for the purpose and went to Mr Spencer’s office in the Royal Mile. Snow had fallen abundantly during the night, and the skies were still heavily overcast, predicting more snow later in the day. It was cold in the freezing north wind that flogged the streets, and Winifred was grateful that she had also donned the woollen greatcoat she had worn during the trip. To her relief, Bracknell was nowhere to be seen. However, it would be foolish of her to assume that he was no longer interested in her. He was just biding his time, Winnie knew.

Mr Spencer turned out to be a gentle, elderly man who treated Winifred as he would a granddaughter.

“Come in, my dear. I am very pleased to meet Mr Lansing’s daughter after all this time. I knew your father well, my child. He was a kind, trustworthy man and he would have been the best of fathers, had that unfortunate carriage accident not occurred all these years ago. May I offer you my deepest sympathy and condolences on the death of your dear Mama? I have known her from birth, my child, and I am extremely saddened by her untimely demise.”

The warm, fatherly tone of his words made Winnie’s eyes sting with tears she rapidly blinked away. “Thank you, Mr Spencer, I am most obliged. You cannot know how fervently I wish to know about my family. My mother never spoke of them, so I hope you can fill me in. I know almost nothing. Where do I come from? Where does my family live?”

Mr Spencer led Winifred to a chair in front of his enormous desk, then opened its top drawer and retrieved a document from it. It had a black leather cover and protected a  parchment yellowed with age. Winifred took it and skimmed the content. It was a genealogical tree, bearing the title Genealogy of the Trewarth Family.

“Now, my dear, as you can see, your name is on the right at the bottom. Your mother Rose and your father Trevor Lansing are right above your name. Follow your mother’s line all the way up. Here is your maternal grandmother Allison Clarissa Danvers, who was married to the Englishman James Paul Preston. She is now seventy-seven years old and still lives at her estate of Preston House in Dundeary, Inverness Shire. Look to the left now and read the name of her brother.”

Winifred’s throat tightened when she proceeded. Douglas Bruce Danvers, Earl of Trewarth.

“That is…That would be…Jasper’s grandfather, would it not?”

“Yes, child. You and Jasper Danvers are second cousins.”

In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

John opened his eyes to the filtered light of a gray dawn, conscious at once that this was his one morning of leisure. He stretched his neck and placed the gentlest of kisses on the forehead of the sleeper beside him before carefully climbing out of bed. It was no easy task to leave the shared sanctuary of this new intimacy. Sheer force of will, dutiful habit, and the niggling fear of overwhelming her with his need compelled him to quit the place that was for him the longed-for respite and reward from all the strivings of his days.

A floor board creaked as he crossed the chilly room to start a fire. The rustling sounds of his movement broke the spell of silence that kept the dreamer asleep. John stepped nearer to the stirring body under the covers and watched, transfixed, as Margaret drowsily raised herself to sit, the long curls of her hair falling in disarray around her.

“Good morning,” he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice wavering in the unadulterated joy of being the one to witness such moments.

She answered with a faint humming noise as she brought her hands to her face to wipe the tiredness from her eyes and then blinked to take in her surroundings.

A smile flashed on his face and then faded as he observed the dawning recognition of her waking reality – newly married bride, bereaved daughter, and worried sister – passed over her features. How much he wished he could abolish the suffering he saw settle into her eyes!

“It’s Sunday,” she muttered, hearing no sound from the mill outside and surprised somewhat at this small revelation. The days and nights since their return had passed in a blur.

“Yes,” he answered with an inward sigh. For weeks, he had imagined the incomparable satisfaction of having Margaret seated at his side at the church his family had attended for years. At this moment, he fervently wished this trial of grief swept away so that they might continue to enjoy all the new and simple delights of their conjoined lives.

“We will return to your father’s house after we breakfast,” he assured her, sitting down on the bed beside her. He reached out to take her face into his broad hand and passed his thumb gently over her cheek as he searched the traces of sadness in her face. Avoiding the temptation of pressing his lips to hers, he pulled the soft curves of her feminine form against his firm chest. The scent of her filled his being as his stubbled cheek and chin tangled blissfully in her hair. He longed to hold time captive and keep her in his embrace until all pain of sorrow melted away.

After a time, he took a determined breath and with all his strength of will released her and stood from the bed to continue to dress and allow her to do the same. He walked to the porcelain basin where razor and towel where laid out for his use. He would be satisfied and grateful, he resolved as he began his shaving ritual, to accompany her this day. They would face whatever trials lay ahead together.

*****

Frederick was glad for his sister and brother-in-law’s company, for it was apparent that the visitor from Spain strained to be released from the confinement of this cold and dark house in which he was prisoner.

All were unnerved by the restless to and fro motions of Mr. Hale, who seemed divided in his desire to spend the last reaming hours with his living son or to sit with the prostrate form of his wife, who would soon be taken from sight forever.

Dinner was somber, for everyone knew that this was the last time the remaining family would be gathered together on English soil. Frederick assayed to remark on the hospitable climate of Cadiz and its seaside beauty. A broad invitation to visit him once he had married procured little more than a glance from his father and a polite smile from his sister.

At last, the hour of parting came. Mr. Thornton announced the arrival of the cab in an effort to quell the tension rising in his breast as much as to avoid the pain of any prolonged good-byes. He hurried both of them into the small coach and took a breath of relief to spend the next few minutes safely confined from public view.

The Milton magistrate’s eyes darted about uneasily as he stepped out into the night air with his fugitive relation. He directed his charge to go and wait in the shadows of the platform while he procured his ticket.

“Mr. Thornton!” The middle-aged station-master snapped to eager attention in the presence of the powerful mill owner. “It was well-played to have brought those Irish through here a few months back. That did the strike in, didn’t it?” he chattered, having no particular interest in either side of the matter, but taking great pleasure in accounting himself quite clever to converse with such a well-known citizen.

“Yes,” Mr. Thornton answered mechanically, casting a furtive glance in Frederick’s direction. His face was downturned, blending well into the dark oblivion far from the gas-lit lamps.

The magistrate turned his face at the same instant the fugitive snapped his head in restless impulse toward the station, allowing a faint beam of gaslight to illuminate his features for one crucial second as an unknown form approached from the booking-office.

“You’ve got married very recently. Congratulations to you, Sir,” the station employee continued, satisfied to have remembered this tidbit of news as well.

“Thank you,” the Master muttered, impatiently watching the station employee gather the correct change and required ticket.

“Here you are,” the uniformed man declared with a friendly smile, handing the Milton cotton manufacturer his due.

Mr. Thornton gave a swift nod and swung around to glimpse a scene yards away that made his blood run cold: Frederick jerking his arm from the menacing grasp of a man in the shadowy darkness.

A terror he had never known before shot through him at the sight of this unraveling nightmare. Time was suspended in the lapse of helpless heartbeats as he raced to halt the ensuing scuffle.

“Get away from him!” John snarled, thrusting the aggressor away with wild violence.

The stranger’s eyes widened as he staggered backward, flailing his arms in vain as he pitched over the platform’s edge to the soft ground below.

Only now did the combatants hear and feel the rumble of the approaching train, coming from the other side of the platform. The cyclops of steel thundered into the station and announced its arrival with a fulminating hiss.

“That was Leonards,” Frederick sputtered, his heart still racing from the terrifying encounter.

John nodded in strained coherence at this fantastical coincidence. His own pulse pounded in his ears. Grateful to find the ticket still in his grasp, he thrust it into his brother-in-law’s hands with the admonition, “Go!”

Frederick grasped John’s hand with both of his, the anxiety of longing expressed in his face. “You will take care of my family. I am thankful to you, my brother,” he avowed.

“Godspeed,” John returned, clasping his free hand over Frederick’s as one last glance of mutual approbation passed between them. The traveler snatched his bag from the ground and hurried to board the train.

The magistrate cast a wary glance behind him and stood watch until the train, with its smuggled human cargo, chugged away into the night. With only a breath of relief to have averted the unthinkable, he turned with a fresh swarm of fear at the consequences of the incident which had passed with lightning horror only minutes ago.

Stepping toward the platform’s edge with heightened trepidation, he peered over to find the perpetrator, a gangly drunk clothed in the garb of a railway porter. The remembered whiff of gin now caused the Master to grimace in disgust. A low groan came from the inert, crumpled form below before his head lolled to one side and he began to come to life.

John’s heart battered wildly beneath his ribs as he rushed to tell the station-master of the injured man. “You will please look after one of your porters. He took a fall off the platform after accosting a passenger. He smells strongly of gin,” he managed to explain with a forced air of calm authority while his arms and limbs trembled uncontrollably.

“Of course, Sir! I’m sorry, Sir…shall I call the police?” the station-master asked in flustered obedience.

“No! The gentleman has departed and I must be away,” Mr. Thornton replied as he sped to return to the cab awaiting his return.

Once inside, he slumped against the leather cushion in the black privacy of the small compartment. His mind whirled in countless directions until it rested upon two points: Frederick would be safely out of the country in a matter of hours, and any babbling about a mutineer from a drunken sot would stand as nothing against his own word. His pulse resumed a more normal pace and the tension slackened from his tightened muscles. Resolved to make no mention of the frightful encounter at the station, Mr. Thornton had gained the better part of his solid composure by the time the cab pulled up to the Crampton house.

Margaret noted the tension that tinged his reply to her welcoming inquiry, but supposed it was only begotten of the questionable nature of his accomplished mission. She bowed her head with a trace of shame and a swell of meek gratitude that he had sacrificed his position and principles to safeguard her brother.

*****

The day of the funeral arrived. No sunlight pierced the murky clouds above the bustling town as a black-plumed carriage from Marlborough Mills jostled over cobbled streets toward Crampton. Unable to bear being abandoned in the barren spaciousness of her new home, Margaret accompanied her husband in her best black crape, determined to offer her father her aid as far as it was required.

Mr. Hale moved in a haze of helpless despair under Margaret’s fluttering attentions. A gentle entreaty from Mr. Thornton, stating that the hour had come, seemed to penetrate the mist of self-inflicted suffering. The former vicar’s eyes rose to follow the calm behest of his son-in-law. The older man leaned on the arm of the younger, as John led him to the waiting carriage.

Margaret watched them leave partly in relief but with a whisper of discontent to be banished by custom from the ceremony that would be the last acknowledgement of her mother’s brief part in this earthly existence. Nevermore would she see her mother’s face. All alone in the quiet parlor, she sank to her knees and covered her face with her hands as she allowed the flow of tears, so bravely withheld, to come freely.

Between the anchoring support of his new son-in-law and his old Oxford friend, Mr. Hale endured the ritual proceedings, softly muttering the vicar’s lines in time, the cadence of words giving meager comfort even if their import rose beyond the grasp of desperate grief at the moment of this official sundering.

Margaret was dry-eyed and composed when the mourners returned. Standing in the window with her Bible in hand, she set it aside to go to the door.

With Mr. Bell on one side, and her husband on the other, her father was guided into the house by his loyal friends. The internment of his wife had stricken him nearly blind with grief and he now tottered between the stronger men as some frail old man. Margaret’s face paled to witness it.

With glances of worried thanks given to his helpers, she kissed her father and led him to his easy chair, forthwith busying herself preparing refreshments.

When all had eaten, very little having passed through Mr. Hale’s lips, he expressed his desire to retreat to his chambers.

“Why don’t you go home,” Mr. Bell proposed to the careworn daughter, when her father had disappeared up the stairs. “I will stay here as long as necessary. Do not overburden yourself today, my dear,” he finished, receiving a grateful glance from the newly married husband.

A knot of sadness pulled tight and heavy in Margaret’s stomach as their carriage returned to Marlborough Mills. Torn between caring for father and husband, she felt an oppressive futility in rising to fulfill the role of serving either with the wholehearted devotion she desired to give. She swallowed to fend off the tears of despair that sprang to her eyes.

John escorted her into the drawing room, where Fanny and his mother offered their appropriate condolences to Margaret. Aggrieved that duty called him to leave her in her suffering state, he explained to his wife in his most tender voice that he must tend to a few things at the mill and would return as soon as he was able.

The new wife nodded her compliance, reluctant to let him go, but knowing all the while the burdens of his obligations. Ever gentle with her, he had patiently born the weight of compounded responsibility for days. How could she object to his faithful accomplishment of every task? Loneliness wrapped around her like a shroud as soon as the echo of his footsteps faded away.

When he returned later to the same room, his wife was not in the room. “Where is Margaret?” he asked with an anxious tone that pricked his mother with annoyance.

“She has just gone to her sitting room. She wished to write to her cousin in London, I believe,” Hannah answered pointedly, letting him know the girl had not been abandoned by his family. Indeed, he would never know what a trial it had been to keep company with the grieving girl for the hour or so he had been gone. When to speak, what to say, how to keep her engaged and yet give her time alone with her thoughts? All of these concerns had become a hard-worn chore for the normally taciturn matriarch. All her efforts were unmarked by him, she supposed as he rounded past her with a scant acknowledging word before he made haste to his bride.

