“Yet,” Jessica said thoughtfully, “your cook is here.”
“Is she?” Beatrice murmured. “I wonder why she didn’t go to her family in Chichester.”
Some little bit of loyalty for her mistress resided within the woman, Jessica supposed, her feelings toward the cook softening somewhat. She dipped a cloth into the warm water and proceeded to clean off the blood from Beatrice’s face as gently as she could. Beatrice lay still, her eyes squeezed shut from the swelling, wincing slightly when Jessica pressed on a bruise. The subtle evidence of her friend’s pain increased Jessica’s anger with each passing minute, until finally, she blurted, “For God’s sake, Beatrice, that bastard can’t be allowed to touch you again. You must leave him!”
She stared at her friend, who lay very still as if she were as shocked by the outburst as Jessica was. After a long moment of silence, Beatrice murmured, “I can’t.”
Her explosion had released the heat of her anger, and now all Jessica could feel was the cold, hard lump of it, deep in her chest. She couldn’t let her friend suffer like this. Never again. She could not—would not—stand by and allow it.
“He might kill you next time,” she said.
“He has every right,” Beatrice whispered.
“Not to kill you!”
“But to beat me… to punish me—”
Jessica shook her head. “No! What was the ‘punishment’ for this time, Beatrice? Breathing? This has nothing to do with punishment, or anything that you’ve done wrong. You must know that.”
Ever since she’d seen Beatrice hurt that first time,
she’d been trying to drill that fact into her friend’s mind. Beatrice was a sweet, kind, beautiful woman. She didn’t deserve a harsh word, much less anything like this.
A fresh tear leaked from Beatrice’s eye and trailed down the side of her mottled face.
“I know. It’s just… he’s my husband. I don’t want to hate him…”
“But you do. You must.”
The tears flowed faster now. “I hurt everywhere, Jessica. Inside and out. I hurt so deeply.”
Jessica reached for her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “Nothing you have done justifies his treatment of you, Beatrice. Nothing.”
After a long silence just lying there, eyes closed and tears dripping down the sides of her face, Beatrice murmured, “I don’t deserve this. I didn’t do anything to provoke him this time. All I did was… greet him.”
Jessica exhaled slowly. It was the first time her friend had ever made such an admission. Finally,
finally,
she was beginning to understand how horribly wrong this was.
“You must leave him.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, I cannot.” Beatrice’s voice was almost a wail. “He’ll find me. If I leave him… if he were to find me, he truly would kill me.”
Jessica shook her head firmly. “You have powerful friends. We’ll keep you safe.”
Beatrice squeezed her hand weakly. “Oh, Jessica, you are the best friend in the world. You are truly my only friend. But he’s a powerful lord. He’s going to be a duke someday. There’s no way for you to protect me from him.”
“Not just me, Beatrice. My sisters. My brothers-in-law. And Captain Langley and Lord Hasley became so fond of you this past autumn—”
Beatrice’s lips twitched. “I think it was only my cooking that they admired.”
“Nonsense,” Jessica said. “And Lord Hasley is a duke now—surely that’s an even more powerful position than an almost-duke.”
Beatrice’s expression softened. “Jessica, he’s no longer Lord Hasley. Remember? Now that he’s a duke, we no longer call him by his old title. He’s now His Grace, the Duke of Wakefield.”
“Right.” Jessica frowned. Honestly, the ins and outs of the aristocracy didn’t matter one whit to her. She could never remember the difference between a marquis and an earl, and she didn’t really care. Mother had endlessly hammered that information into all of the sisters, but Jessica had never been able to distinguish between the ranks. It all sounded the same to her.
All she knew was that Mother wanted all the sisters to marry men with titles, so when she’d been in London during the Season, she’d paid special attention to all the men introduced with a “Lord” before their names. But honestly, most of them were terribly old, and overall, she’d found the “misters” far more attractive.
“So I shall call him ‘Lord Wakefield’ from now on,” Jessica said to her friend.
Beatrice sighed. “No, no. It should be ‘His Grace,’ or ‘Your Grace’ if you’re addressing him directly.”
“Oh goodness. I’ll never remember this.”
Beatrice squeezed her hand again. “I’ll help you.”
