Authors: The Dutiful Wife
“We got Adams’s name from the maid and the directions to his properties from another clerk in the office.”
“We came as quickly as we could, but took at least one wrong turning or we’d have been here sooner.”
“Well you are here now and we are very grateful,” Beatrix said. “Now may we please be on our way back to London?”
Another man who had been standing a bit off to the side said, “The lady ought to be sent back to Lunnon, but if you’ll give me the direction, I’ll continue on and arrest this Mr. Adams.”
Instantly there rose a vocal protest. No one, it seemed, wanted to miss the pleasure of seeing him captured. Indeed, they argued that the Runner would need their help in the event that the other two men had returned to the house.
“Wouldn’t want it to be three of them against one of you.”
“We’re all handy with our fists,” another added.
“I even have a knife and length of metal,” Edmund put in, retrieving it from where he had tossed it down upon recognizing the crest on his friend’s carriage.
“And I have pistols,” Lord Burford said. “Stashed in my coach in the case of highwaymen, but no reason they can’t be used for this.”
“Let us turn around and return to that inn a short way back. We can send Lady Rothwood on to London, and we can hire a coach there to take us to this house of Adams’s,” one of them proposed.
But Beatrix had had enough. “Oh, no. If you are going to get this man, I want to be there. I’m the one he threatened to give a painful death.”
Protests that it was too dangerous rose on all sides but Beatrix stood her ground. In the end, with much grumbling, they all piled into the carriage, Beatrix tucked against Edmund’s side. “But you will stay in the carriage,” he told her sternly. “If we have to worry about your safety, one or more of the men might get away.”
Beatrix decided this was not the moment to argue.
Edmund and Beatrix and then his friends, each in turn, told their experience of what had gone on over the past day and a half so that in the end they all had all the pieces of the story. Grim-faced, Beatrix shivered, all too aware of how close she had come to death, and Edmund as well. She would not feel safe until the Bow Street Runner had all three men in custody. She would not feel safe until she had seen with her own eyes that it was so.
Beatrix rather hoped Adams would give the men an excuse to shoot him, but he did not. At the sight of the group, some armed with pistols, he collapsed into a quivering heap and was soon bound up. The other two men, returning separately, were easily captured as well.
Edmund was not pleased that Beatrix had not listened to his directions that she stay in the carriage, but by the time he realized her rebellion it was too late to stop her. So she was there when Adams was captured, and she had the satisfaction of being the one to put a gag in his mouth so that he could not warn the two other men who were helping him. She was less pleased when the Runner removed the gag after all the men were in custody.
“We don’t want ’im suffocating like on the way back to Lunnon,” the Runner told her when she started to protest.
Adams did not seem in the least cowed. His fury was, as before, aimed at Rothwood. “Your father valued me! He wanted to make amends for the loss of my wife and son,” he all but spat the words. “Your father valued a great many of us, people most ignore. He made sure we would benefit when you failed to marry by your twenty-fifth birthday!”
“But I did marry by my twenty-fifth birthday,” Edmund pointed out gently. “And if you look at my father’s will carefully, you will see that those he valued received gifts directly upon his death. I regret to have to point this out, but other than my cousin Harold, who was family, my father specifically chose to name people he rather despised as benefiting should I fail to wed in time. He thought, you see, it would be an added incentive to me because he believed I would not want them to inherit anything, either. I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but my father neither respected nor valued you at all. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
That created such an explosion of rage from Adams that even the Runner agreed that perhaps gagging him again might be a wise thing to do. That and get all the prisoners back to London without further delay. There was a bit of confusion, of course, over how to do so, but out back Lord Burford found the carriage Adams and his men had been using, as well as their horses. It was soon agreed that all the men save Edmund would accompany the Runner back to London with the prisoners.
“It’ll be a tight squeeze,” Hawthorne told her, “but none of us want to risk the men escaping. With all of us there, they won’t have a chance to do so.”
Burford gallantly offered the use of his own carriage to Rothwood and his bride so that they could return to the city in comfort and, as he put it, the privacy due couples who have so recently been wed. Edmund and Beatrix gratefully accepted, and after some protest, even agreed to leave first.
“We don’t want to risk reaching London with our prisoners only to discover that by some misadventure you were recaptured after we left,” Totham said, only half in jest.
And so, as dawn was breaking, Edmund and Beatrix found themselves heading back to London, hopefully for the last time. As she watched the house disappear behind them, Beatrix said, “What a wretched house and what a wretched man.”