The door to Margaret’s sitting room was ajar. He spoke her name as he pushed it gently open and entered the room where pink and mauve flowers blossomed on the walls in patterned profusion and green carpeting imitated the lushness of a garden setting. Elegantly wrapped wedding packages of various sizes were arranged in piles by the walnut secretary. But there was no occupant in the expected seat.

His heart leapt as he saw standing as still as a statue, head bowed, in the middle of the room. “Margaret!” his whispered in panicked concern, sweeping to her side to discover her cheeks wet with tears. “Margaret,” he said again, this time in comforting tenderness as he wrapped his arms around her. She melted, sobbing, into his embrace.

He cursed himself for leaving her, damning all the obligations that would keep him from tending to this one precious object of his life. “What is it?” he asked with helpless gentleness, feeling a fool for knowing, in part, the answer.

Margaret swallowed her sobs and took a long breath to make some reply. The sight of the neatly stacked gifts had reminded her of her mother’s smiling image outside the church only days ago. “She was so happy,” she endeavored to explain.

“At our wedding?” he guessed. She nodded.

“She was…..was it not right that she should be?” he asked, softly imploring.

“Yes,” she answered.

“I am sorry. Can you ever think of it with some measure of content – knowing she was happy in those last days?”

“Yes, but it is so hard…”

“I know, I know,” he soothed, caressing her back with his hands.

“And father…” she began.

“You are troubled to leave him alone,” he responded. “He must come live here…with us.”

She raised astonished eyes to his. “Are you in earnest?” she breathed, incredulous that he should propose a solution she had scarcely dared to divine herself. “Your mother….” She shook her head in doubt.

“My mother will accommodate my wishes. It is my…our house. We are free to choose the occupants. There are several empty rooms. He may have a study as well to keep his privacy and to meet with pupils.”

The oppressive weight of silent anxiety lifted at his words. He was in earnest, and had thought it all through! Fresh tears formed in her eyes as her heart swelled with love for the man she had married. She relaxed further in his hold even as doubts began to gather again in her mind. “He will not wish to be an inconvenience.…”

“Do you think I have befriended your father this long and do not yet know him?” he returned with a cajoling smile. “I will convince him that he does us a great kindness to come here. I shall enjoy taking up the classics with him – every night, if we so choose. And you shall not need to divide your time between your former home and Marlborough Mills. It will be a great comfort to have him near, will it not?”

“Yes….yes, of course,” she replied with brightening face.

“It is settled, then. Will you trust me to talk to him about it?” he asked, a glimmer of uncertainty remaining in his voice.

She nodded, assuring him with a smile, as she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and rest her head against him in gratitude and relief. He clasped her close.

The brief moment of conjugal felicity, a ray of sunshine in the gloom, was interrupted by a steady voice.

“You must excuse my intrusion, but there is a police-inspector come to the house who asks for John,” Hannah Thornton announced summarily as she stood in the open doorway. Her eyes flickered with caution to her son.

John’s muscles froze as he recalled the night of Frederick’s harrowing escape.

He loosened his grasp around his wife’s waist. “I am called as magistrate. I will return as soon as I am able,” he explained to her with forced calm. He let his hand drop at her acquiescence and turned to go.

He moved swiftly through the house. His pulse beat a tempo of warning as a frantic chain of questions chased through his thoughts. Had Leonards spoken the fugitive’s name? Had Frederick been somehow apprehended? Mr. Thornton struggled to conquer his rising panic and resolved to meet any circumstance with firm trust that the highest justice would prevail.

He stepped outside the main doors to find a small man in police uniform who had once been a packer in his warehouse.

“I’m sorry to bother you at such a time…” the waiting visitor began.

“Mason, isn’t it? How can I help you?” Mr. Thornton interrupted, taking command of the situation at once.

“I would have come another time, but I need a statement from you to close a case. You see, it involves the death of a man and I must be careful to know all,” Mason confided to the Milton magistrate who had first commended him to police work.

An electric tingle of fear charged though Mr. Thornton’s every nerve at the annunciation of death. Cold, stabbing terror demanded he know what had happened. “Who is dead?” he asked, his breath quickening in impatience.

“The railway porter that you reported to the station-master on the night of the fourth — the name is Leonards,” Mason responded, consulting his notes.

Mr. Thornton let out a breath of relief that Frederick was unnamed, but felt prickles of remorse that he should have caused the death of any man. “I saw him move…I did not think him hurt so badly….”

“Indeed, the station-manager says he got up and clamored in some drunken rampage for money to catch another train. He was sent away by all, of course. He was found, badly ailing, along a footpath the next day and was carried to the infirmary where he died shortly thereafter,” the police-inspector explained.

“Did he say anything? I don’t understand…Was there an autopsy?” the Master questioned, straining to keep his voice from betraying the anxious confusion that roiled beneath his outward calm.

“He spoke incoherently of Navy ships and men from his past – the unintelligible mutterings of the dying, I suppose. The coroner found a liver ailment – in an advanced stage that would have taken him ere long. But the fall he took hastened his death. This is why, you understand, I had to come and get your account of the incident. You saw him take the fall?”

Mr. Thornton took a long breath and cast his gaze downward as he solemnly concentrated on the facts he should reveal. “I accompanied an associate, a stranger to Milton, to the station that night. I directed him to wait at the platform while I procured his ticket. When I had done so, I turned to see this Leonards assailing my friend. I was, naturally, very alarmed. I ran to stop this attack, pushing the porter away from my friend. I did so with some force. Leonards staggered back and lost his footing. He fell off the platform onto the cinder path below, opposite the arriving train. I hastened my friend to his train as it was the last of the evening, I believe. When he had safely gone, I looked to see if the porter was injured. He appeared to be recovering. I did not think him badly hurt, so I told the station-master of his errant employee and made my way home.”

“His fall was an accident, then, sustained from your attempt to ward him off as an attacker.”

“Yes,” the Master hasted to confirm, his nerves tensing as his eye caught the movement of a figure crossing the empty mill yard. His breath released at the recognition of one of his clerks. The mill owner nodded briefly at the passing employee.

“By all other accounts, he was drunk and looking for money. Was this your impression also?” Mason inquired.

“Yes. There is no doubt he had been drinking,” Mr. Thornton confirmed.

Mason looked up to the Milton magistrate. “Thank you for your time, Sir. I consider this case closed. It was an unfortunate incident for all concerned. I hope your friend was not troubled too greatly. Once again, I’m sorry to have interrupted you at such a time…”

“Not at all, it was your duty,” Mr. Thornton returned, feeling the tension relax in his shoulders.

The uniformed man’s mouth curved into an admiring smile. “May I wish you congratulations on your marriage, Sir? I wish you very happy…despite the lady’s recent sorrows,” Mason added with a measure of solemnity.

“Thank you,” the newly married man answered with a softening smile that swept away the crease on his brow.

Mr. Thornton had kept silent concerning Frederick’s narrow escape from the train station. Margaret carried enough burdens of sorrow and worry. He would not add to her store. She was told only that the police had come in connection with the death of Jane’s betrothed, which accounted for the servant’s pitiful wailing in the upper chambers.

Margaret brushed the waves of her long chestnut hair in the lamp-lit quiet of the great bedroom that evening as the Master prepared for bed. The weight of tension and grief lifted with the unfastening and removal of the binding clothes that defined him to the world beyond these walls. His heart beat strongly in anticipation of doffing all pretense of unyielding power and confidence to meet his wife under the bedcovers simply as a man in need of the love that seemed to pour forth from her gentle being.

Only a handful of nights, each one of them unspeakably precious, had passed wherein they had shared a bed as husband and wife. Tonight, after such trying ordeals as this day had brought, he would find peaceful bliss merely to hold her body close to his.

She shed no tears this time as she nestled her head to his chest, finding her rightful resting place in the safety of his embrace. He stroked her hair and let his lips caress its silken softness. He did not know who derived the greater comfort from this loving contact: the mourner or the comforter. But he knew without a doubt that he would endure any hardship, suffer any agony of tribulation required to hold her in his arms at the close of every day.

Original Handcut silhouette by Kathryn Flocken

Chapter Thirteen

Jasper approached Freddie when she rose from Fiona’s bedside. He placed a hand on her arm and tried to capture her gaze, which was not easy. She was out of sorts with him and she let it be shown.

“Thank you for caring for my little girl, Freddie,” he softly said.

Freddie looked up at him, her eyes hooded. She did not reply, however.

“Moreover, thank you for speaking out for me against that nosy vicar. I could almost hear the nasty thoughts in his suspicious mind.”

“Nasty thoughts? I do not understand,” Freddie frowned. “I was only striving to keep you calm. You seemed extremely angry.”

“I was indeed angry. Furious, even. He suspected us of having an affair that is not only unorthodox, but one that is also considered a crime, dear girl. He thought we were sodomites.”

Freddie’s face shot crimson, and she covered it with trembling hands. “Oh good grief! Oh…”

Jasper quickly took her hands away, squeezed them gently, and spoke urgently, “That is why we must have a serious conversation, Freddie. Will you please have supper with me at the downstairs private dining room?”

Freddie drew her hands from his, then grasped the back of the chair she had been sitting on as if to steady herself. She nodded. “Very well…”

Uncertain of what she was to expect next, Winifred washed and donned her clothes. She chose her last fresh shirt from her portmanteau and tied her cravat with special care. She must look her best, she knew, because these male clothes were her armour against the world – and against Jasper. She carefully brushed her hair until it shone and then tied it in a tail using a black silk ribbon. If anything, Winnie hoped that would steel her for the encounter she dreaded.

What Jasper had said before he went downstairs had shocked Winnie to the core. Was that what people were thinking when they saw a grown man accompanied by what they thought to be a younger one? It was appalling!

The landlord pointed her to one of the smaller private dining rooms that lined one side of the large entrance hall. It was a pleasant room with jade green walls and a tiny Adam fireplace in which a fire roared. Jasper rose from the single table before the hearth when she entered.

“Thank you for joining me,” he said while he drew back her chair. He seated himself opposite her and smiled. Winnie did not return that smile. She did not feel like smiling.

A maid brought the soup and served them, then bobbed and left. Winifred began concentrating on picking up her spoon. She felt awkward and ill at ease.

“Freddie, I must ask for your forgiveness,” Jasper began. The subdued tone of his voice made Winnie raise her eyes at him. She was still unable to relax but to Jasper’s relief, she was listening.

“My behaviour was not that of a gentleman when I forgot my manners last night. I hope you will still try considering marriage to me, Freddie. I promise you I will never again force my attentions on you without your consent.”

“I shall box your ears when you do, Jasper,” Winifred answered, forcing her voice into an evenness she did not feel. “I have been brought up in a respectable household albeit it a modest one. My mother came from a wealthy family and was raised as a lady. She taught me how to behave like one. I should hate it when a gentleman thought otherwise.”

“I take up full responsibility for what happened, Freddie. I should have realised you were distraught by what that blackguard did to you. To my shame, I did not even inquired about the consequences of your ordeal.”

“Of course, I was shocked when Bracknell attacked me. And frightened, too. He was vicious, and I could not defend myself. I was completely helpless and I hated it.”

That was his opening, Jasper thought. He grasped Freddie’s hand. “That is why it is of the utmost importance that you should indeed marry me, Freddie. As my countess, you would be utterly protected not only from the Bracknells of this world but also from idiots like that clergyman we met. I promise to shield you from whatever unpleasantness that crosses your path.”

Winifred inwardly jumped at the term ‘countess’ and realised that she had not yet grasped the rank Jasper held. He was destined to be an earl, for goodness’ sake! And he had proposed to her, little, plain Winifred. There was a question that instantly sprang forward, though.

“What will happen to me once we are married, Jasper?”

“What do you mean, Freddie? You will be the Countess of Trewarth, obviously!”

“Yes, but what will be my task, my purpose in life? How will I spend my days?”

Now Jasper looked puzzled but he kept smiling, warm blue fire in his beautiful eyes. He was still pressing her hand. The warmth of his touch reached all the way through her entire body, and Winifred swallowed to overcome the sharp pang of desire.

“Hopefully,” Jasper said, a soft, glowing light in his eyes, “you will be a mother to my little Fiona and be at my side when I need to exercise my duties as the Earl of Trewarth. Maybe – no, hopefully – we will have a little one of our own. Do you not think that will keep you sufficiently occupied?”

Winifred closed her eyes, savouring the part about a child of their own. How she would love that. How she longed to have a child from the man she had come to … Oh, dear God. Awareness and panic, and illogically also joy washed over her as she realised she was in love with this man. She seemed to have lost her heart in just three days to this stranger of a man. She was doomed. He had not said a single word to her that even remotely spoke of love.