“And I’ll help
you,
” Jessica said. “Along with my
family and our friends. We’ll keep you safe. We simply
have
to.”
With a smile, Olivia folded Max’s latest letter and pushed it into the pocket of her pelisse.
She rose from the rock she’d been sitting on and stretched, reaching her fingertips to the sky. It was a warm day—well, at least in comparison to the past several days, and she felt so good. So healthy. She’d looked into the mirror this morning, and for the first time in her memory, she could see a natural flush in her cheeks. She’d gained a little weight since Max had arrived at Stratford House. She felt stronger than she ever had, and she’d discovered that she was less likely to lose her breath when walking up an incline or striding at a fast pace.
And then there was Max himself. His departure from Stratford House hadn’t been the end that she’d anticipated. He’d written to her almost daily about his thoughts about his new role and his daily activities. He spoke of their time together, how much he missed her, and about his hopes that they could see each other again soon. His letters were wonderfully caring and utterly romantic.
She relaxed her arms and gazed down at the ice-encrusted spring, which was barren of Henrietta the goose and all her friends—they’d all wandered off, probably in search of warmer bodies of water to frolic in. Still, Olivia came here, the place where she’d first met Max, to read his letters whenever the weather allowed.
With one final glance at the sky, she decided she’d best head home. It was almost dusk, and Lord knew, if she arrived home a minute after sundown, her family would come together as one and have a group apoplexy.
She smiled a little as she picked her way over the rocky path.
She’d been so certain that everything would change after Max left for London. That he would think her a mere country affair or even forget about her. But from his letters, it was easy to see that wasn’t the case. He was still the same man, one who was facing his new responsibilities with some frustration, a little annoyance, and always a great deal of courage.
Just thinking of his name made her smile grow wider.
Max. Max. Max.
In the letter she’d received today, Max had talked about Jonathan’s mother’s upcoming visit to London. He’d hinted that the dowager countess might need a companion… that Olivia would perhaps want to offer up herself for that position…. And if she did, they might be able to see each other again very soon.
Very soon, indeed. Max didn’t know this, but the dowager countess was planning to leave for London next week. Olivia couldn’t wait to suggest that she accompany the older woman, and she didn’t see that it would be any problem at all. She and the dowager enjoyed each other’s company.
Still, what would it mean to see Max—to be with him—in London?
It wasn’t over between them, that much was certain. And now that he’d given her evidence that he did care about her, that it wasn’t just a fling he’d simply drop the moment he left the country, the protective walls she’d built around herself were beginning to crumble.
She just might be falling in love with him.
She couldn’t think too hard about that, because if she did, she’d begin to second-guess Max’s—and her
own—motives. Her mind would take her in endless circles and drive her mad. For now, she’d force herself to be content with missing him and simply wanting to see him again.
As she stepped out of the shelter of the forest and the house came into view, she squinted at the end of the drive. A single figure was approaching the house from that direction—probably Jessica returning from Lady Fenwicke’s house. But the figure wasn’t walking at a leisurely pace; she was holding up her skirts and running.
Olivia hurried, too, hoping to intersect the person before she reached the house. As she drew closer, she saw that it was indeed Jessica, her skirts lifted so high, Olivia could see the flash of her garters as she ran.
“Olivia!” Jessica called when they were within hearing range.
“What is it, Jess?”
Jessica rushed at her, panting, her cheeks pink with exertion. When they were within a few steps of each other, she reeled to a stop, dropping her skirts and pressing her hand to her chest. She doubled over, taking sharp gulps of breath.
“Oh goodness!” Olivia exclaimed. “Are you all right? What has happened? Why did you run so?”
Jessica lifted her head. With the back of her arm, she wiped at a trail of sweat dripping down her face. “It’s Beatrice,” she wheezed.
Dread clenched in Olivia’s chest. “What about her?”
“Oh, Olivia… Oh…” Jessica broke into a sob, mixing with her harsh breaths.