Edmund pulled her closer so that her head rested against his shoulder. He breathed in the scent of her and wondered at how it had become so familiar and so dear to him in such a short time.
“Adams was wretched and desperate,” he agreed. “But we need not worry about him ever again.”
“I hope not. I was so terrified when that man told me you would die if I did not come with him.”
“And so you did. Just like that.”
Beatrix lifted up her head and said, with some exasperation, “He already was dragging me off. Had he not had hold of me, I would have run for help. But since he did have hold of me, well, of course I could not let harm come to you if it was in my power to stop it.”
“Of course,” Rothwood agreed. “My meek and docile wife.”
In answer, she quite pardonably growled something under her breath.
He only chuckled and grinned.
It was good that he was jesting about this but a tiny core of fear still curled inside Beatrix. The last thing she wanted to do was ask him again whether any part of him still wanted a meek and docile wife. But if she didn’t, she would carry this fear forever and it would taint everything between them. She would forever be watching for small signs of his discontent and bristling to defend herself. It was true that she had asked him while they were captives, but what if he had only spoken as he did out of the emotions of the moment? If she was to go forward with Edmund, in this marriage just begun, she had to find the courage to ask again. Now, when they were no longer afraid for their lives. She was not a coward, was she?
Beatrix put her hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes. The serious expression on her face stood in contrast to his mischievous grin. “Do you,” she asked, “in any way still wish for that kind of wife?”
He placed his hand over hers, as serious now as she was. “I shall probably always have moments when I find myself thinking as my father did.”
When she moved to pull her hand away, hurting more than she thought she could, he refused to let go of it. He went on, his voice firm and deliberate, as if he wished to make certain she heard and understood what he had to say. “I shall always have such moments. It is useless to try to pretend otherwise. But such moments do not determine who we are. It is our ability to step back and say to ourselves that we need not see the world as we always have that matters. It is our ability to stop and challenge those beliefs when they appear. It is our ability to remind ourselves that we do not have to give in to our fears and prejudices and darkest impulses. We can choose to step back and be who and how we want to be. I may at times find myself wishing and perhaps even saying that it would be better if I had a meek and docile wife. But my best self, the self you make me want to be, will always know that I would rather have you, just as you are, than any other woman on earth.”
Beatrix felt a smile on her face, and a warmth that spread from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Shyly she looked up at him and said, “No doubt there will be times I wish and say I wish you were different as well. But I, too, shall always know how lucky I am to have you as my husband. From the moment I saw you when I was still a young girl, all those years ago, and you were so kind to me, I have known I wanted you for my husband. And now I have you!”
“You did not think me a nuisance intruding on your family?” he teased.
She shook her head. “Never that. To be sure, even then I worried about how we would manage not to disgrace ourselves by setting too poor a table, but you were not an intrusion. You were kindness and knowledge and novelty. You were patience itself with my brothers, teaching them things Papa never could. I think I loved you more for that even than for your kindness to me.”
He kissed her hand. “Of course you did,” he said amiably. “From what I have seen, you always put the welfare of those you love above your own.”
She ducked her head, then changed her mind. She would not hide from him. They might never again have such an honest sharing of how they felt. Now was the time to tell him everything, even that which was not flattering to her character. So she met his gaze as she said, a wry twist to her lips, “I do not always put the welfare of others before my own. Remember that before I became ill and you were abducted, I had just visited a modiste and ordered a new wardrobe. I am, you see, sadly shallow. I truly do care how I look.”
“A terrible flaw, to be sure,” he agreed soberly, but his eyes were laughing.
She smiled, but then took a deep breath and confessed, “I—I married you, leaving my family on their own to manage. And I know they will not do it very well.”
This time his eyes were not teasing her. He took her chin in his hand and held it so that she could not look away. “You are not responsible for the choices your parents make,” he said. “It is unconscionable that they allowed the burden to fall upon your shoulders for so long. You have a right to be happy. You have a right to be here with me. And we shall, together, make certain your brothers and sisters do not suffer because you are away.”
Beatrix felt her eyes sparkle with unshed tears. “Truly?”
“Truly. As my wife, you will be exceptionally well placed to bring your sisters out, if you wish, when they are old enough. They will get to see London and be able to choose from far more potential suitors than if you had sacrificed your own happiness to stay home with them instead of marrying me.”
Beatrix threw her arms around Edmund. “I do so love you!” she said as she lifted her face to be kissed.
He stilled and froze. “You love me?” he echoed.
