Beguiled
Authors: Catherine Lloyd
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Victorian, #Historical Romance
Windemere
Hall Trilogy
Book Three
§
Victorian Villains Gothic Romance
CATHERINE LLOYD
Copyright 2015 Catherine Lloyd
Electronic Edition 2016
Writewood
Creations
261 Lac Bernard Road
Alcove, Quebec
Canada J0X 1A0
www.writewoodcreations.blogspot.com
ISBN 978-1-988003-23-8
All rights reserved.
This publication remains the copyrighted property
of
the author and may not be
redistributed for commercial
or
non-commercial purposes.
Cover Image by
Grape_vein
Cover Design by
Writewood
Creations
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The Jilting ~
Summer
Lie for Me ~
Autumn
The Way Home ~
Winter
Love Rising ~
Spring
Dark Redeemer Historical Romance
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Wastrel
Traitor
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Victorian Villains Series
Windemere
Hall Trilogy
the Publisher
Clara Hamilton’s daring liberation from
Gateshead Asylum leads to a shocking revelation about her cousin Branson that
shatters her hope for their love. With nowhere to turn, Clara accepts Mrs.
Brockville’s offer to join a shooting party at
Petherham
Manor that includes Strachan and his bitter fiancée, Trudy Delisle. But
Windemere
Hall is only a short distance away and Clara
cannot stop thinking about its master, the enigmatic, haunted Branson Hamilton.
Beguiled
is the third and final episode in
Windemere
Hall Trilogy
, Catherine Lloyd’s
Victorian Villains Gothic Romance Series
. Steamy gothic romance in
the tradition of Phyllis A. Whitney and Victoria Holt set in 1867 Victorian
England. The novellas will be released in three
installments
like the “penny dreadful” of the Age. Each episode ends in a cliff-hanger.
These spicy romances contain scenes, language and themes written for a mature
audience.
September 30, 1867 ~ Somerset County
BRANSON HAMILTON kept a carriage and
horses stabled in London for his infrequent trips from the City to Somerset.
The driver would deliver him to
Windemere
Hall, rest
up and then make the return journey within the hour. It was an expensive system
that Branson was willing to pay for, both for the privacy and the convenience
of travelling on his schedule. He sat back against the plush upholstery and
tried to enjoy the passing scenery.
The Down was dressed in autumnal gold and red, serene and
exquisite. A sharp contrast to the war that was raging within him as he
journeyed home.
Edgar’s petition to rescue his sister had arrived like a
gift from the Fates. Branson could not resist taking his cousin up on his offer
to personally bring about his father’s destruction.
It was poetic!
Arthur Hamilton’s daughter was confined to an insane
asylum. His precious son would deliver the killing blow and the man himself
would be tossed out of his own company. The entire Hamilton family was poised
for ruin and they were too arrogant to realize it.
It was almost too easy. All Branson had to do now was renege
on his promise to rescue Clara from
Gateshead
Asylum,
let Edgar do his dirty work at the meeting and once Arthur Hamilton was thoroughly
broken, Branson would arrive to snatch his proxy from Edgar and assume complete
control of Hamilton Trading. Clara would spend the rest of her life in an
asylum; Edgar would be dependent on Branson for employment, and Arthur Hamilton
would be arrested for embezzlement and die in prison.
Like
lambs to the slaughter.
Edgar had no idea of the Pandora’s Box he was opening when
he came to Branson for help. No inkling of the sort of man Branson was, or why
he agreed so quickly to restore the missing funds from the business accounts.
Edgar
and Clara Hamilton
.
His cousins were hopelessly naive if they
thought Branson would abandon his plans (and his sole reason for living these
past seven years) to help
them
.
What was it to him if Clara died in an insane asylum? Edgar
was a fool to send him on this mission of mercy! Branson would not lift a
finger to help Clara Hamilton.
She had made her feelings clear the last time he saw her—she
hated him. He remembered every stinging word she said the night of the Ball and
every look. He remembered Strachan’s contemptuous intrusion and Clara’s coy
enthusiasm for the Captain’s attention, the note of pride in her voice when she
spoke of his status as the son of a lord.
Jealousy wrenched in his gut. Branson despised himself for
this weakness. It was this weak desire for acceptance by his adopted family
that was the source of his present trouble. His willingness to believe in their
affection had made him vulnerable once; he would not allow it a second time. This
time, he would make them pay.
Branson rubbed his hand over his mouth and glowered at the
mellow countryside. Except that it would be he who paid the price for this
revenge and would until the end of his days.
The carriage travelled the High Road, charting a course to
Windemere
Hall at a maddeningly slow pace. He ought to
instruct the driver to stop and let him out. He could finish the journey in
half the time by cutting across the Down. Branson could use the exercise to
burn off this tension that was forming in his gut like a ball of wire.
