Betrayed (4 page)

Clara accepted the chair gratefully. “Thank
you, Mrs. Brockville. You are very kind. I am just overcome by exertion and—and
emotional trial. I’ve left Windemere just now, and Mr. Hamilton. I shall be
returning to London as soon as it can be arranged.”

Mrs. Brockville received this news with
rare aplomb. She patted Clara’s hand, a secretive look in her bright eyes. “Not
another word. Come into the sitting room where we can talk in private. The
servants do love to gossip in the market square. Come. I’ll ring for tea.”

The sitting room was a bright, pretty place
of white and gold, furnished with small tables and a long floral divan. The
high windows looked out over the expansive garden. Mrs. Brockville sat her on
the divan and rang for tea. Clara was suddenly conscious of the shabbiness of
her cloak trimmed with last year’s lace and her hands stuffed into a muff that
had seen better days. What a desperate picture she must make to the inhabitants
of this elegant, civilized house.

“We are not to be disturbed,” the lady
instructed her maid. “Inform Colonel Brockville and Captain Strachan we will
see them at dinner and not before.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as they were alone again, Mrs.
Brockville turned to Clara. “Now, what is this about? You must tell me
everything. I am not one of that crowd in London who are given to gossip for
gossip’s sake. You can trust me with your confidences as you would your own mother.”

Clara patted her eyes of tears at this
kindness even as she was determined to lie to the woman. “The marriage was
unsuccessful. I have left Mr. Hamilton and shall be returning to London by the
next carriage.” She coloured deeply and could not meet Mrs. Brockville’s steady
gaze.

“Oh my dear girl! What is the conflict?
Perhaps we can mediate a truce of some sort to prevent this rash step. We’ve
only just discovered you and now you’re planning to leave us! Why, in a
fortnight we’ll be hosting a shooting party, an intimate gathering of dear friends
and neighbours, and I had my heart set on you and Mr. Hamilton joining the
party. All the local families will be in attendance; everyone wants to meet the
new mistress of Windemere.”

“I’m sorry, I am truly sorry, Mrs.
Brockville, but I cannot be the mistress of Windemere.” Clara stopped herself
from revealing more. “Mr. Hamilton was not honest with me when he made his
proposal. He harbours resentments toward my father that are insupportable.”

Hills entered with the tea and while their
cups were being filled, Mrs. Brockville made polite remarks to deflect
curiosity. Once the housemaid had left the room, she resumed their discussion. “What
do you mean he was not honest? Do you mean to say he married you under false
pretenses? I cannot credit it,” the lady said. “I never saw a man as much in
love as Branson Hamilton.”

“He is a very good actor. He ought to go on
the stage. Branson Hamilton tricked me into coming to Windemere for the sole
purpose of revenging himself on my father. There is no love in his heart.”

“My dear! That is a serious allegation.
What on earth would cause Mr. Hamilton to go to such lengths?”

Clara remembered the madwoman in the chapel
and the insinuations she’d made. If prodded and poked, her words came near to
resurrecting a long-buried memory.

CLARA SQUEEZED her eyes shut, pressing the memory down. Her
tea cup clattered against the saucer.

“I-I don’t know,” she said when she could
speak. “I don’t know the cause of Branson’s rage, only the desired outcome—my
father’s ruin.”

“What of your mother? How could she allow
you to fall under his power?”

“My mother has taken to her room and
laudanum. She was indisposed at the time of my betrothal.”

There was silence in the room save the
ticking of the mantle clock. A fire burned on the hearth but Clara felt a
chill. The story was shameful; her family’s embarrassment could not be avoided.

She set her cup and saucer down. “I am
sorry, Mrs. Brockville, I have imposed on your good nature long enough. I ought
not to have allowed Captain Strachan to bring me here. My trunks are packed and
waiting for me at Windemere. Branson will have returned from the village by now
and be looking for me. This is my trouble; it was wrong to burden you and
Captain Strachan with it. Thank you for the tea.”

“Sit down,” commanded the older woman. “You
are not going back if you do not wish to go back. No, you most certainly are
not. Mr. Hamilton has used you shamefully as a pawn in his scheme of revenge.
Your best hope to make him see sense is to stay here. He must give up his
resentment against your father, and in short order. I shall speak for you
myself if your mother is indisposed. Colonel Brockville will instruct the young
rogue to cease this game he is playing.” Mrs. Brockville spoke decisively. “You
leave it to me.”

Clara laughed even as her eyes filled with
tears. “You make it sound so simple. I said Branson was being dishonest—I
believe he has a secret. There is a dark purpose in his plan to ruin my father;
one he will not tell me about. I’ve heard rumours there was a young lady he was
in love with.”

“Nonsense. I am sure you are quite wrong,
or at least, grossly misinformed.”

“I am not so sure.” She ran her tongue over
her lips. “I met a young woman today who claimed to be his wife.”