She looked at him and saw, to her astonishment, uncertainty in his face. Who could have made him doubt himself so badly that he found such a thing so hard to believe?
Now it was Beatrix who put her hands on either side of his face and said fiercely, “I love you! Do not doubt it, Edmund. You are kind and good and everything I could ever want in a husband!”
Something changed, and now it was he who crushed her against him, kissing her breathless. The time would come for her to learn more about his past, to understand why he could ever doubt himself. But that moment was not now. Now was for embracing him. It was even, she discovered, for far more than that, if one were creative. And Edmund was very creative.
His hand slid up her leg, from her ankle up beneath her skirt to the bare skin above her stockings, and then even higher, between her thighs to her very core.
Oh, my! Mama and Papa would be shocked if they could see her now. But then again, perhaps not. Given how often they went laughing to their bedroom together, Beatrix rather thought they might have tried a great many things that would shock
her
.
But she didn’t want to think about her parents. She wanted to think about Edmund and the wonderful sensations that coursed through her with the touch of his hands. She wanted to touch every part of him, her hands already finding their way beneath his shirt to feel his chest. This was her dearest Edmund, whom she had so nearly lost, and she wanted to be as close to him as a man and woman could be.
In minutes, Edmund had undone her clothes and his enough to allow them to make love right here on the seat of the carriage. It was the strangest and most wonderful sensation to ride his lap as she was, the jouncing of the carriage adding to the sensations in the most unexpected ways. And when she came apart, the sound of the carriage wheels drowned her cries, even as it did Edmund’s when he spilled his seed inside her moments later.
It took more than a few moments to catch their breath and then, still breathing hard, Edmund chuckled and said, “I think I’m going to be very glad it’s a long way back to London.”
It was early morning by the time their carriage arrived at Lady Kenrick’s townhouse. Beatrix and Edmund had managed to rearrange their clothing so that they looked no more rumpled than a day in captivity might explain. The servant who opened the door to them so far forgot himself as to express gratification that they were safe and well.
Lady Kenrick, roused from her bed, took time only to throw a wrapper over her nightgown before sailing downstairs and into the drawing room where she found them waiting. Instantly she turned around and told the nearest footman, “Why are they in here? Go tell Cook to serve breakfast immediately! They must be famished.” She turned to Edmund and Beatrix and said, “You are famished, are you not?”
“We are,” they agreed in unison.
Lady Kenrick stared at them. She seemed to see something in their faces for her own became wreathed in a smile. “Excellent! This way, my dears. You must tell me all about your adventures while we eat.”
It said a great deal about the quality of Lady Kenrick’s servants that despite the earliness of the hour, within fifteen minutes of her command, coffee, tea and hot chocolate had been poured and platters of food set on the sideboard.
“You may leave us,” Lady Kenrick said to the servants, with a wave of her hand. “We shall serve ourselves.” The moment they were alone she turned to her guests and said, “Now tell me all about it and don’t leave out a thing!”
If they did not tell her quite everything—particularly what happened in the carriage on their way back to London—they did not leave out anything pertinent to their abductions, captivity or rescue. Lady Kenrick was an excellent listener and showed great appreciation for their resourcefulness. When they were done, she proclaimed it better than any tale written in a book.
Under the table, Edmund squeezed Beatrix’s hand. She smiled at him in a way that warmed his heart and promised everything once they were in private again.
Then Lady Kenrick said, with a frown, “What I don’t understand, Beatrix, is why you took such a risk as to go out alone after the previous attempts on Edmund’s life and the attempt to poison you.”
Beatrix went very still. When she spoke, it was in a careful voice that alarmed Edmund. She looked at him and repeated the words, “Attempts on Edmund’s life? What attempts on Edmund’s life?”
“He didn’t tell you about the deliberately damaged carriage wheel or the cinch someone cut nearly all the way through?”
Aunt Violet’s voice was incredulous. Edmund tried to regain control of the situation. “I didn’t tell you, either,” he said bitingly.
His aunt smiled. “Yes, but you know I know everything. A word with your coachman and I found out all I needed to know.”
Edmund bit back a curse. Now was not the time, but later he would be speaking with his coachman. Now he looked at Beatrix and took her hand. “I didn’t wish to worry you,” he said coaxingly.
“No, you would rather put my life in jeopardy from ignorance,” she spat back.
Lady Kenrick cleared her throat. “I believe I should allow you both privacy for this conversation.”