“Freddie, deuce it! You are suddenly white as a sheet! What is the matter?”

Winifred pulled herself out of the haze she was in and quickly replied, “I am well, Jasper, but tired. This long journey is rather exhausting.”

To her relief, Winnie saw that the maid was bringing in the second course. It was a dish of chicken and vegetables, accompanied by a side dish of roast potatoes. She waited until Jasper had poured her a glass of the inn’s renowned ale to look him in the face again.

“You have not yet given me an answer, Freddie,” Jasper said, a plea in his eyes. “Will you accept my hand in marriage?”

To her own astonishment, Winifred was fighting back sharply prickling tears. She lowered her head toward her plate. Jasper must not see her confusion, she told herself.

“I will give you my answer after I have spoken with Mr Spencer in Edinburgh, Jasper,” she quietly replied.

Jasper inwardly cursed. It was a sensible answer but not the one he had hoped for. She still distrusted him, and frankly he could not blame Freddie. How would he be able to instigate trust into her again? And to boot it all, they were sharing a room. He would be tempted beyond reason, knowing she slept but a few feet away from him albeit it in separate beds. Damn! How was it possible he felt so attracted to her? He was experienced enough in matters of the flesh. He should be able to quell his desire for her.

When they mounted upstairs after their meal, Jasper moved the screen from the bathtub to Freddie’s side of the room so that her cot was shielded from his view. He was rewarded by a grateful smile and he rejoiced in it.

The last day of the journey would be the longest one as the planned road covered vast stretches of inhabited country. Once the coach crossed the Scottish border – some fifty miles from Newcastle – their first stop would be in Jedburgh. It would take them seven hours to reach it so the coach left at five in the morning. Jasper was thankful yet again for his decision to make the journey stretch over several days. It was hard enough on his little Fiona as it was.

It had started snowing during the night, but the flakes were thin and they did not stick. It was, however, bitterly cold so the three passengers were huddled together under the blankets with hot stones to keep them a trifle warm. As usual, little Fiona was asleep in Jasper’s arm due to the early hour of their departure. The warm, cosy feeling of his small child comforted Jasper like nothing ever could.

After a while, he risked a glance at Freddie who sat peering into the darkness beyond the coach windows. The night had been quiet. Fiona – for the first time since they had started their journey – had slept without a hitch until it had been time to rise.

“I hope you will consent to being my guest once we reach Edinburgh, Freddie” Jasper proffered, voice even.

Brows drawn in surprise, Freddie turned her head. “Your guest?”

“Yes, there is no need for an inn. The Earl keeps a small town house on the Royal Circus. There is a small staff in attendance for when he decides to come down south. Although the servants have not been notified of my arrival, I am certain they will be up to snuff to receive us in the proper way. It will be good for Fiona to live in a normal household for a few days. I intend to hire a nanny for her in Edinburgh.”

The idea tempted Winifred to the extreme. To stay in a real house, with proper servants who cared, how lovely that would be. The beds would be soft, clean, and properly aired, the rooms neat and well-tended, because there would be footmen and maids, and the food would be exquisite because there would be a cook. To supervise it all, there would be a butler or a housekeeper.

However, there was a major disadvantage.

She would not be as independent as she needed to be, Winifred knew. Jasper would be too close. From the start, she had not been able to think when he was too close. Jasper threw her off guard, invaded her privacy, and had begun conquering her heart.

“I want to speak with Mr Spencer first, Jasper. Please understand my need for independence until I know what to expect.”

“Of course, dear girl. No concern; I understand.”

Winifred was by now so cold that she shivered as if she had no blanket at all. How long before dawn broke, she wondered full of impatience? She longed for warmth, any warmth, even that of the bleak November sun. She envied Jasper; he had Fiona to warm him.

Fiona and Jasper…

Winifred studied father and daughter, feeling a warm fondness welling up in her heart. They had thoroughly touched her life in the few days that she came to know them. Had she had the same influence on them? She had made a difference at least with Fiona. The little girl trusted her and sought her out for comfort and help. Winifred knew she would miss Jasper’s daughter when they parted in Edinburgh. They would part, eventually. She would know her path from there once she knew what her father had left her. If it proved to be modest, Winifred still had the London boarding house and her position as a teacher to financially survive .

What of her mother’s family? For the first time since Mama died, Winifred allowed herself to ponder on whom they were. Mama had never told her about them, and Winnie was unable to comprehend the reason behind all this. Even when Mama had been estranged she could have shared her memories with Winifred and in so doing, she could have prevented her daughter from being ignorant about her descent. Oh, there were so many questions Winnie wanted answered in Edinburgh!

However, there was one question Mr Spencer would not be able to answer.

What was Winnie to do about Jasper Danvers and the extremely disturbing feelings he aroused in her? How was she to deal with the racing of her heart when Jasper kissed her? What were these strange, overwhelming stirrings in her blood whenever Jasper roamed his hands over her body?

She had led a singularly protected life until now, Winifred mused. Mama had not told her about the many things that happened between a man and a woman. Winnie would have to find out for herself even if she got burned in the process. Burning was what she did when Jasper touched her. She might have boasted to Jasper about being kissed in the past whereas in reality, Winifred had never been touched by a man before Jasper had seared her lips with his own.

“I hope your real name is not Fredericka.”

Jasper deliberately said it in an off-hand tone, just to stir Freddie out of her reverie yet not anger her. It worked. Freddie turned her head to stare at him. “W … what?” she asked, stunned, by the look of it.

“Please tell me that you are not a Fredericka,” Jasper repeated. “That would be most unpleasant, Freddie.”

Freddie shook her head, looking puzzled. “No, actually, my name is Winifred. The abbreviation my mother used was Winnie, not Freddie.”

“You will always be Freddie to me. It suits you.”

Her eyes grew so large that Jasper felt himself falling into their depths. He swallowed, suddenly annoyed with himself. He was no green boy freshly out of leading strings, for heaven’s sake!

“By the way, what happened to that fellow you were so scared of?” he continued. “I had expected him to travel with us. He mentioned that he was travelling to Edinburgh.”

“I do not know,” Freddie answered in a level voice that was in conflict with her pale cheeks and anguished eyes.

“No, that will not do, Freddie. He attacked and injured you. Did you reckon I would just simply forget that? I am fairly certain that he will be lying in wait for you in Edinburgh.”

She did not reply but the answer was in her frightened gaze. Jasper felt compelled to patting her hand in comfort.

“If you will allow me, I will take matters in hand, Freddie. If you were to stay at Danvers House, I could …”

At that moment, Fiona woke with a cry. Jasper turned to his daughter who was probably hungry. They were opening the food basket when the sun finally broke to reveal the rolling, rough, and desolate Northumberland landscape. They were halfway to Jedburgh, now.

After they reached Jedburgh, they had luncheon in one of the many inns the small town boasted. Thereafter, the coach continued its journey north. The snow became more abundant with each mile they covered; the flakes were thick and fluffy. A white layer began hiding the Lowland hills. The sky remained a greyish white, forecasting even more snow to come.

There was no more opportunity to continue their previous conversation since Fiona kept Freddie and Jasper busy for the rest of their voyage.

They arrived at the George Inn in George Street, which was in Edinburgh’s New Town, a part that had begun developing during the past twenty years to accommodate the growing population of Scotland’s most prestigious town. The inn was one of those beautiful, red-bricked, three-story buildings, with rows of high, rectangular windows framed by cream-coloured German sandstone. Its roof was grey-slated and steep, with protruding windows. The entrance was a double, oak door in the middle of the facade. It opened into a hall in which was a large desk manned by a young male employee.

Winnie secured a room from the desk servant and then nervously turned toward Jasper and Fiona who had followed her inside. “Thank you for your company, Jasper. I will inform you once I am better informed about my prospects.”

She bent down to kiss Fiona. “Farewell, my sweet. I was very happy to have met you. Be a good girl and take care of your papa, will you?”

“You will come to visit us, won’t you, Freddie? Papa says we are going to stay here in Edinburgh.”

“I will, my sweet. I promise.”

Jasper could not help himself from laying a hand on Freddie’s arm while he softly spoke.

“Can I truly not persuade you to come and stay at Danvers House, Freddie?”

Winifred hesitated and pondered for the tiniest of moments. No, that would be most unwise. Jasper had the ability of making her change her mind far too easily and Winifred needed a clear head.

She shook her head, grabbed her bag, and quickly ascended the stairs after the maid. Jasper scooped Fiona up and left the inn. Damnation! Freddie had been very close to giving in, he know. He felt suddenly and acutely alone.

Original Handcut Silhouette by Kathryn Flocken

Chapter Twelve

The shock of being gathered into Jasper’s embrace was so stunning to her senses that Winnie gasped. For an instant, she was not sure what to do but then, she became aware of the welcoming warmth of his strong body and arms. He was offering her the much craved comfort she was so desperately in need of. That solid realisation caused her own arms to slide up to Jasper’s neck. She reached for the square mass of his muscular shoulders, and then for the soft skin of his neck, where her fingers discovered the raven waves of his hair. Unable to restrain herself, she weaved her hand through the warm softness, and revelled in the pleasure it gave her.

Jasper became aware of the gentle caresses on the sensitive skin of his neck, and a tingle of desire ran all the way up along his spine. Lord! How very right Freddie felt in his arms…

On their own accord, his hands began exploring the soft curves of her slender body. To his delight, she had already removed the bandages, and he avidly caressed Freddie’s deliciously shaped breasts. When Freddie moaned in response, he shifted her in his arms so that his mouth could claim hers. He was in desperate need of assuaging his thirst for the soft, rosy lips, that had been tempting him, these past hours.

It was Winnie’s first kiss, ever. Jasper’s mouth was firm, and warm, and it was doing something so particularly strange to her insides that Winnie felt her knees buckle. His tongue teased her lower lip, and then his teeth worried it, sucked it until she responded. She tentatively opened her mouth to welcome him.

Jasper’s hold on her tightened, pressing her even closer to him. Somehow, it was the right thing to be so close to him, Winnie thought. While his tongue ravaged her mouth in slow strokes, tasted her, drank her, Winnie pressed closer to the hard chest, that was crushing her breasts. It should have been hurtful, yet it was not. It was delicious. Visions of Jasper without a shirt – and she remembered it vividly – were now completed by the feel of him. Her fingers worked by their own accord on the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel what was beneath. She was not disappointed. All hard muscles, warm, velvety skin and the contrasting roughness of a sprinkle of black hair.

Her body – Winnie realised with amazement – knew what to do. She rubbed her breasts against Jasper’s torso, rejoicing in the startled groan he uttered. It was pure delight. As a tingling sensation thrilled through her body, and left a trail of quivering pleasure, all the way from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, Winnie forgot all else and surrendered to Jasper’s passion.

When raw lust swept over him like a wave, Jasper suddenly had an image of Jessie flashing through his mind. Just so had it felt when he held his dearest Jessie in his arms. The pleasure was exactly the same as when he had been on the verge of making love to Jessie, a long time ago, in their large bed. The soft, pliant curves, the lush breasts with their hardened peaks, the warm honey of the mouth, the feminine sent of lavender, it all forced Jessie’s image back into his mind, like a bolt of lightning. Only now, it was not Jessie.

He was unfaithful to her memory while he was kissing another in her stead. Worse still, while he was very close to bedding another in her stead.

With deliberate slowness, he freed his mouth and gently pushed Freddie away until their bodies no longer touched.

“I am truly sorry, Freddie. My behaviour is rude and unforgivable. I think it best that you return to your room, after all.”

He closed his eyes to ward off the vision of Freddie’s sudden hurt and hot tears. Seconds later, he heard the door close, and found himself alone, aching with need.

The next day dawned with a hint of snow in the air. The bleak countryside was buried under grey-leaden skies. It was bitterly cold, and the fields around York showed a thin blanket of frost. The mail coach horses’ breath was a white plume in the still winter air.

Other than Jasper, Fiona and Winifred, there were three passengers for the journey to Newcastle. With a twelve hour drive to endure, and the coach overly crowded, the journey promised to be miserable in every sense of the word.

Winifred sat squeezed between the coach window and Jasper, who held Fiona in his lap. Next to him sat a burly farmer, and the man had his arms around a basket containing two hens, like if it were a bucket full of golden eggs. On the bench opposite were two matrons of middle-aged years, carrying baskets of parcels, wrapped in brown paper. The third occupant was a clergyman, who was reading in a thick, black bible. They were all chattering cheerfully, apart from Winifred and Jasper. The two ladies – apparently acquainted with each other – were gossiping about their neighbours, and the farmer was addressing the clergyman with questions about some other man, they both seemed to loathe a great deal.

Winifred was feeling dejected to the point of despair.