Mrs. Brockville’s mouth pulled down. “
Humph
. Some women will claim anything if
it means extorting a pound or two out of a gentleman. If Branson Hamilton has a
wife, I’ve never seen her. What was this young woman’s name?”

“Grace Leeds.” Clara watched Mrs.
Brockville’s reaction carefully.

“I’ve never heard of Grace Leeds. Is she
from Somerset?”

“I met her at Windemere seven years ago. I
was a child at the time. She was visiting from Oxford. Branson admitted that they
were engaged once but Grace claimed they were married.”

“Men. They do enjoy their secrets, don’t
they? Let me see, seven years ago Leonard Hamilton was still alive but after
his wife passed we rarely saw him. Where did you meet this woman?”

“I was walking this morning and I came
across her at Windemere Chapel. She said she was Grace Leeds.” Clara assessed
the older woman with trepidation before continuing. “The disturbing thing about
the encounter is that Branson told me Grace Leeds died seven years ago at her
own hand.”

Mrs. Brockville’s eyes widened. She was not
at all troubled by the information. If anything, she was greatly excited. “
The ghost of Windemere Hall!
You have
met her! How delicious! It is clear to me now, my dear. Branson Hamilton cannot
bring a mistress to Windemere Hall until the ghost is laid to rest, or whatever
it is ghosts must do. There’s a rumour in the village that women are not
welcome at the Hall. A malevolent spirit haunts the place driving all females
off the grounds—from scullery maid to paramour—she does not play favourites.
Some say she is jealous of the master’s affection and will not tolerate a
rival. It appears she has struck again and succeeded in driving you away.”

Clara shook her head. “Grace Leeds was not
a ghost. She was quite real.”

“Are you quite sure?” The lady sounded
disappointed. “The ghost of a dead fiancée is far less tedious than the
appearance of a living wife. But Mr. Hamilton said Grace Leeds was dead, so
there can be only one explanation. The woman you met was her spirit communing
with you from beyond the grave.” Mrs. Brockville pursed her lips, lost in
thought. “I suppose you might have met an impostor, a con artist who had heard
the rumour about a ghost and was trying to extort money. But that is unlikely.
What could this Grace Leeds want? We ought to arrange a séance at Windemere
Hall to find out, don’t you agree?”

Colonel Brockville entered the sitting room
at that moment with Strachan and Trudy Delisle in tow. “I see you have
succeeded in restoring our young guest to rights, my dear. Well done, well
done. Strachan here has just been filling me in on his fortuitous meeting of
Mrs. Hamilton in the forest. How are you feeling now, dear lady?”

“I’m much better, thank you but I fear I’ve
intruded on your evening long enough. I shall bid you good day.”

“You will do nothing of the kind. Colonel,
you must urge Mrs. Hamilton to stay with us. I have done my best to convince
her she is welcome. She has told me the most fascinating story about an
encounter with a dead woman and I do so love the supernatural.”

Trudy Delisle stepped forward and clasped
Clara’s hands in hers. “Miss Hamilton, you are among friends. Strachan has just
been telling me of your trouble and I wish you would stay and not leave here on
anyone’s account, save your own.”

How much had Strachan told her? He promised
he would not breathe a word and within the space of an hour, he had told his
darling fiancée of Clara’s
troubles
.

Clara’s mouth dried and her tongue stuck at
the back of her throat. It was all too much and much worse than she intended.
Decisions were being forced upon her at a time when she was least equipped to
make them. The only thing that stood out in her mind, a singular thought, was
she needed to warn her father of Branson’s treachery. Clara grasped hold of
this rational desire and let it be her guide.

“Then you will understand, Miss Delisle,
why I must return to London as soon as possible. My father desperately needed
this marriage to take place to secure his business and I was eager to help, to
be useful. It was in this spirit, filled with many emotions, and of course,
flattered by Mr. Hamilton’s proposal that I came to Windemere.” Clara blushed
furiously. The parallels between her last supposed engagement and this one were
stark. How pitiful to be deluded a second time into thinking she was to be
married. “As you have heard from Captain Strachan, I was deceived as to Mr.
Hamilton’s true purpose. My chief concern now is to warn my father.”

The silence was awkward.

Mrs. Brockville kindly broke it. “Well
then, of course you must return home as soon as possible. We shall leave for
London first thing in the morning. Windemere Hall is not far off the main
route. Our driver will stop there to collect your trunks and that is all you
shall have to do with it. That is the best plan all around, don’t you agree,
Colonel Brockville?”

“Certainly. Best thing not to alert the
villain of your plans until we are underway. The less Branson knows the better.
It is decided. You shall stay here and dine with us and Hills will make up the
guest room.”

The old soldier clapped his hand to
Strachan’s shoulder and steered him to the door. “Come with me, young fellow. I
want an hour’s shooting before the sun goes. We’ll leave the ladies to minister
to Mrs. Hamilton. They’ll manage better without us.”