The carriage was stifling, giving him too much time to think.
There was nothing more to think about. His mind was made up. Edgar’s request
for help was the final piece of the puzzle, giving his vengeance a sweet,
satisfying finish. He only wished he could see the look on Arthur’s face when
his son made the announcement. As for Edgar, he would finally understand the
degree of hate Branson
harboured
for the entire
Hamilton family. The wound they had inflicted on him would never heal.
Branson hung out of the window, sucking the raw autumnal air
into his lungs. He would breathe freer from now on. Tomorrow it would all be
over and he would be free of this smothering guilt at last.
The sun caught his cheek and warmed it, a gentle caress that
reminded him of Clara’s smile, but only temporarily as he controlled the
vibration that thinking about her caused. And then on a whisper of a breeze, he
heard her voice. Far away and dimly felt.
I
love you, Branson. I will not give way. I
will not surrender.
His head snapped up. Branson turned this way and that
seeking the source of the voice. It was Clara ...
Clara....
He gnashed his teeth and threw his head back with a roar. “No,
no, no—damn you!”
The driver called down in alarm.
“Sir!
Are you ill?
Windemere
Hall is just ahead. Shall I
take the main drive or would you rather I go by the old road? It is a deal
quicker.”
Branson came out of his reverie like a man reborn. He’d
heard her, as clearly as he’d heard the driver.
“Neither,” he barked. His body was tense, ice-cold, and yet
he was trembling as though he had a fever. “Carry on to the village, if you
please, Mr.
Harkness
. I have some matters of business
that require my attention.”
“Very good, sir.”
Dream or hallucination—what he had heard was
real
. He could not deny the warm, almost
terrible joy he felt at hearing her voice saying those words. Branson’s plans,
resentments and stratagems incinerated in his heart. He wanted only one thing
now.
Would it work?
Unlikely, but he had to try. Branson Hamilton could no
longer pretend to be the man he was this morning. The die was cast, he had made
his choice. As the carriage hurtled toward
Windemere
village, he thought of what he would say to persuade Vicar
Wimbley
.
§
That same day in Gateshead Insane Asylum,
Berkshire County
CLARA FOUND the girl, Laura Mayhew in the
conservatory. The day was bright with clear blue sky beyond the glass walls.
She could almost convince herself she was in a greenhouse garden about to take
tea with an old friend. But the muscular orderlies and dead-eyed stares of the
residents recalled her to the truth. She was in a madhouse.
“Come. Sit beside me,” Laura Mayhew said.
Clara sat down on the white wicker settee
next to Miss Mayhew and glanced nervously about her. No one was paying them any
attention.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Miss Hamilton. You mustn’t worry. I
am not mad. I assure you, I am as sane as you are.” Miss Laura Mayhew smiled.
The young lady’s eyes were startling green in colour and shone like jewels from
her oval face.
Clara sagged with relief. “I
am
in my right mind, Miss Mayhew. If you
see it too, then I must be! There are times of late when I doubt myself.”
“You mustn’t. You must hold fast to your
beliefs, at least in private. Tell them whatever they want to hear in your
therapy sessions, but when you are alone with yourself again, hold to the
truth. It will stand you in good stead.”
Miss Mayhew’s nails were groomed and her
hands were smooth. Clara’s new friend had the hands of a lady, but her manner
was not that of a lady’s. Clara could not put her finger on the subtle
difference.
“Were you in service?” she asked impulsively
and then blushed, deeply ashamed by her rudeness. “Forgive me if I give
offence; I don’t mean to, truly. I am eager to make your acquaintance. In here,
we are all of the same class.”
Laura Mayhew smiled wryly. “The class of the
feeble-minded; Gateshead is a great equalizer. But you have guessed correctly.
I was lady-in-waiting many months ago to Princess Louise—and then I was
committed to this place.”
Clara smoothed her skirt and cast a quick
glance at the orderly. “You said that you were here by order of Her Majesty.
What did you mean?”
Laura Mayhew’s dark green eyes slewed to the
left and right. “Even to hear my story is quite possibly treason and you will
not believe me for your pains. Are you sure you want to know?”
Clara swallowed. “I shall believe you, Miss
Mayhew and I should like to know if you are willing to tell me.”
The young lady offered her hand. “We shall
keep our secrets, thee and me. Shake on it. You must swear never tell anyone
what I am about to tell you,” she warned.
Clara took her hand and they shook on their
pledge. “I won’t.”
Miss Mayhew leaned closer. “Ten months ago, Princess
Louise, my dear friend, gave birth to an illegitimate baby boy. I was present
at the birth. We concealed her pregnancy for as long as we could but when it
was discovered, the infant was spirited away. No one knows where—except me.