She had not slept a wink after what she had experienced the previous night. First there had been the encounter with Bracknell and the threats he had uttered. Next – and this was far worse – Jasper Danvers had hit her hard with his rejection of her, for that was what it had been. Winnie, who had opened herself to him, had been thrown aside, without the slightest consideration for how she might feel about it. Just her bloody luck, to offer herself to the first man ever who touched her heart, and to be rejected at the same moment. And now, Jasper Danvers was conducting himself with condescending indifference as if nothing happened.

“Freddie…”

Fiona’s small voice broke through Winnie’s black melancholy, and she realised that the little girl had been quiet since they left York, which was over an hour ago.

“Yes, what is it, my sweetling?”

“Victoria says she is bored. She wants you to tell her a story.”

Winnie inwardly chuckled because of Fiona’s cleverness, which forbade her to show boredom. So the girl used her doll to accomplish her own wish.

“Give her to me,” Winifred said. “I will tell her a story, which my mother told me.”

Fiona handed her the doll with a solemn little face and turned toward Winnie, so that she could listen better. From the corner of her eye, Winifred saw Jasper accommodate his position to allow his daughter a better view.

Winifred placed Victoria on her own lap and made the doll face her.

“Now, Victoria,” she admonished, “you know your mama wants you to be a good girl. One that does not whine about being bored. Listen to the story, and then you must be content.”

Fiona giggled in response but said no more. She stuck her thumb into her mouth and settled back against her father’s chest.

“This is the story of Cinderella,” Winifred began.

Jasper winced inwardly. What a paltry choice of a fairy tale and one that spoke of a little girl without a mother to boot. Yet Fiona seemed fascinated, and her blue eyes were sparkling with anticipation. Freddie’s voice was low and deep, Jasper registered, and gradually, everyone in the coach fell silent as if mesmerized by the music of it. Every single occupant – from the farmer and the clergyman to the two chattering matrons – stared in enthralled attention at Freddie.

Jasper forced himself to look at her and could not tear his gaze away. Freddie was truly enchanting. Her face was alight with enthusiasm as she told the story of the orphaned girl and her wicked stepmother and vicious stepsisters. Her eyes glittered with hidden tears over Cinderella’s unholy fate and daily misery. Her musical voice tore at Jasper’s heart until he had to shake his head to escape the spell.

It did not work. The memory of their kiss, the previous night, sprang into his mind.

He was instantly hard with need once again. Curse it! He was a man of thirty-five, not a green stripling or schoolboy!

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the squabs, fighting to overcome his unease.

When the coach stopped in Middlesbrough for a belated luncheon, the two matrons and the farmer disappeared through the inn courtyard gate. The clergyman joined them again when the journey resumed.

Jasper noticed the curious glances the man bestowed on Freddie. The rather stocky man of the cloth had draped himself luxuriously over the bench opposite theirs and had apparently lost interest in his bible. Jasper braced himself for a prying conversation because he fancied he could see the man’s brain working to find an opening.

Sure enough, for the next moment, the clergyman pointed at the sleepy Fiona who was trying to take a nap on Freddie’s lap. “That is a fine little girl you have, young sir,” he addressed Freddie in a heavy Northern accent.

Freddie startled because she had been staring out of the window at the flat green Yorkshire landscape. “W…What? Oh, I am sorry, sir…I was not paying attention. No, she is no mine, but his.”

She gestured toward Jasper with a flick of the head.

“Oh, truly?” The clergyman said, wonderment in his voice. “I could have sworn you were her father, by the manner in which you take care of her. Are you…”

“He is my younger brother,” Jasper interrupted. “I am truly grateful that he decided to accompany me on this journey, and help me with Fiona.” He pointedly stared at the man, in an attempt to divert his interest in Freddie.

“Indeed, indeed,” the man nodded, not yet ready to let go of the subject. “And are you travelling all the way to Scotland?”

“Yes, we are,” Jasper replied. “And you, sir? Are you on your way North, all the way, too?”

“To Newcastle, I am afraid. I am taking up a position at St Nicholas Cathedral as a canon. It is my home town, but I spent my life in Oxford for the last thirty years so it will be a happy reunion after so long a time.

“Let me congratulate you, then,” Jasper said in a jovial tone. “I am certain you are deserving to be in the town of your youth after so successful a career.”

“Indeed, indeed,” the clergyman continued, then narrowed his beady black eyes again. “Are you widowed, sir? I see no female companion here.”

“I am,” Jasper replied, as curtly as he could muster, in the hope it would cut the man off. No such luck.

“Ah, how sad,” the man tutted. “The Good Lord taketh and giveth in an equal way, as the Scriptures teach us. You should endeavour to find a good woman and give the child a mother, once again, sir.”

Jasper felt his already inflamed temper boil at this meddling comment. “I am most offended, sir,” he burst out. “It is none of your business to try and…” That was when Freddie placed a small hand on his arm to calm him. He turned to look at her and saw the plea in her dark eyes. He snapped his mouth shut and resumed a stony silence, staring out the window.

The clergyman, however, was not to be deterred. “My good sir, I cannot see why you should be offended by my well-intentioned attempt, to be of assistance in your predicament. My vocation as a man of the cloth commands me to help my fellow men when I witness their struggle in life You are in need of a female companion, and it is my duty to make you see reason.”

“His wife died in childbirth,” Freddie said in a low voice. She adjusted the sleeping Fiona in her lap, grateful that the child did not have to hear all this. “My brother has not yet coped with her death. Please refrain from further comments, sir, I beg you.”

The clergyman nodded. To Jasper’s astonishment, he again opened his bible and began reading it. Jasper searched for Freddie’s gaze, but she had already turned away.

A warm feeling rose inside him as Jasper inwardly reconstructed the conversation. Freddie had defended him. She had taken his side, without thinking, without qualms. He had not expected that after the way he had treated her the evening before.

Shame squeezed his heart as Jasper recalled his appalling behaviour.

Lord Almighty, but he must have appeared an utter fool! He should have considered all that Freddie had gone through before he totally forgot himself. All the anguish she must have endured through that blackguard Bracknell, and the pain she must have experienced during Bracknell’s manhandling of her. And he, Jasper had not even asked if she came out unharmed. No, instead he had all but ravished her with his lust and his kisses. He was no better than Bracknell.

But – dear God! What a kiss that had been…Jasper could summon the feel of Freddie in his arms, once again, and the way she had kissed him back. It had rocked the sheer fundaments of his senses! How right she had felt in his arms. All that wonderful plethora of emotions overwhelming him, until the memory of Jess brought him back to reality. Jess…Always Jess…And, as Freddie so rightly pointed out, the fact that he had still not coped with Jess’s death.

When he had accompanied his Jessie to her last resting-place, Jasper had made a vow to his beloved wife’s memory, and that was never to give his heart to another woman, ever again. Of course, he had known lust again. He was, after all, still a man in the prime of his life. He had quelled that lust with the occasional courtesan, in London’s many bawdy houses, whenever the need became too urgent. How would he have survived without doing so, otherwise?

It had been lust, last night, of course, it had. Nothing but pure carnal desire to tear off Freddie’s clothes and take her then and there, with a desire so strong it had taken every ounce of his control to resist the massive urge. Not only had he needed Jessie’s memory to set the lure of Freddie’s luscious body aside, but also, some other, more puzzling feeling. Jasper had not wanted to quell his lust with sweet, young, innocent Freddie Preston. Somehow it had seemed the vilest thing to do in the world, and he would not stoop to defiling a maiden.

It was past nine in the evening when they finally arrived at the Old George Inn in Newcastle, a stately Georgian three story building. By then, Fiona was exhausted, so Jasper carried her inside. The innkeeper, a tall, burly man in his forties with a bald head rushed to meet the guests.

“A room for me and my brother, and with a cot for my daughter, if you please.”

Winifred caught the bark of Jasper’s words as she hurried after them. Wretched man! She was not going to spend the night in his room, not by any means! Only then she remembered she was dressed as a man, which meant she could not just contradict Jasper’s orders without raising suspicious looks. Jasper had just proclaimed her his brother. Drat. She bit her lip and followed them upstairs, where she heard Jasper order a bath and some hot food. The innkeeper bowed and left.

Winnie was about to scold Jasper when Fiona woke with a plaintive cry. “Papa…I am so hungry…”

“Come, my sweet, Papa will care for you.”

“I want Freddie to wash me,” Fiona whined. “Freddie is so much better at it than you. You always rub soap in my eyes when you wash my hair.”

And so it was Winnie who bathed Fiona, and afterwards, combed and dried her hair while Jasper was feeding her chicken broth and bread. Fiona relaxed visibly, and when she had finished, she yawned.

“I want to go to sleep, Freddie. Will you tell me the story of Cinderella again?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Winnie complied.

While the story was being told, Winnie saw Jasper disappear behind the screen, to bathe. She had to concentrate hard, the whole time that splashing sounds could be heard from the tub. Worse, she could just imagine that long, hard body relaxing in the warm water, the cloth lathering soap onto that silken, tanned skin, Jasper’s finely honed muscles working while he cleansed himself. Holy Mother of God, she felt sweat breaking out all over her body! What was wrong with her? And what was Jasper thinking, acting as if he were alone in the room, instead of in a young lady’s presence? He was probably doing it on purpose, to make her feel wanton and discomforted! Well, she had no business thinking about the father when she was telling a story to the daughter. Resolutely, Winifred concentrated on Fiona.

In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

John woke as pale light displaced the receding darkness in the small, unfamiliar bedroom of his wife’s maiden days. With drowsy deliberation, he roused himself to alleviate the dull ache in his hip, careful not to disturb the sleeper in front of him. Prickling pain surged through the arm now relieved from its ill-arranged position as blood rushed to resume its normal courses within.

He eased himself off the mattress and stretched as he stood upon a braided rug, his bare feet peeking from rumpled trousers. The crinkled cotton of his day shirt mocked the crimping crick in his neck. He passed his hand over the offending discomfort in a wincing exhalation of breath.

The house was silent. The horror of death’s dark visit had passed. Now there remained the tedious tasks to which the living must attend, walking and breathing the waking nightmare as they adjusted their lives to the loss while their minds searched the halls of memory to recall the voice and smiles of one who no more animates earth’s scene.

He gazed at Margaret with a painful longing to fill the void of her loss with all the tenderness of his powerful love. He wished her a peaceful repose for as long as it could be taken.

John put on the vestments of his position with thought to the unpleasant arrangements that must be made and the unavoidable alteration to his daily schedule. Unshaven and weary of heart, he dressed and silently slipped from the room. The chill of the morning fog seemed to penetrate the walls. He shivered in the October air as he descended the stairs.

Stepping into the parlor, Mr. Thornton noted the sleeping form of the gaunt servant girl – Higgins’ daughter, he had discovered – curled up under a gray wool blanket on the couch. A twinge of grateful sympathy softened the features of his face at the sight of her steadfast loyalty.

He crouched to start a fire in the cold room, where the family might gather before breakfast.

“I can see to that, Sir,” a wavering voice offered.

He turned to see the Higgins girl smoothing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. She was sitting upright, her tired face flushed in embarrassment of having been seen caught sleeping.

“I can manage here. Perhaps you could tend to the dining room,” he suggested gently. She sprang to follow his command, leaving him alone to set the coals glowing.

The doorbell rang a moment later, causing the girl to retrace her steps. Mr. Thornton’s ears pricked at the sound of a familiar voice in the hallway. He took swift paces to where his mother handed a large basket, laden with food, to Mary.

“Mother,” he exclaimed, in welcome surprise.

“Mrs. Hale…” she inquired with caution, the servant’s red-rimmed eyes and somber silence offering her little cause for hope.

The strong man dropped his gaze from the eager inquiry. “She is gone,” he muttered.

“When?” The whispered word was choked out after a moment of stunned silence.

“Sometime very late…in the night.”

Hannah’s heart bled for her son as she studied his weary, disheveled appearance. He would bear the burden of sorrow with strength and dignity, fighting against the forces which would try to crush out his happiness, so recently attained, in this unjust turn of fate. “And Margaret?” she asked after his new bride, uncertain how well the girl would bear up to the untimely strain of loss.

“She sleeps, for now,” he answered, his forehead creased in contemplation of breaking her restful peace.

“Do you go to work?”

He let out a long breath and shook his head in a quandary of indecision. “I am scheduled to meet with a buyer, who has been forestalled already for my wedding travels.”

“I will stay to assist in whatever way I am able. Go, if you have need. I will remain as long you are away,” she offered, receiving a nod of thanks.

“You have not eaten?” she asked, guessing the answer.

“Little thought has been given to food this past day.”

“Sustenance must be provided,” she said, brushing past him to survey the empty dining room. “There is little wisdom in starving the body at such a time. The heart needs strength. Call the house to breakfast in an hour. I will help see that it is ready,” she commanded as she turned to follow the young maid to the kitchen.

