He did worry that she had yet to tell him she loved him, even though he was nearly certain that she did, but he could only think that she was not capable of understanding the fullness of her feelings, never having loved a man before.
For the first time in his life, he truly blessed his family, and the love that had been freely given to him. The reason that he had not freely or readily received it still escaped his understanding.
He supposed part of his reticence stemmed from being a second son, another part from losing his father before he had a chance to know him. His memories of the man were mere vestiges of light and shadow that still played tricks with him—sometimes ringing with the faint recollection of laughter, of being tossed high in the air, of sunshine that trickled down through every day.
Then there were the other memories—dark and oppressive, fearful, times when the sun ceased to exist. He remembered finding places to hide, keeping well out of sound and reach, although he couldn’t remember why.
It was probably best he didn’t, best he kept that part of his life tucked well away. Some things didn’t bear too close an inspection. In any case, his childhood was not important. He’d survived it well enough, his mind intact. Meggie was his concern now. Meggie had not so well survived the ravages of her own childhood.
He wished he had full confidence that she would heal completely, but something deep inside him refused to believe that he might be so lucky. A nagging voice persistently told him that just when all appeared well, disaster would strike. Meggie would fall back to pieces, and his world would come crashing down around him.
“Yes, indeed,” Coldsnap continued, ignoring Hugo’s protracted silence, not needing anyone’s conversation but his own. “It is a shame that not all marriages are so happily made.” He pointed toward a cottage that sat close to the road, with a neat fence surrounding a front garden filled with vegetables. “For example, that place over there is Johnnie Jaffrey’s place. Johnnie works out at the landing dock, and a good, hard-working man he is, but broken in heart and spirit.”
“Why is that?” Hugo asked, not at all sure he wanted to hear; he had enough concerns on that subject as it was.
“It’s a sad story, my lord, and one I wish I didn’t have to tell. You see, some twenty years ago, Johnnie married a girl from Thorpeness, some distance up the coast, so he knew nothing of her family or her history. They’d met at one of the annual markets and fallen in love. Not more than six weeks later they wed, and if you ask me, Johnnie should have asked the girl’s family why they were in such a rush to have her off their hands.”
He took off his hat and scratched his balding scalp. “Turned out not a month after the marriage that the girl—Stella Goring was her maiden name—was right out of her mind. She tried to stab Johnnie to death one night. Sadly, he couldn’t prove she was mad at the time of the wedding, which would have invalidated it. The law forbids marriage to a lunatic.”
All the blood drained from Hugo’s face as Reginald Coldsnap’s words sank in.
Dear God,
“Are you sure?”
“Indeed, my lord,” Coldsnap said, shooting a look of surprise over at Hugo. “I daresay you’re a good and caring man to be touched by old Johnnie’s plight, though I’m sorry to tell you that the story is not over.”
Hugo barely heard Coldsnap. He thought he’d covered all contingencies, but this one remote detail of the law had completely slipped by him. He should have thought of such an obvious point, but in his anxiety and haste to marry Meggie, he’d overlooked the most pertinent detail—her sanity, or lack thereof.
He wiped his hand over his brow, where a fine film of cold sweat had beaded. Think, man, think, he told himself. If anyone should discover Meggie’s mental state at the time of their marriage, he had to be able to challenge it.
“Lord Hugo? Do you not wish to hear the rest of the story?”
“Oh, yes. I beg your pardon. Please continue,” Hugo said, only half-listening, the other part of his brain racing to find some sort of plausible solution to the new, horrifying possibility that his marriage to Meggie might not be legal.
“You see,” Coldsnap said, “the other tragedy was that no one from her family or even from her village would testify that she’d actually been mad at the time of her marriage. Before, indeed so, and after, without question, but not during that particular period, so old Johnnie could do nothing to free himself from the bonds of matrimony.”
“I don’t understand,” Hugo croaked. “You just said a lunatic cannot marry.”
“Ah, but here lies the rub, and old Johnnie’s tragedy, my lord. The law says that as long as a lunatic is in a lucid interval and fully understands the import of the contract, then the marriage is legal.”
Wait, Hugo told himself—that might be it! Sister Agnes. She had given her blessing to the marriage, hadn’t she? She’d actually said that Meggie had to use her own judgment; he remembered that clearly enough, since he’d wondered at her particular use of the words at the time. The statement alone surely would show that Sister Agnes thought Meggie sane enough for marriage, and what court of law would argue with a nun?
“I can’t say, of course,” Coldsnap continued blithely, “that Johnnie had the right of it and that Stella really was mad when she married him, but the end result was that the girl was shipped off to an asylum where she lives to this day, and poor old Johnnie Jaffrey is condemned to live his life out alone.”