That is why Queen Victoria sent me here. I would be dead if I didn’t have the
sense to pretend to be insane.”
“Good heavens,” Clara whispered. “Who else
knows about this? Where is the child’s father?”
“Those intimate with the Royal Family know
the truth—including the father—but they are too frightened of the Queen to
stand up for Louise and her baby. I am not. One day I shall leave this place,
find him, and restore him to his mother.”
Clara squeezed her hand. “I am frightened
for you. You must never talk about this, Miss Mayhew. It is too shocking to be
believed.”
“What will they do to me, Miss Hamilton—lock
me in an asylum? In any case,” Miss Mayhew said with a light laugh, “there’s
not much more I can tell you without putting you in grave danger. You must tell
me your story instead and we shall bear witness to one another. I have a sketch
of the details; I long to see the whole picture. You were the only witness to a
crime that your father committed some years ago. I believe I’m remembering
correctly. For that reason, your father has had you shut up in this place. You
must have given him a terrible scare.”
“I suppose I did.” She had to laugh at the
absurdity. Clara collapsed a little and touched her brow with a shaking hand. “It
is a relief to discuss it with someone who does not instantly discount the
story or accuse me of imagining things. Witnessing his crime left me
emotionally scarred. I had a terrible stutter for many years and when I tried
to say as much to my father, he said I couldn’t trust my own mind. What he did
seven years ago was bad enough, but what he has done to me this past week feels
far worse.”
She was distressed by her selfishness. “I
prize my sanity over that of his victim,” she murmured sadly. “I am beginning
to believe that a demon lives inside me and that’s why I am here. I am an evil
person. I deserve to be in a madhouse.”
Laura Mayhew shook her head firmly. “That is
what they want you to believe. It is only natural to prize your sanity over
that of a dead girl. You must fight your father’s persuasive arguments that you
dreamt the whole thing. Were there no other witnesses?”
“My cousin, Branson Hamilton was engaged to
be married to the young lady. He was not a witness but he found her shortly after
the attack. The discovery was deeply troubling for him. I said I was left with
emotional scars; Branson suffered as well. He confronted my father and Arthur
denied the whole thing. I was too much of a coward to corroborate Grace Leeds’s
story.”
A silence fell between them. Clara looked
away and fixed her gaze on the ferns and hothouse flowers. “I don’t know what
possessed me to confess that to you. Perhaps your opinion of me has changed and
you would rather keep your distance going forward. I am not offended. I feel I
am a despicable person, Miss Mayhew.”
“I hardly think so, Miss Hamilton. You must
have been very young at the time. A young girl cannot easily accuse her father
of rape. No, we shall lay the blame where it belongs—on your father’s
shoulders.” Laura Mayhew frowned in thought. “It is very sad. Did your cousin
stand by the girl or was she discarded, as is most often the fate of ravished
young women.”
“Branson loved her very much,” Clara said
quietly. “Miss Leeds was frightened of being cast to the streets after the
attack. She was friendless and alone. My cousin did the honourable thing and married
her.” Her voice caught. She could not speak about Branson and Grace without
feeling shamefully jealous.
“You said she took her own life,” Miss
Mayhew replied meditatively. “That is the part of the story that perplexes me.
Why would she do such a thing if she was happily married to your cousin?”
Clara cast a sharp glance at Miss Mayhew. “I
have wondered the same thing. I believe there is more to my cousin’s story than
he lets on. He concealed their marriage from me without explanation, yet he
maintains his wife is dead.”
“I have the impression you don’t believe
him. What makes you think she is
not
dead?”
Clara was hesitant to relate the incident in
the chapel, and then she remembered she was in an asylum for the insane. Her
mad tale might sound almost rational to another inhabitant of this place. “I
had an encounter—rather strange and terrifying with the late Mrs. Reilly as she
called herself. Reilly is my cousin’s birth name,” Clara explained.
“Go on,” Miss Mayhew said encouragingly.
“I followed a woman to the chapel on my cousin’s
estate in Somerset,
Windemere
Hall. She was wearing a
wedding dress.” Clara’s voice trembled, affected by the memory. “It was clear the
lady was not in her right mind. I thought she was a squatter who had taken up
residence in the chapel. I confronted her and—and she attacked me. She tried to
strangle me. I drove my fingernails into her eyes to escape and I hit my head
in the scuffle. The woman escaped before Branson arrived. My cousin insisted it
was a hallucination. His explanation seemed plausible at the time, if not very
comforting. I was in a fragile state when I came to
Windemere
.
I had recently suffered a nervous collapse. The position Branson had placed me
in only increased my anxiety.”