John moved to follow her firm direction, grateful to allow another to establish order in the confusing wake of tragedy. He knocked gently at the bedroom door he had so recently quitted and opened it to find Margaret hurrying to fasten on her petticoats.

“I heard the bell. Has someone come?” she asked in a fluster, prepared to forestall the morning’s oppressive gloom with needful activity.

“My mother has come to help. Do not trouble yourself,” he soothed, taking her hands into his to stay her restless motions. “She is even now preparing our breakfast.”

She stared unblinking at him for a moment before the tears began to gather in her eyes in awful comprehension of her loss. Here was one called mother, so unlike her own, who would offer comfort and kindness while her own dear mother lay cold and lifeless across the hall. Shameful jealousy stung at the realization that only one mother remained betwixt them. It was unjustly cruel – she would never have her gentle mother back again!

“Margaret,” her husband murmured as he witnessed silent tears spilling down her cheeks. He swiftly enfolded her into a tender embrace, holding her close as the first choking sobs of grief wracked her body. Relieved in some measure that her stoic stance had broken, John offered silent comfort to the sufferer until the tears subsided and she released him from his patient service.

The family was gathered for breakfast in an hour’s time. Somewhat embarrassed by his emotional outbursts the night before, Frederick attempted to meet the others with a measure of cheer but broke into tears over some remark of his sister, whose sympathetic and sorrowful gaze reminded him pointedly of their shared grief.

John spoke gently with the broken-down widower in his study afterwards, and was gladly given leave to make all necessary arrangements, Mr. Hale being neither able nor willing to make any effort towards these final steps other than to mumble a request that no grand gestures be made. He had an aversion to the pompous affectations of mortals to morbid social ritual and was certain his wife’s sure entrance to heaven required no earthly fanfare.

The newly married Master gave his wife an affectionate good-bye before heading out to accomplish several unbending tasks, with a promise to return as quickly as he could.

The hours passed with unbearable slowness for Margaret. The quiet efficiency of her mother-in-law was a mixed blessing for the mourning bride. The daily pattern of responsibility being wrested from her, Margaret yearned for some common toil to occupy the numbing emptiness of her mind and half-wished her mother-in-law away. Yet, underlying her temperamental annoyance, she found a certain comfort in the widow’s unseen presence and blinked away the fresh rise of tears at the remembrance of her soft-spoken words of sympathy and the surprising warmth of caring in her eyes.

It was both a pleasure and a hollow comfort to spend time with Frederick, who found relief in chattering away, telling her more of his past and his hopes for the future. Their eyes flashed at one another in shared anxiety when their father finally joined them in the drawing room, having spent most of the day in the closed room with the dead.

The faded light of late afternoon added to the somber atmosphere of the quiet room. The ticking of the clock on the mantle could be heard. Mr. Hale’s grave face appeared shocked into still confusion as he lowered himself onto his favorite easy chair. His children watched him intently as he drew his brows together, his eyes unfocused upon the carpet before him.

“Dixon has given me cause for alarm,” he announced, bringing his gaze to Frederick.

*****

Margaret and her brother spoke in hushed tones in the front parlor sometime later as the last light of day began to dwindle. Discussing the danger of Frederick’s stay had greatly agitated Mr. Hale and Margaret had coaxed her father to rest in his room before dinner. The siblings had not long been occupied in their new venue when a knock on the front door was heard. Dixon grumbled from some distant place as the door was opened without her aid.

A tall figure appeared at the threshold of the carpeted room. Margaret’s weary heart soared at the sight of her husband, his returning presence infusing in her fresh hope and strength in this sorest of trials. How the hours had dragged on without him! She rose instantly from her seat to greet him, suddenly glimpsing what had not been there before: around the upper arm of his coat was a band of black crape.

Tears sprang to her eyes at his gesture of unity with her family, the fresh recognition of her permanent bond with him striking her deeply. He was her husband now. She would never be alone again. He would stand by her through all of life’s trials.

“Margaret,” the returning groom muttered with agitated concern, taking gentle hold of her arms at the sight of her tear-filled gaze. “Has something happened?”

She shook her head, unable to look at him as she blinked back tears of gratitude and relief. She could not explain in words what had touched her so profoundly.

“Nothing has happened, but there is news,” she whispered, raising her face to his as she gained some control over her emotions. “The other day, Dixon encountered in the streets of Milton someone who sailed with Frederick in years past, and who knows of his history,” she related with trepidation.

John’s breath stilled. A chill of foreboding pulled his muscles taut.

“I should have let him pass by, but it was such a surprise to see a face from the south in these parts,” Dixon lamented with a shake of her head, stepping into the room. Mr. Thornton gave the family servant a look of impatient forbearance.

“You have no faith in this man’s sympathy,” John deduced, speaking to no one in particular. “What kind of person is he? What is his name?” he asked.

“The worst sort. His name is George Leonards. A sorrier sailor I’ve never seen,” Frederick answered with a flare of contempt.

“He’s a ne’er-do-well and a plague to his family since he was a boy,” Dixon readily added. “I asked him what he was doing in Milton and he said he had business to attend, but he looks just as he ever did – an out-and-out ruffian searching for some scheme for easy profit.”

“He did not like Frederick, I’m afraid,” Margaret relayed.

These accounts sank heavily in John’s heart. He let out his breath in consternation at this untidy complication. His experience as a magistrate had taught him only too well how unscrupulous greed and spite could motivate men to pursue their unscrupulous desires.

“Does this Leonards know where you live?” Mr. Thornton asked Dixon. “Did you meet him close to this house so that he might have followed you home?”

“No. He took the omnibus away,” she replied. “He does not know where we abide. And not many in Milton know of us, having come so recently from the south,” Dixon added in a more hopeful tone.

Her answer did little to alleviate the weight of his concern. There might be time for some reprieve, but there could be great danger in keeping a fugitive.

“You must not stay,” Mr. Thornton decreed, looking to Frederick.

“That is what father said as well,” the exiled son replied with a sigh. “But I’ve only just arrived!” he countered in rising rebellion. “I’ve a mind to stay as long as I please. I’ll not cower at the hand of a rogue such as Leonards!”

“No,” the Milton magistrate stated firmly, noting the alarm on Margaret’s face at her brother’s words. “It is too dangerous to act with impunity. You must return to Spain as soon as possible.”

“Frederick and I were talking,” Margaret interjected hesitantly. “Perhaps Henry could help him clear his name. More light may have been shed on Captain Reed’s offenses these past years. If testimony could be gained…”

“No,” her husband reiterated without cavil, meeting her startled look with sympathy for her innocence. “The tribunal is set apart from the court systems which we rightly trust to mete out justice from reasonable evidence. Clemency is not the method of the military. Their figures of authority exact strict obedience from the leagues of men at their command. To examine the justification of individual protest would be, you must understand, uncommon.”

Margaret bowed her head in concession, nodding her reluctant accord. The spark of defiance died in Frederick’s eyes and he gazed at the floor in stark comprehension of his fate.

“I regret that England can never be your home,” Mr. Thornton continued more gently. “But from all you have told us, it seems that purpose and place await you in Spain,” he added, eliciting a small smile from the English-born adventurer. “Perhaps someday we will set sail to visit you,” he remarked auspiciously, this time gaining the hopeful smile of his wife.

The subject of Frederick’s departure was discussed once more at the dinner table, where Mr. Hale confessed he would not feel at peace until he knew that his son had safely boarded the train to Liverpool. Margaret offered to take her brother to the station, but Mr. Thornton insisted that the departure must take place after daylight and that he would be the one to ensure that Frederick was safely on his way out of the country.

Hannah Thornton sat watching all that transpired with circumspection, her eyes widening at her son’s promise to safeguard one accounted a criminal to the Crown.

A solemn silence pervaded the Thorntons’ carriage ride home that evening until John’s voice pierced the settled gloom. “It may not be the proper time to tell you, but I must not keep news of such portent to myself any longer….Mr. Bell has given me ownership of the mill and the house as a wedding gift,” he announced without embellishment of emotion.

A passing streetlamp threw light upon his mother’s astonished face in the darkness.

“You own the land and all the property thereon?” Margaret asked, surprise sounding in her voice.

“Yes.”

“How wonderful,” she remarked with quiet enthusiasm. “He is very generous; you will not need to pay rent ever again. That must be a great benefit to your position, is it not? Are you pleased?” she asked, a little uncertain after her words if he was comfortable to be gifted what might over time be earned.

“How can I not be? Yes, I am pleased,” he assured her warmly, taking her hand in his in the shadowy darkness and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Original Handcut Silhouette by Kathryn Flocken

Chapter Eleven

And there it was, Jasper acknowledged. The question he had been asking himself for the last couple of minutes, and to which he had no true answer. Why had he suddenly decided that Freddie should become the next Countess of Trewarth?

He abruptly let go of Freddie’s hands, and sighed.

“For two reasons, Freddie,” he said, his voice giving way involuntarily. “First, I was desperate to find a woman willing to become my wife on short notice so that I can gain my rightful title. You were the first to cross my path, and I find you are well suited to fulfil the conditions, laid upon me by the Earl. Secondly, I am truly delighted with the manner you interact with my little Fiona and the way she responds to you. Fiona is the one that I cherish most in life, Freddie, and she likes you. That is what decided me ultimately, Freddie. You must be a good person because my Fiona already trusts you. If you will have me for a husband, you shall not regret it, as long as you agree to be a mother to Fiona.”

Winifred realised with a considerable shock that his eyes were burning into hers. She had not expected that from the matter-of-fact tone in which he had just stated his reasons for marrying her. It had all sounded so cold and businesslike. Jasper did not say that he cared for her and that hurt, more than she would like to admit. She was developing feelings for this man, and they frightened her. So now, when his eyes seemed to burn their way right into her soul, Winnie was lost. And confused, too. She needed to think, force her thoughts into some shred of order.

When the call for the last round came – indicating that the taproom was about to be closed for the night – Winifred stood. “I shall give you my answer after we reach Edinburgh, Jasper. First I have to learn about my father’s inheritance. I bid you goodnight.” And up the stairs she went, leaving Jasper to stare after her in astonishment.

Alone in his room on the floor above, Aloysius Bracknell clenched his fists in a sudden fit of rage. That brazen Lansing chit had found herself an ally!

Damnation! Rage coursed through him at the realisation that he had nearly overlooked the thin youth coming down the stairs. Oh, she had disguised herself very cleverly, indeed. She must have cut her hair, he mused. And, most importantly, she had managed to cling to that tall, strong fellow. The man must know she was not a young buck because he had not failed to see Aloysius’ interest in Miss Lansing, and had promptly hailed her to him as his ‘little brother’. Damnation, again! Aloysius hoped he had not given himself away because he meant to have the last say in this!

Winifred stepped into her room. She had barely closed the door when she was grabbed from behind. Her arms were being pinned on her back and wrenched upward, the movement lancing a sharp pain through her shoulders. The air was forced out of her while she was pressed against a wall by Bracknell.

“Well, ‘Freddie’…, He drawled, “I do not know if that fellow knows you for the minx you are, but I, on the other hand, recognised you right away. Did you reckon you could escape me, then? You had so unexpectedly disappeared from London after your mother’s death. Thanks to my cleverness, I knew for certain that you would go to Edinburgh. I took the precaution to read the letters that your mother so carelessly left on her desk. I think that Mr Archibald Spencer, your solicitor might have a pleasant surprise for you.”

Winifred gasped for air when his heavy body squeezed hers against the wall. She tried to free herself, but it was like trying to move the wall itself. Her mind was numb with fear – and fury because this scoundrel had apparently wormed his way into her home and taken advantage of her mother’s goodness! She gasped in fury which instantly made Bracknell tighten his hold on her.

“No sound, my girl, or I must do something nasty to you. I will not hesitate to inflict pain on you. You cannot escape me, wench, once I have set my mind on you. Not with the possibility of a fortune awaiting you in Edinburgh!”

Winnie was desperate enough to try and bluff her way out of this predicament.

“Mr Bracknell, let go of me this instant! You are breaching every rule of propriety, sir!”

His hold only tightened once more, and Winnie’s vision began blurring as her shoulders ached with a wrenching pain. Bracknell’s harsh voice sounded dimmed, but his angrily hissed words were still audible.

“What is your game, you little bitch? Are you trying to get that big oaf to marry you? Well, it is not about to happen. You will marry me and sign over all your money to me, do you hear! I know, for a fact, that you stand to inherit a fortune from your American father, because I stole those letters from your mother’s house, a long while ago. I could not have your suspicions of me come to life, could I? So listen what I want you to do. You will continue your journey and seek out that solicitor. Your bloke cannot be allowed to become suspicious, so you are going on as you were, posing as a boy.”

“No, no…I cannot…”

Winnie’s shoulders ached so much that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming, but Bracknell’s grip did not loosen.