Trudy lounged elegantly on a cushion near
the fire and tucked her feet under her gown. “I’ll say this about your Mr.
Hamilton, he is a handsome fellow.” Trudy flashed Clara an intimate smile. “I’ve
only seen him once or twice. He keeps very much to himself. He is exceedingly
rich, I hear. The scandal is that he inherited his estate and he is not even a
true Hamilton. Arthur Hamilton was up in arms when his brother’s will was read,
but there was not a thing he could do about it. The document was sound and the
estate was Branson Reilly’s.”

“Branson Hamilton,” Clara corrected
quietly. “My uncle formally adopted him as his son when he was sixteen.”

“Yes, but it is not the same thing, is it?
Strachan says no one knows where he came from or who his father was. He has
dangerous mystery about him, your young man.”

“He is not my young man,” Clara said,
colouring to her scalp.

“Oh come now. I realize you’ve had a
falling out but you don’t believe that soul mate nonsense, do you? Romantic
love is not necessary to form a satisfactory partnership. Though I agree
Branson Hamilton ought to abandon his revenge scheme, but only because it is
not in his best interest to continue it. It will not help him to have a
father-in-law in prison. It is social suicide. You’ll never be invited anywhere
and you’ve only just recovered from the last
faux pas
.”

Trudy Delisle dimpled pleasantly and
adjusted the flounce on her smart afternoon dress.

“I-I-suffered a c-c-collapse, it is true,
but I am quite well now, Miss Delisle. I have not had an opportunity to
congratulate you on your engagement. I wish you every h-h-happiness.”

“Of course you do, dear,” Mrs. Brockville
said kindly.

Trudy Delisle gave a small shrug. “You seem
perfectly within the bounds of sanity to me. I don’t fear you will try to kill
me in my sleep. You won’t, will you?”

Clara blinked rather rapidly, wondering if
she was being insulted. A teasing smile twitched at the corners of Trudy
Delisle’s mouth, as though she was sharing a private joke with a friend.

Clara wasn’t fooled. Miss Delisle did not
regard Clara Hamilton as her friend. Her presence in this house and Strachan’s
sudden interest in her well-being had unsettled his fiancée and put Trudy Delisle
on the attack.

§

THEY SET out from Petherham in the fog and drizzle.
The weather had turned with the approach of October, now only a few days away.
The grand sweep of the tree-lined drive led to the symmetrical stone house.
Windemere Hall was beautifully proportioned but lonely and lifeless in the fog.

Clara climbed out of the carriage onto the
gravelled drive. They had stopped a distance away from the main entrance to
allow the trunks to be loaded. She was grateful for the brief delay to have a
moment alone to say good-bye to Branson.

A light shone in his bedroom window above.
She could barely make out the front entrance in the thick fog and then
suddenly, the door was flung open and a man stepped out.

Clara dashed forward, her heart lifting in
spite of herself. Branson didn’t see her. His eyes swept the horizon, watchful
and tense.

She slowed her step. He was the same as
before. Unchanged. Perfect. How does one stop loving one’s soul? The many hours
in Strachan’s company had left behind a thin, vague impression on her mind compared
to the short time she had shared with Branson.

Her cousin was well-dressed this morning in
a black coat, his broad shoulders pulled back. The high white collar of his
shirt was formal but he was hatless. His thick hair gleamed in the pale light
that formed around him, though she could not see the source of this light. Only
that he seemed to be enveloped in it for her benefit.

Clara’s eyes had had time to adjust to the
dark morning. She saw him before he spotted her. The fog swirled thick and grey
between them, muffling her approach.

She was only a few feet away when she
stopped, suddenly uncertain, and reluctant to address him.

“Who is there?” His voice was deep and his
tone brusque. “What do you want?”

She took a step forward. The fog swirled
about her but he could see her plainly.

His face quickened and then settled into a
mask. “It’s you. You were out all night. I was concerned. Where did you sleep?”

“The Colonel and Mrs. Brockville put me in
one of their guest rooms. The driver is loading my trunks onto the carriage.”

He glanced away. “You are leaving then.”

“I said I would if given the chance. You
told me that I wandered in here on my own, I could wander back out. That is
what I am doing.”

Branson’s indigo eyes were not cold but his
expression was tense. He jerked his chin in the direction of the carriage. “You
travel with Strachan, I see.”

She reddened. “The captain has business to
attend to in London. His fiancée, Miss Delisle is with us, as well as the
Colonel and Mrs. Brockville.”

“I should hope so, given your history.”

Clara reeled back as though struck. “I came
to bid you good-bye. I do not have to suffer your insults. Farewell, Branson. I
wish you good fortune and … and happiness.” She choked down tears.

“If that was truly your wish, then you
would not be leaving me. Why are you going?”

She shook her head but would not look at
him. If she saw his face, she would lose her nerve. “I told you there was
someone watching us and you would not believe me. It was
her.
She told me she was watching us. She—she knew things. She said
you told her everything.”