Coldsnap settled his hat back on his head.
Hugo rubbed the back of his neck. “Mmm,” he said. “A pity indeed.” On the other hand, he thought, the very fact that Meggie had consented to marry him while locked up in a mental asylum could go against him, as well as the fact that they had been wed less than twenty-four hours later. A court of law might rule against Sister Agnes’s judgment, based on that alone—if Meggie had been sane at the time, then why had she still been incarcerated?
He tried to steady his breathing, deciding that he was looking for trouble where there was none, or at least not yet. The trick was to keep Meggie’s incarceration a secret.
Anyway, who would think to question her sanity now when she behaved in as normal a fashion as could be hoped? He knew some eccentrics who acted more lunatic than she did. The Mabey sisters were a classic example, and no one had ever locked them up.
Best not to think about it, he told himself firmly. Meggie would stay healthy and semi-sane, and they would live out the rest of their lives in a state of happy matrimony. He would accept nothing less: if he had to, he would fight to the death for Meggie and his marriage, and that was all there was to that.
“I believe our scheme worked, Sister, although I am not entirely sure,” Ottoline said, handing Dorelia a bottle. “I cannot help but feel I was a little cruel to the poor child.”
“Thank you, dearest,” Dorelia said, taking the bottle and inserting a funnel into the top. “Never mind being cruel, you said you thought it imperative that Madrigal go to London with dear Hugo when he suddenly ups and leaves. I wish I understood better the reason why he would do such a thing, though, and this urgency you feel about the situation.”
“If I knew myself, I’d tell you,” Ottoline said with irritation. “All I saw was trouble if he went on his own—he needs Madrigal there at his side. Betrayal. That was the word, clear as day. Betrayal, linked right up with Hugo.”
“Hmm. Hmmm. I don’t know,” Dorelia said, frowning in concentration as she carefully poured her herbal oil into the bottle and wiped the neck with a cloth. “Hypericum perforatum,” she mumbled, writing on a label. “Lovely healing stuff—never known anything to penetrate the tissues as fast as Saint John’s Wort. What were you saying? Oh, yes. Betrayal. It seems very early in the marriage for Hugo to be taking up with another woman. Look at the way he is with the girl—he can’t keep his eyes or his hands off her.”
“I didn’t
say
the betrayal would be infidelity, although I believe a woman is somehow involved. I
said
the best way to get Madrigal off to London with him was to put the thought in her mind that dear Hugo might stray if she didn’t go.” Ottoline took the full bottle back and stoppered it. “She’s made it perfectly clear that she dreads the very idea of London, and why shouldn’t she, poor angel? She’s convinced she will embarrass her husband, not knowing anything about the ways of the
ton.
Absolute nonsense, of course, but she’s not to know that.”
“All she needs is a little confidence,” Dorelia said, holding out her hand for another bottle.
“Yes, but I still think it cruel to imply that her husband is going to go dashing off to bed with another woman the first chance he gets. You should have seen the expression on her dear face. Crushed, she was, and rightly so.”
“Well, you didn’t come up with anything better,” Dorelia snapped. “When needs must and all that.”
“I was only saying that I hated to upset her,” Ottoline snapped back. “Dear me, I do wish I knew what this is all about, but never mind. We’ll find out soon enough.” She leaned her elbows on the table, watching her sister pour the next batch of herb-infused oil. “Dorelia, dearest, what about finding a solicitor? Do you think it is time to approach Hugo on the subject of arranging Madrigal’s dowry? We’ve already waited three weeks.”
“Hmm. Perhaps, Sister, perhaps. I confess that I have been trying to build up my courage. One slip of the tongue to the dear boy and we could do some real damage.”
“Yes indeed,” Ottoline agreed, “although we still don’t know how much he realizes about Madrigal. Suppose he’s aware of the entire story and we’re fussing over nothing?”
“Dear, oh dear. I just don’t know.” Dorelia clucked her tongue. “Doesn’t your B.G. tell you anything?”
“Nothing, although my common sense tells me that we should be doing something more than praying for a Sign.”
“Speak for yourself. Praying for a Sign has never failed us yet. I do think you are lacking in patience, beloved.” She started to hum as she removed the funnel from the next filled bottle.
“Miss Ottoline, Miss Dorelia?” Roberto appeared in the stillroom door, dressed in his fine new blue and gold livery.
“Yes, dear?” they said in unison, beaming fondly at him.