“Quiet, you conniving wench! I should horsewhip you for trying to double-cross me! Now, in Edinburgh, we will get a special license and marry. I will take you back to London and put you in one of my lesser tenements. There you will be at my disposal whenever I want you because you will have no other choice as my wife. You shall have only the tiniest amount of money, enough to keep a modest household. The rest of all that beautiful blunt will go to my very lucrative investments.”

Horror coursed through Winnie when she pictured all the scenes Bracknell described. How was it possible that she had experienced no such terrifying suspicions of him before? She must have been blind! She had to do something, her blurred mind screamed at her, but her body was limp and weak. Her aching shoulders prevented her from moving, and Bracknell was not loosening his grip.

Then, the temporary silence between them was broken by a knock on the door. Bracknell loosened his hold, just enough to pull a small clasp knife out of his pocket. He placed the blade against Winnie’s throat and whispered, “Answer that without opening the door, will you.”

“Freddie? Are you well?”

Jasper’s voice sounded muffled from behind the door but oh, how delightful it was to Winifred!

“Caution!” Bracknell hissed in her ear.

Winifred gasped, then coughed because of the pressure Bracknell exerted on her throat.

The knife point nicked her skin with a sharp pain. “I advise you to make him go away, woman.”

“Yes, Jasper, I…I am…W… Well, and very tired. Good night…” Fear coloured her voice with a stutter.

Silence. Then Fiona’s small voice was heard, wailing sharply. A second later, Jasper’s footsteps retreated from her door.

Bracknell snickered in appreciation, when he heard Jasper retreat to his room.

“Good work, missie! You could have gotten a job in Drury Lane with that quality of performance.”

With a hard shove, he suddenly propped her face first against the wall. The knife never left Winnie’s throat, where a sharp, short stab once again nicked the delicate skin. She felt the warm trickle of blood running over the delicate skin of her throat.

“This is the plan, wench. You will continue your journey, dressed as a boy, in the company of that fellow, and you do not say a word about me. I will not be travelling with the coach, but I shall be waiting in Edinburgh when it arrives. You will not see me, but I will be able to observe you at all times. My street days in London come to good use, when I want to spy on people without being seen. Go to the solicitor and claim your inheritance. I will be waiting, my lovely!”

Without forewarning, Bracknell punched Winnie in the lower back, and wrenched her arms upward one last time, which made her double up with fierce pain. The light was dimming when she heard Bracknell leave the room.

Peering through the crack of the door, Jasper felt his rage burn when he watched Bracknell sneak out of Freddie’s room. So he had been right after all, and that snake had approached her. Barely waiting for the man to disappear to his own room on the floor above, Jasper locked his door and hurried toward Freddie. Not bothering to knock, he went inside – and froze. Freddie was lying unconscious on the floor, causing his heart to leap in fear.

Jasper knelt by her side and carefully turned her over, placing her head into his lap. Lord, but she was hurt! A narrow trickle of blood ran from her throat and down onto her white shirt. What had that bastard been planning to do to her? Possession – fierce as a burst of flames – coursed through him. The inexplicable but immense need to protect Freddie dawned on him. He refused to go deeper into that sensation, for now. Freddie needed care, so he picked her up and brought her to his own room. When he lay her down onto his bed, Freddie’s eyes fluttered and opened.

“Jasper? What…”

“Shhh, be still, Freddie. You are hurt, and I must see to it first. You do not need to worry, dear girl. I have you safe. What has that blackguard done to you?”

“Nothing, truly…Ouch!”

Freddie winced when Jasper dipped a wet cloth on her throat, to cleanse the small wound she had sustained through Bracknell’s hand.

“Tell me everything, Freddie. Now.”

Winifred acknowledged the solid determination in Jasper’s voice and complied.

She narrated the story her mother told her, about her father dying just a few days after she was born. About Mama taking her to London, and making a life for herself and her small daughter. About Bracknell’s stalking, first in a civil manner, but now showing his true character. When she came to Bracknell’s plans for her, Winifred could not stop her voice from breaking. She swallowed her tears, not wishing to appear weak, but it was hard to keep up her courage.

Throughout Freddie’s story, Jasper had only felt his anger against Bracknell increase. He did not wish such a fate for Freddie because she was courageous, and witty, and sweet. Freddie deserved to be loved, not to be cowered into submission by a cruel scoundrel and reprobate. A marriage to Bracknell would destroy Freddie, for sure. Jasper could not let that happen, and he was now even more determined than ever to marry the girl himself.

“Listen,” Jasper said, when Freddie paused, “we will do as I said before and continue to Edinburgh together. What is the name of your solicitor in Edinburgh?”

“Mr Archibald Spencer. His office is in The Royal Mile, I believe.”

Oh, irony, Jasper thought, but he did not inform her about his own involvement with Spencer.

Freddie started to rise from the bed. “Thank you for looking after me, Jasper, but I will go to my own room now. We do not want to wake Fiona.”

“I think it better if you were to stay here, Freddie.”

In astonishment, Winifred stared at him. Then she understood and felt a sudden outrage. Jasper Danvers was no better – yet again – than Bracknell! He wanted her in his bed. She quickly jumped from the bed on the opposite side as to where Jasper was standing and started to run.

Surprised but quickly grasping what Freddie might have been thinking, Jasper covered the distance between them with his longer strides and caught her arm. His voice was an low, but urgent whisper.

“Freddie, wait! You misunderstood. I mean to protect you from further harassment from Bracknell. That man is dangerous, Freddie, and I cannot allow him to have easy access to you.”

Winifred looked up at him, confusion in her eyes.

“Jasper,” she ventured gently, “you are not under any obligation to protect me. I am obliged to you for helping me so far, but I shall no longer impose upon your good nature.”

“On the contrary, Freddie,” Jasper insisted, “since you are to be my countess, I feel by honour bound to protect you. At least, I shall assist you until I am certain that you are safely seen to.”

“Safely seen to? I do not understand…And I did not agree to marry you.”

She tilted her head in confusion, burning her dark, luminous gaze into his. Instantly, Jasper felt himself drown into those brown eyes. In an impulse, which he could not have quelled for the life of him, Jasper drew her close.

Original Handcut Silhouette by Kathryn Flocken

Chapter Ten

She should have anticipated Jasper seeing through her disguise, Winifred realised. It had been a shabby one since she had no notion how young men behaved. How they walked, and talked, and all the other things they did, things she knew she messed up. Yet she had to think of a new strategy, at this moment. She had no time to wallow in her failure.

“Come down with me to the taproom,” Jasper interrupted her thoughts.

“What?” Winifred uttered, blinking in stunned surprise.

“We cannot talk here,” He urged, his voice suddenly gone hoarse. “We need the safety of a crowd. Let us go downstairs, have a glass of ale, and then you can explain all this to me.”

It sounded like a command, Winifred mused, and yet she was unable to resist it. Why did they need to be in the presence of other people? And what was that fiery yet suppressed look in his blue eyes? Jasper seemed to be in some sort of distress. Puzzled, she grabbed her coat and set off to follow Jasper. He turned to her on his way to the door and said in a wry tone, “You might want to do something to…Those.” He then pointed at her chest.

Christ! She had forgotten that she had already untied her breasts! Her cheeks were in flames in a second, and she covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, come on, Freddie,” Jasper said, his voice mild and comforting. “You owe me, you know. After all, we are travelling companions. Come when you are ready.” And he left the room.

Jasper found a table near the hearth of the taproom and ordered a bottle of burgundy. Not every inn could boast on serving French wine, with the growing enmity between France and England, but The Golden Fleece actually served it as one of the few pubs outside London. He surveyed the room with caution and was glad to see that there were but a few patrons left. They looked like regulars, Jasper thought, and he knew they would not bother guests that stayed the night. The landlord would see to that.

He was in turmoil. First, Fiona had called for her mother, which she had never, ever done before. Why would a child call for her mother whom she had never known? It unsettled Jasper to the extreme, and he was at a loss about how to handle this.

Next, why, by Jove, had he blurted out that stupid remark about needing the safety of people? He was the one who needed that, because all of a sudden, his gaze had locked on Freddie’s lawn shirt, right on the spots where her rosy nipples pressed against the thin material. An answering tightness in his groin followed suit, causing anger to blaze inside him. He cursed himself for lusting after the first female breasts he set eyes on in months. Granted the fact that it had been a long time since he had visited Pat O’Brien’s brothel, it still was weak of him to succumb to temptation so readily. Would he betray Jessie’s memory with the wayward thoughts a total stranger instilled in him? He grabbed his glass and took a deep swallow of wine.

The front door opened, and a man entered. Jasper turned his gaze toward him. Just a late customer, seeking lodgings for the night, he assumed. The man had the appearance of a gentleman if one judged him by his clothes. His greatcoat had three collars and was made of exquisite superfine wool. His stature, however, was that of a man used to manual labour, with heavy, broad shoulders and a barrel-like chest. Jasper estimated the man’s height to a good 6’, three inches shorter than his own height.

The landlord rushed forward to greet the newcomer.

“How can I be of service, sir?”

“Do you have a young, unaccompanied lady amongst your customers, at this moment?”

That forward question was barked at the landlord, in an accent that unmistakeably was London, albeit subdued. The poor landlord was thoroughly surprised, Jasper saw.

“Why are you asking, sir? Are you a magistrate? ‘Cause if you aren’t, I can’t give you any information about…”

“She is my ward. Is there a young lady staying here or not? The question is uncomplicated enough.”

The words sounded flat and cold as if the man were only slightly interested in the reply, but his pale grey eyes scanned the room with keen coldness, taking in every detail and every occupant.

“No, sir. You’ll find no young ladies here,” The landlord reluctantly asnwered, but his customer was still surveying the taproom. He grunted absent-mindedly at the landlord.

Something suspicious awakened in Jasper’s mind. To his own surprise, he became vigilant as if he were sensing some kind of trouble. The hairs at the back of Jasper’s neck pricked as he saw the man’s gaze wander to Freddie, who was just coming down the stairs in her male attire. The man studied Freddie for a couple of minutes, and his eyes narrowed in concentration. At that precise moment, Freddie saw the stranger and to Jasper’s astonishment, she literally froze. Her face grew white as a sheet, and her eyes were filled with horror. This man was no stranger to her, and more so, he seemed to scare the living daylights out of her.

On an impulse, Jasper rose and lifted his arm. “Here, brother!” He called out to Freddie, who – thankfully! – turned her head to look at him. Then she proceeded her walk down the stairs, and towards their table.

The man’s scrutinizing eyes wandered from Freddie to the waiting landlord. “Can I have a room for tonight?” He asked the man, who bowed and invited him upstairs.

Freddie was shaking head to toe, Jasper saw. She sat down to grip her glass of wine, lifted it and drank deeply from it.

“Who is that fellow, Freddie? You are shaking like a leaf in the wind, and your face is ashen. Talk to me.”

Freddie looked at him, the frightening horror barely lessened in her dark eyes.

“His name is Aloysius Bracknell,” she breathed, “and he tried to bully me into marrying him.”

Her lovely face just became a shade whiter, if possible. Jasper did not understand yet, what was haunting her so.

“And?” He prompted. “He seems a gentleman, judging by his clothes if not by his manners, which were a trifle on the rude side. If you dislike him, you can simply refuse him, can you not?”

“You do not comprehend,” Freddie said, tears now pooling in her eyes. “I am not yet of age, but I have my father’s inheritance to claim, and Bracknell knows that. He wants to lay his hands on my father’s money, taking me as his wife in the bargain. He is cruel and vindictive. I would spend my days in misery, were I to become his wife. He already threatened to compromise me, and frighten me into complying more readily to his proposal.”

She valiantly strove to swallow her tears, and the vulnerability of it tore at Jasper’s heart.

“So that is why you fled London, dressed as a man,” He concluded, in a quiet voice. “Because that was what you were doing, was it not? You literally fled London to escape this Bracknell fellow.”

“Yes,” Freddie whispered, misery written all over her face. “I first wanted to learn about my father’s inheritance. I hoped for a bit of money so that I could be independent. And now it is all for nought. He must have recognized me, just now. Oh, what shall I do? I am desperate!”

“Well,” Jasper replied in a calm tone of voice, “it is quite uncomplicated, Freddie. You must become my wife, instead of Bracknell’s.”

If Jasper had slapped her across the face, Winifred could not have been more stunned than she felt at that moment. Stunned…And, for some inexplicable reason, hurt beyond the pale. Jasper had just made her feel a fool and mocked her for it. She had been on the verge of confiding in him because she had come to trust him during the two days of their journey together. His tender love for his small daughter was what had breached Winifred’s natural reserve toward strangers. The care he showed, not only for Fiona, but also for Winifred herself, or for Freddie as she must have been seen by him. In Jasper’s eyes, she must have looked an unsure, young man, who needed help to reach his destination because he was alone on this long journey. Jasper gave Freddie that help, and it was what had touched Winifred deeply.