Her own heart beating wildly, Olivia put her arms around her sister. “Here, darling. Lean on me. I’ll bring
you inside. Calm down, Jess. It’s all right. We’ll go inside and have a nice cup of tea…”
She kept murmuring to her sister as they stumbled inside the house. Jessica was noisy enough that they drew the attention of first the servants, then the rest of the family. By the time they were halfway down the corridor heading toward the drawing room, Serena had arrived, a footman had been sent to fetch Sebastian and Phoebe, and Jonathan had scooped Jessica up to carry her the rest of the way. When they reached the drawing room, Jonathan set her gently on the sofa. Serena sat on one side of her, Olivia on the other. Moments later, Phoebe and Sebastian rushed in, demanding to know what had happened.
Jessica turned to Olivia, put her arms around her, and sank her damp face into her neck. Olivia murmured softly to her sister, all the while exchanging worried glances with her sisters and brothers-in-law.
Eventually, Jessica’s sobs turned into whimpers and then mere sniffs. Finally, taking the handkerchief Olivia offered her, she pulled away from Olivia and seemed to try to compose herself.
“Jessica,” Serena said gently, “what happened to make you so very upset?”
Jessica took a deep breath. “I need your help.” She looked from one to the other of them. “All of you. Please. Help me. Help us.” Her shoulders shook as she tried to contain her sobs.
“Us?” Jonathan asked. “Who?”
“Beatrice and me.”
“Do you mean Lady Fenwicke?” Sebastian asked. He’d been so busy working on the Stratford House
renovations that he hadn’t grown to know Beatrice as well as the others had.
“Yes.”
“Help you how, Jess?” Phoebe asked.
“Help me save her life. Help me to hide her from her husband.”
They all stared at her, completely bewildered.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Phoebe asked.
“If we don’t help her escape,” Jessica said, a fresh tear sliding down her cheek, “Lord Fenwicke is going to kill her.”
J
essica told them the whole story. How she’d found Beatrice battered and bruised that first time after Lord Fenwicke had left. How this time she’d been so brutally beaten and used that when Jessica had tried to help her out of bed today, she’d been able to walk only a few steps.
“He’s a horrible man,” Jessica whispered. “He must be truly insane to do this to such a sweet, lovely lady.”
Jonathan had been pacing during most of Jessica’s explanation. Now he turned to her, his expression dark. “Jessica,” he said sternly, “do you realize what you’re asking us to do?”
“I’m asking you to help keep her safe,” Jessica said.
“The laws aren’t on her side. Technically, there’s nothing we can do about this,” Sebastian said. “A man has the right to discipline his wife as he sees fit.”
All four women stared at Sebastian, but Phoebe was the only one to speak. “Are you mad, Sebastian? He has the right to degrade her? To blind her? To cripple her?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Jonathan said. All the ladies’ gazes swung to him. “But that doesn’t mean society condones such actions. Everyone knows that men who strike women are bullies and cowards.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Serena exclaimed.
Jonathan’s voice gentled. “What did you promise her, Jessica?”
“I promised that I’d help her. And I will.”
Olivia was all too familiar with the voice Jessica was using. It was that youngest-child voice. The one that let all surrounding her know that she was going to do what it was she promised, no matter what anyone thought about it.
“Of course you will,” Serena soothed. “We all will.” She gave Jonathan a hard look. “Won’t we?”
Jonathan cocked his head at Serena. “If you think I’d allow a woman—any woman—to suffer like that under a man’s hand, you don’t know me very well, my love.”
She rose and went to him, slipping her arms around his waist. “I knew you wouldn’t.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, and he circled his arms around her possessively.
Phoebe cocked a brow at her husband, and Sebastian rubbed a thumb over it, soothing. “I will offer her my house in Prescot. That is, if you haven’t already thought of a better place for her to go.”
Jessica swallowed hard. “No, I haven’t. Prescot is far away, isn’t it? And far from London?”
“Quite,” Sebastian said dryly. “It’s perhaps not quite up to a marchioness’s standards, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jessica said. “She will be happy—so happy—just to be away. To be safe. Even if it is a hovel.”
“It is not a hovel,” Jonathan assured her. “It’s a small, sturdy dwelling. It should be adequate until we think of a more permanent arrangement. The most important thing now is to get her out of danger.”
“Yes. I think…” Jessica swallowed hard, obviously trying to control her emotions. “I think she requires a doctor, Jonathan.”