“A Mr. Gostrain has just arrived with urgent business for Lord Hugo, who is not yet returned. Mr. Gostrain says he is with the legal firm of…” Roberto consulted the snowy card in his hand, “of Gostrain, Jenkins, and Waterville. What would you like—”
He didn’t manage to finish. The Mabey sisters shrieked in tandem and streaked past him out the door, nearly knocking him flat in their headlong rush for the house.
H
ugo, who had come in the back way and gone upstairs to change out of his riding clothes, stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of frantic female twittering coming from the hall below. In between shrieks of delight he could make out an equally frantic and alarmingly familiar male voice.
Hugo made his way over to the railing with trepidation, terrified he might be right about the identity behind that familiar voice.
He looked down, then closed his eyes and slid a hand over his face.
Not only had James Gostrain arrived with no warning, but the damned Mabey sisters were attempting to hold him up as if they were elderly female highwaymen.
“Mr. Gostrain, you dear, dear man, what an absolute marvel that you’ve come just when you did,” Dorelia cooed, her hand clamped like a vise on the startled solicitor’s arm. She glared at her sister. “What did I tell you, Ottoline? One asks and one receives and patience is the key. Is this not a Sign?”
Hugo groaned. This was
not
the dignified welcome he’d had in mind for his solicitor. God only knew what Gostrain could be thinking—or why the Mabey sisters had assaulted him. He couldn’t imagine what they wanted from the poor man, unless it was to denounce Hugo for some crime he hadn’t committed.
Ottoline grabbed Mr. Gostrain’s other arm. “So it is, Sister, so it is. Now, dear Mr. Gostrain, since darling Hugo is not in at the moment and you have nothing better to do, perhaps you would like to hear what we have to say.”
So would Hugo. He’d have their scrawny necks if they turned out to be up to no good after all he’d done for them, and by God he’d silence them if they even tried to pollute Gostrain’s ears with a pack of lies.
“Begging your pardon, but who are you?” the startled man asked, looking from one to the other of the bony hands that held him captive.
“Why we are Dorelia and Ottoline Mabey,” Dorelia chirped. “Hugo’s beloved aunties. Has he not mentioned us to you?”
“Ah—ah yes, the late Lord Eliot’s leavings—er, that is to say, his bequest.”
Hugo smothered a laugh. So Gostrain hadn’t forgotten Hugo’s own description of the Mabey women.
“Precisely. And since you mention it, bequest is exactly the point, since we would like to make one to darling Madrigal. We need some advice, my dear man, and the sooner we receive it the better…”
A
bequest
? Hugo had heard enough. Since the old bats had nothing to bequeath but their furbelows, he didn’t intend to have Gostrain waste any more of his time on their silly prattling.
He tore down the staircase, forcing a smile to his lips.
“Mr. Gostrain. What a very pleasant surprise,” he said, slowing his pace to a dignified walk halfway down. “I see you have met Miss Ottoline and Miss Dorelia Mabey, my, er, aunts. Aunties, do unhand Mr. Gostrain, won’t you? I think he values not just the sleeves of his coat, but his limbs as well.”
Their faces fell as if they’d had a delicious sweet yanked straight out of their fingers. “Very well, Hugo dear, but we do wish you would listen.”
“Later,” he said, meaning most likely never. “I have business with Mr. Gostrain, and I would be most grateful if you would allow us to get on with it.”
“Yes, of course.” Ottoline—or was it Dorelia? He still couldn’t tell which was which—scuffed the toe of her slipper against the floor. “Later, then.” She dropped Gostrain’s arm and grabbed her sister’s instead, tugging on it. “Ottoline, dearest, let us leave the men to their work and get on with our own.”
As if functioning with one shared brain, they both turned around at exactly the same moment and slipped out the front door.
Hugo smiled weakly. “I apologize,” he said. “Please, do come into my study where we will be undisturbed. As you have most likely perceived, Lyden is not yet functioning as smoothly as it might.”
“No need for apologies, Lord Hugo. It is I who should apologize for not having written to inform you of my arrival, but you will shortly understand my reasons. I thought you would be happy to wave the formalities in light of the news I have come to deliver.”
“Oh? Good news I hope?” Hugo said in polite inquiry, but inside he was in knots. Either Gostrain had come to tell him about Meggie’s fortune, or else he had somehow discovered about Meggie’s years in the asylum. One way led to victory, the other to certain disaster.
“I can only say that it is astonishing news, my lord. Astonishing. I do not know how you will receive it. I must warn you, I received a great shock upon hearing it.”
Hugo wasn’t sure if he liked the sound of that at all. He drew on all the lessons of his gambling days and smiled easily, despite the sick twisting in his stomach.