Bitterly Edmund retorted, “It’s a little too late for that. I must be off to Bow Street to collect a Runner to come to my townhouse with me and deal with the person who is believed to have poisoned my wife.” To Beatrix he added, “We shall continue this later. For now I think it best that you stay here with Lady Kenrick.”
He should have known better. Beatrix rose to her feet just as he did. Her words and tone were every bit as biting as his had been. “Already you are breaking your promises to me? Trying to dictate what I should and should not do? I think not. I am going with you. After all, it was
my
life that was in jeopardy. Who knows what she can tell us? I will not risk not knowing what might be valuable information ever again.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to give her a setdown. But what could he say? She had, unfortunately, a valid point. “Very well,” he said curtly. “But do not get in our way.”
Her response was merely a withering gaze. Somehow he did not think the discussion ahead was going to be a pleasant one.
Behind them, Edmund could hear his aunt make an inarticulate noise, but he did not turn around to see. She had, he felt, caused enough mischief already and he was not about to encourage her to make more.
* * *
As promised, Henry had left Annie locked away in her room and was only too happy to hand her over to the Bow Street Runner who accompanied Lord and Lady Rothwood upon their return home. He even forgot himself so far as to exclaim at the sight of them, “Thank God! Oh, my heavens, thank God you’re both all right!”
Beatrix might have been inclined to be lenient with Annie, but Rothwood was adamant. “She almost killed you. She may not have known that was the intent, but she put something in your tea and kept silent when you took ill. She ought to have come to Henry or to you or me the moment this James fellow asked her to do any such thing. Even if she is only weak-willed, I’ll not take the risk she’ll be swayed by the next fellow wanting to do harm to us or to anyone else. You are too dear to me for that.”
The Bow Street Runner cleared his throat. “He’s right, ma’am. Let her off and she’s like to do it again, thinking she won’t be called to account, a few tears saving her and all. Leave her go and she’ll find herself thinking how easy it was and how she’d of got away with it if she’d just held steady and denied everything. And then someone really will be dead.”
But it didn’t come to that. When the door was opened to Annie’s room, they found she had chosen her own way out. The Runner cleared his throat and turned to Rothwood. “Probably better this way, my lord. Her ladyship would have had a hard time, feeling sorry and all for the girl and the girl herself would have had a very unpleasant road ahead of her. This way, there’s no need for a trial or anything else. I’ll take the body with me and that will be the end of it.”
Edmund wasn’t so certain about that. He had a feeling both he and Beatrix would feel the consequences for some time to come. But he did not argue. The sooner the Runner and Annie’s body were out of the house, the better.
Downstairs, Beatrix stood silent as the body was carried out of the house and as Edmund accepted congratulations for their safe return. She managed to smile when spoken to and answer softly but Edmund did not delude himself that she was any less angry than she had been at his aunt’s breakfast table.
Finally they were left alone. Edmund turned to face his wife and took a deep breath. “I—”
She held up a hand to forestall him. “Not one word. You failed to tell me something that might have cost me my life. Had I known about the attempts on your life, I might have been on my guard. Certainly I would not have risked coming back here alone yesterday morning. But no, you kept it to yourself.
Protecting
me, I suppose. But it didn’t. And if you had bothered to tell me what you planned with your will, I could have pointed out the danger it might put me in. But no, you chose not to tell me about that, either.”
“If you had stayed at my aunt’s house, as any sensible person would have done, all would have been well!”
“Really? Well, pardon me for being concerned about my
husband
and wishing to know if he was all right. Besides, how do you know I would not have been attacked there?”
“I told him I would not sign the papers unless I had proof you were safe and well.”
Beatrix threw up her hands. “Oh, that was to make it all right? How do you think he intended to prove it to you?”
“With a letter in your handwriting saying that you were well.”
“And you think I would have meekly written such a thing?” Beatrix demanded incredulously.
“Obviously I was mistaken,” Edmund said through clenched teeth.
“Mr. Adams was wiser than you,” she shot back, “for clearly
his
man was prepared to abduct me and bring me there to prove I was safe and well.”
Edmund wanted to shout but had a strong feeling that would not aid his cause. Besides, he had the rather lowering sensation that she was probably right. He had bungled things terribly. “I meant well,” he said. “I was not thinking clearly. How could I when I was so afraid for your safety. You cannot ask me not to try to protect you! You are my wife.”
“Just as you tried to protect me by saying I should remain in the carriage while you and your friends and the Bow Street Runner tried to capture Adams?”
“Yes, precisely!”