Until now, at this moment, when Jasper shattered it all by his flippant reaction to Winnie’s desperate situation. He was mocking her, for sure. Why would a total stranger want to marry a woman he met only the day before? It was utterly absurd – even cruel.

Cruel? Yes. Because she had begun to have feelings for Jasper Danvers.

A pain so sharp, that it tore at her very heart, engulfed Winifred. She was barely able to stay seated upright at the rough wooden tap room table, but instead, wanted to bury her face into her arms and cry her heart out from sheer despair and loneliness. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to hold back the silly tears that came from having placed her trust in this man. He was no better than Bracknell, not a whit.

The second the words came out, Jasper could not understand why he had spoken them. It had been utterly impulsive, and Jasper was never into acting impulsively, and never had been. Correction, the only time he had acted on an impulse was when he married Jessie. Their love had been so powerful that neither of them had been able to wait. They had longed to be united as soon as possible. Oh, Jess... The memory of her still had the power to strike him with deep distress, time and time again.

He mentally shook himself and focussed on the problem at hand. With his impulsive words, Jasper had indeed embroiled himself in a nasty predicament, so he had better do some intelligent thinking, for a change.

What was he so desperately in need for, since he received the family solicitor’s letter, he asked himself. Well, that was clear enough. He had to be well and truly wed, in order to have access to his inheritance. And here was a female in need of protection from a villain who wanted to lay his hands on her inheritance.

Could he find someone else than this wayward chit, before his grandfather turned eighty, he wondered? No, not a chance in hell. Not on so short a notice. So Freddie would have to do. He could always divorce her, once his grandfather would have…

No! Jasper could not for the life of him contemplate the old ruffian gone. Despite the old earl’s rough temper and stubborn doggedness, he loved his grandfather, even admired and liked him, once in a while. And, all of a sudden, Jasper realised that he longed for a reconciliation with the old grump so that Trewarth again became his and Fiona’s home.

So Freddie would have to be the woman, who would allow Jasper to try and accomplish that immense feat. And, as he already realised before, he could always divorce her, once he would have gained his inheritance.

“Why are you heading to Edinburgh, Freddie? What business have you to attend in that fair city?”

There were a few matters that needed clarification, so Jasper resolutely plunged on. Until he saw Freddie’s face. Tears were running down Freddie’s pale cheeks, and her eyes were vague as if she were stripped of all hope.

A peculiar feeling stirred inside Jasper’s chest as if the air had left his lungs. He could not have felt so winded if someone had kicked him in the stomach. He gripped Freddie’s icy cold hands and forced her to focus on him.

“Freddie…Look at me! I apologize for blurting it out so bluntly, but I am most serious about my proposal. Allow me to explain.”

That brought on a reaction in so far that the girl now  looked at him with suspicion. Yet she kept silent which, in turn, gave Jasper leave to continue.

“My family lives near Inverness. We are what the Scots call ‘Sassenachs’, or the descendants of the English usurpers that overtook the estates from the native Scottish lairds after the Glorious Revolution that banished the Stuarts. My great-grandfather was one of those, and our estate was granted by William and Mary in 1689.”

Jasper paused when he saw the interest return in Freddie’s eyes. Good. That was good.

“Recently, my father died,” He resumed and raised a hand when he noticed the concern on Freddie’s face. “No need for condolences, dear girl. We were estranged for more than ten years.”

“Why were you estranged?” Freddie threw in before Jasper could stop her.

“Because of my grandfather and his stubborn ways. All he cares about is the estate, and he will do whatever is necessary to enhance its wealth and prosperity. My father never had the courage to stand up to him, and I ended up hating him for it. Together, we could have found a way to make the Earl see reason, but my father refused to stand by me. My grandfather is a tyrant, Freddie. He wants me to marry a Scottish girl in order to be the next Earl of Trewarth. Are you – by any chance – from Scottish descent?”

“I am partly Scottish,” Freddie said, frowning. “Mama was Scottish, but Papa was American. That is all I know for sure, Jasper. I was going to Edinburg, to see our solicitor and ask him about my family.”

Disappointment slammed into Jasper like a blow.

Freddie was American? Blast it all to hell, this was disastrous! The Earl would never accept an American as his grandson’s wife. Unless…The Earl was unaware of it. Jasper would see to it that his grandfather would never find out. The thought of losing Freddie after they would reach Edinburgh suddenly made him uneasy. Besides, this was too good an opportunity to thwart his dictatorial grandfather. If Jasper turned up at Trewarth Castle with a wife, the Earl would be faced with a fait accompli. Freddie was half Scottish, at least on the maternal side.

“Well then,” Jasper said, gently squeezing Freddie’s hands, “let us see what we can do once we will have reached Edinburgh. Keep your male attire as a disguise, Freddie. It will fend off all unwanted attention. Do not worry about this Bracknell fellow. I will be with you and keep you safe.”

Winifred was utterly confused by this wholly unexpected proposal. She needed an explanation, preferably one that would reassure her a bit more. The warmth of Jasper’s hold on her skin befuddled her greatly as it was so comforting and strong. She only knew she liked Jasper’s touch, his strength, his explicit masculinity. With an effort, she gathered her thoughts and asked, “Is your predicament truly that serious, then? Can you not claim your title without having a wife?”

“No,” Jasper answered, in a level tone, “I cannot. I must be married before the 14^th of February next, which is less than three months from now. If I cannot accomplish that, my grandfather will simply return the earldom to the Crown of England, for the king to bestow it upon someone else. I cannot not bear to think of that, Freddie. It is too disastrous. I love my home, the Trewarth estate and its hard-working people, who depend on their master for their livelihood. I want to make it stronger than it already is, and be the best Third Earl of Trewarth for generations to come.”

The quiet determination in which Jasper had spoken these words made a deep impression on Winifred and she became aware of Jasper Danvers’ deeply engrained nobility and pride. Winnie had to swallow the lump in her throat before she was able to continue. “Why are you considering me as your future wife, Jasper? We only met two days ago. I have no wealth, no noble breeding, no connections. I am a simple London teacher with no grand prospects.”

In Consequence by Trudy Brasure

A clank of metal and a dull roar sounded in Margaret’s ears, filtering through the haze of consciousness to slowly rouse the drowsy sleeper. Someone stirred within this room. She heard the faint slosh of water and an abrasive scraping not far away.

John stilled his hand as he detected movement from the bed. He laid his razor down beside the water basin and held his breath as the waking sleeper turned her head. He stepped toward the bed at the first motion of her arms.

“You’re up,” she noted groggily as he sat down on the bed beside her.

“Yes,” he answered softly, enchanted by the restful flush of her face and the careless way her hair tumbled over shoulders and pillows. It had taken every ounce of his willpower this morning to leave the blissful warmth of his bed. “Did I wake you?” he asked, lines of concern gathering on his forehead.

“No…I don’t know…the mill…work has already started?” she answered in sleepy confusion.

“The steam engines are started early. They must be at full power by the time the men arrive. Did the sound awaken you?” he asked with a sudden fear that he had selfishly stolen her from some destiny more serene and comfortable than that of a manufacturer’s wife. All the raw noise and uncouth environs of industry that he took as a matter of course would be new and unfamiliar to her. The pang of unworthiness that had plagued him from the first moment he had dared to dream of her began again to insidiously creep through his veins.

“Perhaps…I believe so….”

His frown deepened. “There is a room down the hall, near Fanny’s, that is farther from the noise…”

“No…no,” she interrupted, sitting up to face him. “It is a faint noise.  It’s merely strange to me at present. I’m certain I shall get used to it,” she assured him.

Her reply did much to calm her husband’s rising distress. “You should go back to sleep, it is early yet, while I have much to attend to,” he gently urged. “I will tell my mother that you mean to spend the day in Crampton. You are not obliged to stay here,” he reminded her with some reluctance as he took her hands fondly into his own.

“You are very kind,” she answered as her gaze drifted over the shape of his firm form beneath gauzy cotton, falling with fascinated interest upon the base of his flexile throat which rose as a bronze column from the white fabric draping open at his chest.

The spicy aromatic scent of him, freshly shaved, aroused her senses. She longed to be near him at this moment, to feel the comfort of his strength this morning. “I feel a little selfish today,” she murmured, moving her thumb distractedly over the ridges of his fingers as she struggled to explain something of the conflicting emotions of desire and duty that wrestled within her breast.

“Selfish?” he echoed with taut expectation, striving mightily to restrain the urge to taste and feel all that his eyes roved over of her loveliness and inviting tenderness.

“I am glad to be home again in Milton (how sweetly those words sounded to his ears!)…but a portion of me wishes to be back in Scarborough,” she finished, feeling the warm blush come furiously into her cheeks. She could not look at him.

The boundaries he had firmly set for himself shifted at this utterance. The power to speak left him for a moment as a racing, eager hope dared to imagine that her secret longings mirrored his own.

“Not selfish,” he murmured as he reached to raise her blushing face to his. “Not selfish at all,” he affirmed, looking into the depth of those eyes that gleamed with beautiful timidity and pleading hope.

He brought his mouth nearer hers. The mere brush of lips – tentative and slow, as if it were the very first time they had met thus – made his body shudder in aching longing for the tender passion they had shared before. It was his right; she was his wife.

Her kisses, sweetly mingled with his own restrained ardor, were yet edged with a faint urgency that turned his blood to fire and unwound the bonds of measured expression. His kisses grew more fervent.

She returned his passion. A small hand skimmed the curve of his shoulder to clutch about his neck, shattering every pretense of constraint and sending the scorching impulse of need through his veins. How much he had longed to take her as his wife in this very bed!

He pressed her back against the soft cushion of pillows to show her — if it were possible in one act of loving — what she meant to him and would mean to him the remainder of his days.

******

It was nearly nine when, after having patiently allowed the young ladies’ maid to assist her into her dress, Margaret stepped onto the crimson-patterned carpet of the still hallway.  She crept down the stairs, conscious that this was the first time that she had done so, although her husband had trod the same passageway countless times. She slowed to study with curiosity the portraits and framed silhouettes along the wall.

She entered the empty drawing room with the nervous hesitation of a visitor and stole to the window for a moment to stare at the movement of men and carts below, a testament to the industry of the great brick mill behind. She lifted her gaze to the factory with a soft smile of pride and sought for the window that might be his, surprised at her pang of longing to go to him. A rush of emotions swept over her – love, excitement, uncertainty, gratitude, sorrow. But gnawing fear encroached upon the happier feelings that might have been hers today, were circumstances different.

An irascible melancholy settled deep within as she thought of the painful truth that must be faced. She turned with a sigh to find her way to the breakfast room.

Margaret trod softly as she peeked around each new corner, slowing her steps as she caught sight of the dark-clad figure of her mother-in-law, sipping a cup of tea at a square table draped in cream linen.

“Good morning,” the new bride ventured, calling out in a politely cheerful tone.

The older women turned her head, her agile eyes appraising at once. “Good morning,” she returned, the trace of a smile softening the rigid line of her lips. “Did you sleep well?” she asked, endeavoring to match in the girl’s demeanor the same contented deportment that she had discerned in her son this morning.

“Very well, thank you,” Margaret answered her mother-in-law’s expected inquiry, blushing to tacitly acknowledge her complacency in sharing a bed with her son.

Both women were relieved for a moment from conversation as the maid entered to bring Margaret a breakfast of poached egg and toast with marmalade.

The young bride sipped her tea and tasted a bite of her egg before renewing communication. “I’m sorry I shall not be able to spend the day learning some of the regimens of this grand house, but I…”

“John has explained all to me,” Mrs. Thornton interrupted gently. “It is well for you to attend to your mother. There will be time enough to learn the workings of this house.”

“Thank you,” Margaret replied, feeling a small burden of apprehension lift from her shoulders.

They talked very little while Margaret finished her breakfast.

“I hope you will find your mother improving. If there is anything I can do to be of aid…” the older woman offered as Margaret excused herself and rose from the table.

“I thank you for your kindness,” the girl gratefully replied.

Fanny entered the room at this moment with her traditional morning languor. Obligated to make her appearance before ten by her mother’s rules, she felt it was entirely unfashionable to be up at the same early hours kept by a servant or common laborer.

“Good morning, Fanny. I’m sorry not to join you for your tea, but I was just leaving. I believe you know my mother is not well,” the new Mrs. Thornton relayed.

“I’m sorry your mother is ill, how unfortunate a time…will you take the carriage? It is a long way to Crampton,” Fanny encouraged, assuming her sister-in-law would take every advantage now available to her.

“I’m sure there is no need. The walk will do me good,” she answered with an uncomfortable smile.

The walk did indeed give Margaret time to gather her thoughts and renew her strength. Immersed in the bustle of human activity outside the pleasant walls of domestic tranquility, she felt her own purpose draw clearer. Grateful for the ready help promised by her new relations, she faced the future with renewed fortitude.