“I see. And what if I had been in the carriage when those other men returned? They might well have captured me,” she countered. “Had we discussed the matter, we might have aired those possibilities together and discovered a solution.”
Edmund stared at her, feeling an unfathomable gap between them. How could she not understand? How could she not see where she had gone wrong in all of this?
“The coachman had a pistol. He could have protected you. Besides, you did not say any of this at the time,” he pointed out. “You did not even try to reason with me. You simply chose to do as you pleased. Just as when you left Lady Kenrick’s house to come here and were captured. We are both at fault. We both made mistakes and we cannot undo those mistakes. What matters is how we go forward, is it not?”
She opened her mouth to argue and then closed it again. He could see that she struggled with herself and he waited, knowing that it was in these next few moments that the future of their marriage might hang in the balance. At last she nodded. Reluctantly, but she nodded.
“You are right. I was so focused on what I wanted that I did not think about what might be wise. I am so accustomed to being the only one with any common sense, the only one able to see how things ought to be, that I do not know how to take into account the opinion of anyone else.”
She paused and took a deep breath and he could see how difficult this was for her. “We did both make mistakes, Edmund, and I am sorry for it. We are both learning what it means to trust, to be married and I can see that it will not come easily for either of us.” She looked at him, then unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “But I cannot, I will not live like my mother. I will—no, I
must
question what you do, yes, and take you to task when I think your mistakes could endanger me and any children we may have. I will
not
be silent.”
“I am not your father. I can learn from my mistakes,” he answered. “But I am asking you to learn from yours as well.” He took a step closer and when she did not retreat he reached out and took her hands in his. “I promise that in the future I shall try not to hide things from you, shall try to let you know about anything that could in any way affect your life. In return, I ask that you presume I mean well and that it is better to speak with me about how you feel rather than simply to act. In short, I am asking you
not
to be silent. Mind, I should prefer you choose your moments well,” he added dryly, “and if possible, not air our dirty laundry before my aunt. She has a way of trying to take matters in hand if she senses trouble. I should prefer that as much as possible we resolve things ourselves. Otherwise we are likely to find her trying to rule our roost.”
Beatrix laughed, as he hoped she would. Encouraged, he went on, “I chose you because I thought you would be a dutiful wife and I would have my life scarcely unchanged by our wedding. But I meant what I said in the carriage. I am realizing that sort of marriage would not have made me happy after all. I am realizing I would rather we be able to laugh together and make love together and talk together.”
“I should like that as well,” she agreed.
“Good.” He hesitated, then plunged in. “I said that I would tell you everything that concerns you. Very well. I have been thinking about Adams and the others named in my father’s will. Adams was wrong to kidnap and try to harm us. But my father was wrong, as well, to set up expectations he never meant to see fulfilled. No one, save my cousin Harold, would have received all that much, but to those other people even a small amount might have made all the difference in their lives.”
Edmund paused. He took a moment to try to choose his words with care. Beatrix waited patiently and he took heart from that.
“You were not there when Adams told me, but it was the loss of his son because he could not pay for his medical care that in turn caused the suicide of his wife, which in turn caused his own madness. It would not have taken much to save his son, but my father refused to lend him the money. I should like to take a portion of my inheritance and use it to help the lives of those less fortunate. Beginning with at least some of those named in my father’s will.”
He paused again. Beatrix had gone very pale and a hand stole upward toward her throat. He could see both fear and compassion in her eyes. Was she afraid he would be like her father, throwing away money they could ill afford?
“I do not mean to beggar us, by any means,” he said. “Nor will I blindly honor the bequests. Instead, I mean to determine, you see, who might deserve a little help. It may be that even a small sum would be enough to change their lives. We have so much and some of them so little. I also mean, in the House of Lords, to speak for bills that will help those less fortunate than we are. It will not,” he added wryly, “make us popular among the
ton
, you and I.”
This time, when he stopped and looked at her with some uncertainty, Beatrix threw her arms around his neck. “I do so love you!” she said.
“You are not angry?” he asked, taken aback.
“You would not be you if you did not care,” she answered, a fierceness in her voice. “You would not be you if you were not kind. So long as you do not beggar us and I may have all the new dresses I want . . . ”
She was teasing him. Edmund laughed and hugged her tight. “You may have anything you want,” he said.
“Anything?”
“Anything,” he confirmed.
“Then what I should like,” she said softly, almost shyly, “is to go upstairs and show you how much I love you. And how lucky you are to have me as your wife.”
He grinned. “I think I should like that, too,” he said.