She was full of bright confidence to offer sustenance of spirit to her family when she arrived within paces of her parents’ home. She looked up in time to see Dr. Donaldson’s tall figure exit the door, black bag in hand.

Margaret froze in fear for a moment. She studied the grim lines of his face with fainting heart as the family doctor descended the steps.

“Dr. Donaldson,” she called out as she resumed her approach. “My mother….how does she fare?” she asked with a forced calm that belied the turbulent beating of her heart.

“I’m afraid your mother took a turn for the worse last evening,” he gravely declared, knowing the girl would demand the truth. “Morphine gives her sleep for now. But if she should have such a spell again…”

“I understand,” Margaret answered in a tight voice, the color drained from her face. “Thank you for your care,” she offered with a brave nod as the kindly old doctor tipped his hat and continued on his way to his next patient.

Gathering the remaining fragments of her courage, Margaret climbed the same steps to face the inevitable.

*****

Mr. Thornton briskly walked his rounds among the humming weaving machines to ensure that all hands were at their stations and work proceeded apace. Passing by the women and men who worked for him throughout the day, he was unaware that he himself was be the object of scrutiny of every pair of eyes.

The Master returned to the relative quiet of his office, and sat to attend to the correspondence that awaited his hand. But his distracted thoughts that deafening industry and activity had kept at bay clamored to be heard in the stillness. Would Margaret find her mother improved this day? He fervently wished his mother-in-law had been too disparaging of her condition, and that she might yet continue for many months longer. And what of Frederick – how long could he be kept a recluse in this town?

Such were the swirl of restless questions that beset him until he was at last impelled to set down his quill and rise to turn to the window.

The house he had lived in for years stood sentinel across the dirt yard, a testament to his determination to establish for his family a place of dignity and purpose. It now housed his wife as well. She would be in it at this moment, waiting for his return, if disease had not taken this importune time to strike at the happiness that had accumulated so long in their favor.

The enticing memories of those unforgettable days and nights in Scarborough began to drift into his thoughts.

“Thornton.”

The intruding voice, instantly recognizable, caused him to pivot from his listless peering.

“Mr. Bell,” he declared in some surprise. “You’re still in town?”

His visitor could not suppress a satisfied smile, amused to have caught the newly married man gazing out the window like some besotted lover. “I have had some papers drawn up which require your signature,” he announced, pulling out a portfolio from under his arm and handing it to the young Master.

Mr. Thornton sat at his desk, withdrew the documents from the leather case, and pored over the contents. He looked up after a few moments’ silence, his face contorted in confusion. “This is the deed to the mill,” he stated, fixing his landlord with an uncomprehending stare.

“Precisely. I have signed over ownership of the mill and its surrounding properties to you. I should like you to consider it a wedding gift.”

Mr. Thornton shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say…”

“A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice. It pleases me to think that Providence guided me to send the Hales into your care. Hale is my oldest friend, and Margaret my goddaughter. It was ever my intention to make Margaret my beneficiary upon my demise. You have saved me much worry. It does my old heart good – and Richard’s as well, I can assure you – to know that that you will take good care of her.”

“Thank you,” the Master said quietly, still blinking in bewilderment to be handed the ownership of everything he had worked years to build to success. “But what of you?” he thought to ask, considering the staggering amount of wealth being given up.

“Oh, fie! Think nothing of me!” Mr. Bell responded, directing attention to the unsigned papers with an impatient wave of his hand. Mr. Thornton dipped his quill and began to seal the transfer of property with ink as his former landlord continued his explanation. “I have other properties and investments which do me very well. I am an old man, after all, and have very few wants or needs to make me quite comfortable. No doubt you will soon be a family man. Security will give great peace of mind, so that you may attend to matters of far greater importance than business.”

“By the by, how is Mrs. Hale?” the elder gentleman inquired, his demeanor changing to one of solemn concern.

“Not well, I’m afraid. You have visited the house of late?” Mr. Thornton’s cautious question sought to determine whether Mr. Bell knew of the family’s great secret.

“Yes, yesterday. I’d not seen Frederick in years. He was still a lad when he left Helstone for the lure of the sea. It was a devastating blow to Hale to have his son excoriated by the Navy. Think of it – his only son branded a traitor! By heaven, he must not stay long. If anything were to go wrong…”

“I will take every precaution to guard him well,” the Master interrupted with growing unease at the notion of the severity of the predicament in which he was placed as Milton magistrate and brother-in-law to one marked with treason.

“I thank you,” Mr. Thornton reiterated as he handed the portfolio back to Mr. Bell. “Your gift is more than generous…”

“I expect great things of Marlborough Mills. Always have, now more so than ever. It will be my pleasure to see what you will do now that everything under your command is indeed yours,” he announced with conviction, shaking hands with the man who still appeared stunned by his new status.

“I will stay in town a few more days while Mrs. Hale’s condition is uncertain. If I can be of any help, I can be reached at the Clarendon,” the aging bachelor offered.

“Thank you,” the Master replied, his words a hollow token for the kindness and generosity shown him by his longtime landlord and friend.

Mr. Bell gave a comprehensive nod and departed as quickly as he had appeared.

When the daze of astonishment had cleared and duty faced him across his desk, Mr. Thornton returned to his work with zeal to accomplish. Heedless of the noon whistle that freed hundreds from their posts, the Master remained bent over his desk. A knock on the door did nothing to alter the flow of ink from his quill. A vacant command was given to enter the room.

“Yo’ asked to see me at half day,” Higgins announced, taking a step inside with a cautious glance at the Master.

Mr. Thornton scribbled unperturbed yet a second more before putting up his writing instrument. “I did,” he said, raising his eyes to acknowledge the staunch laborer he had once looked upon with enmity. “I’ve been turning over something in mind since we last spoke. There’s an old store house by the far side that might be emptied and utilized for different purposes,” he began, noting he was being studied with shrewd curiosity.

“If meat from the butcher were bought wholesale,” he continued, “and other goods purchased in quantity at a low price, portions might be made for which the hands might pay a penny and get a decent meal in their bellies that would better fit them for their daily work. What say you? If it were feasible, would the men pay for pottage here?”

If the former union leader had scrutinized his employer with uncertainty at the outset, he now stared at him as a specimen never before encountered. Struck dumb for a moment, the words that formed his faltering reply yet bore the sting of doubt. “A scheme like yourn would take a great deal o’ planning. There’s the market to haggle, the transport and laying up of goods, a cook….”

“I’ve not time to tend to the details. If you can search out the facts and figures, I’ll see what I can do.”

This was altogether new – collaboration between men and master. Higgins surveyed the man before him with a flicker of something more than respect, which warmed his insides and relaxed the lines of his mouth.

“There’s them that ‘ave wagered that there’d be more changes to come. I had na’ believed we’d see it while the bridal air yet sets over the town. Tongues’ll wag that the master is o’er run by the petticoat set,” the laborer dared to warn the man he had oft called an “ol’ bulldog.” A smile hovered over his lips as he looked at the love-smitten groom.

“Margaret knows naught of this,” the Master countered with narrowed eyes, frowning in uncertain indignation at Higgins’ forthright manner. A spark of independent pride rose up in rebellion at the accusation, and then softened at the inward admission of having imagined receiving a smile, and more, from his wife upon relaying to her the news of this venture.

“A man mun keep his pride,” Higgins allowed, a merry twinkle in his eye. “I’ll believe yo’ if yo’ tell me straight. But I canna save yo’ from the prattle of the bawdy lot of ‘em.” He could no longer hide his grin.

The flash of a smile turned up the corners of the Master’s mouth. “Then be off with you!” he commanded in mock severity, feeling the flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. “And mind what I said.”

“That I will,” came the grinning answer as Higgins touched his cap with a nod and made his hasty exit.

*****

The Master took heed of the long whistle at day’s end, and did not linger long once the looms stilled and all human life had abandoned the binding call of labor.

He climbed the tall staircase of his house with a fervent hope to find the object of his affection returned and settled in her rightful home.

“Is Margaret not returned?” he asked his mother, taking a sweeping glance of the family’s formal living space. Fanny and his mother sat in their usual places.

A shadow of annoyance crossed Hannah Thornton’s features at this abrupt greeting, but dissipated as she studied her son’s distracted visage. She rose to retrieve a letter. “She sent word to you,” was the answer he received, as the parchment was placed in his hands.

He opened it at once and scanned its contents, his eyes darting in deepening alarm. “Why was this not delivered to me earlier?” he demanded.

Hannah flinched at the spark of anger in his voice. “The instruction was given that you not be disturbed from your work,” she retorted in firm defense. “What is it, John?” she asked, his testiness forgotten as she observed the dark shadows of gloom cloud his countenance.

“Mrs. Hale. She has grown worse,” he answered. He turned to the next room to retrieve the coat he had just removed.

“Is there anything I can do?” his mother asked helplessly as she watched her son prepare to leave without taking his supper.

“I don’t know. If I do not return, you will know there can be no good news.”

Their eyes met. Hannah nodded in solemn understanding.

“Good night, Fanny,” he remembered to say with a brusque kindness as he turned to go, leaving his sister gaping at his sudden departure.

The pulse of fear quickened his steps as the last vestiges of color seeped from manmade landscape and sky in the fading daylight and cool air of coming night crept in like a fog. His stride was certain as he passed the familiar byways of this well-trod path with unseeing focus on the pavement ahead. Words of reprimand muttered in his mind amidst pangs of irrational hurt. Why had she not called for him in her distress? Those passersby that noted the hurried gait and frown of the Master gave him space to pass unencumbered.

The meek Higgins girl admitted him into the house, which already seemed to echo the somber stillness of a mausoleum. Dread filled his senses at the thought of arriving too late.

The sound of rustling petticoats sent his gaze to the stairs, where his wife descended as swiftly as silent grace would allow. “John…you’re here,” she spoke aloud, her relief palpable as she reached the last steps and tumbled into his waiting arms.

All impulse to scold vanished as he clasped her close to his breast. “How is she?” he asked, gently pulling back from her to find tear-stained eyes.

“She lies unaware of all around her. At least no sign is given…oh, I did not think she should fall so swiftly into such a state!” she moaned at last, feeling a fresh resurgence of tears falling as she was enfolded once more to his firm chest.

He followed her up the stairs to the somber bedside scene. Frederick looked up at the newcomer, keeping his mother’s bony hand firmly in his own. A wild desperation flashed in his eyes, as one who yet sought salvation from a harrowing fate.

Mr. Hale grasped his wife’s other hand. The sight of the pale, stricken face of the kindly vicar pulled a deep chord of sympathy in the Master’s breast. Dixon sat in helpless misery in the corner of her mistress room.

And so the vigil continued, Mr. Thornton escaping the stifling atmosphere once or twice to pace alone in the parlor below.

Near midnight, the convulsions came on once more. Husband and son shrunk in horror as the listless figured in suffering. Margaret endeavored to calm her mother with her husband’s gentle help as Dixon administered morphine through lax lips. Water given to chase the sedative down trickled from the glass to the patient’s chin. Dabbed and soothed, the limp patient was lowered to the pillows once more, never more to rise.

Father and son resumed their bedside vigil with renewed earnestness, holding hands of one who would soon slip away. The lip of the younger one quivered before he bowed his head into the covers and released a muffled sob.

Before another hour had passed, Mrs. Hale breathed her last.

That awful moment of comprehension when the sundering of worlds is made final draws deeply into the souls of those left behind. All are affected, but the flow of emotions varies course for each. Dixon bowed her head, the tears streaming from her face while Frederick clung to his mother’s hand, heaving wrenching sobs. Mr. Hale stared at his wife’s pale gray face in stunned silence.

Mr. Thornton felt the dull weight of sorrow gather inwardly with rushing force as he watched his wife’s countenance contort into the horrible recognition of loss.

After some time, John gently urged his wife to leave the dead. Stoic and mute amidst her brother’s tears, Margaret moved only as directed like one dispossessed of all will.

With utmost patience, her husband led her to her bedroom where a few objects from her childhood remained on the dresser and floor. He helped her remove the binding layers of her clothes with tenderness like unto a father for his young child. When she at last stood in her cotton slip, he guided her to the narrow bed and pulled the covers aside for her to climb in, settling her with a gentle promise that he would return in a few minutes.

She merely nodded.

When he returned with food and some water, she was already sleeping. He set his offering down on a small table and heaved a heavy sigh.

John took off his coat and waistcoat in the shadows. He sat wearily to remove his boots before snuffing out the single candle and climbing into the narrow bed with his wife.  Gingerly, he turned onto his side and slid his arm around the sleeper to fit himself against her back. He let out his breath in tired relief, reveling in the comfort of her very nearness.

An unworldly cry rose in the darkness – a call from the bereaved son for his lost mother.  John closed his eyes against the sound, and pulled closer to the sleeping form in front of him.