“Nothing could be more astonishing than the happy turn my life has taken recently,” he bluffed. “I cannot tell you what joy my wife has brought me, Mr. Gostrain, and I am most sensible of my debt to you. My present happiness would not have been possible had you not steered me straight with your sage advice.”
“I do not recall exactly what I said, but I am gratified that my words served you well.” Gostrain took the chair Hugo indicated on the opposite side of his desk.
“I hope your partners share the same generosity of sentiment,” Hugo said dryly, relaxing a bit. “It is not every day that a man of my position chooses to marry a woman of Meggie’s station.”
“Indeed not, sir. I—er, that is mostly what I have come to discuss with you.”
“I see.” Hugo steeled himself, folding his hands together on the desktop. “I assume you refer to the marriage contract I asked you to draw up? I warn you, Gostrain, I will hear no argument against my wishes.”
“I will give you none. I have, in fact, brought you far more than a marriage contract, my lord. Before I go into details, however, I am first obliged to ask you some pertinent questions regarding your wife’s past.”
Oh, dear God, let him not be referring to Meggie’s most recent past, he prayed, working hard to keep the impassive expression on his face.
“Ask away, although I have told you what I know of my wife. She is an honest, decent woman who bears no responsibility for the harshness of her life.”
“I am sure you are correct, my lord. However, these questions are directed not at your wife’s character, but rather at her parentage.”
Hugo nearly keeled over in relief—Gostrain didn’t know about the asylum after all. “Her parentage?” he managed to say in an even voice. “I told you, I only know that Meggie’s mother died in childbirth.”
“Yes,” Gostrain said, producing a document from his case, then reaching into his pocket for a pair of glasses. He placed them on his nose, and peered down at the sheaf of papers. “You said, my lord, that your wife’s mother was named Margaret. That would be Margaret Bloom, correct?”
“Yes…” Hugo said warily. “Why do you ask?”
“Allow me to continue. You said your wife was a local woman, but do you have any idea where her mother came from?”
“Ramsholt, I believe, although that is not where Meggie was born. Again, why do you ask?” Oh yes, it was all going exactly to plan, he thought gleefully.
“Bear with me, if you will. In your letter you mentioned that after her birth your wife had been taken in by a widow. Do you have any idea of the name of that widow, or where she lived?”
Hugo adopted a puzzled frown. “I do. Her name was Emily Crewe and she lived in Bury St. Edmunds, where Margaret Bloom also lived. See here, Gostrain, where is all this going?”
“Patience, my lord. You also mentioned that your wife’s father had died prior to her birth. Who gave you that notion?”
“My wife did,” Hugo said, thanking his lucky stars that Meggie had told him what she had. “Although the information she has about her parents came from Mrs. Crewe and is cursory at best. Again, I ask you why this is of any importance? I only wish to draw up a marriage contract, sir, not a genealogical chart.”
“Yes, quite. I think that is enough confirmation.” Mr. Gostrain scratched his head. “Lord Hugo, you are under the impression that your wife is penniless. I am pleased to tell you that is not the case. Your wife is, in fact, a very wealthy woman.”
At those words a flood of relief swept through Hugo, leaving him weak. Done. It was done. Lyden was safe, and he and Meggie were home free. All he had to do now was to play out the rest of his hand without tripping himself up.
He summoned up an expression of incredulity. “Mr. Gostrain, I beg your pardon, but I believe you have not been listening. I thought I made the situation perfectly clear—Meggie has no family, no roots. She lived in an orphanage from the age of nine, for the love of God.”
“Yes, and everything you have just told me explains why no one was able to find her before this. You see, my lord, your wife’s father, a Mr. David Russell, did not die before her birth. He sailed to India, leaving behind Margaret Bloom and their unborn child. Mr. Russell later tried to locate Margaret and the child but with no success, but still he left the enormous fortune he’d made in the East India Company to Margaret Bloom and their child, in the hope that they would eventually be found. We were asked to act as executors of his will.”
Hugo didn’t have to pretend a thing. He stared at Gostrain as if the man had lost his mind. “What—what are you saying? Are you implying that…” He swallowed hard. Gostrain wasn’t implying a thing, he was giving Hugo the facts outright. Meggie was base-born.
What an idiot he’d been—he’d assumed when he’d overheard his solicitors speaking about David Russell that the man was a distant relative of Meggie’s, given the difference in surnames. It had never occurred to him that he might be her father. Why would it?
Oh,
God.
Meggie was illegitimate. How was he going to explain this to his mother on top of everything else?
He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to recover from his shock. “I—forgive me. I need just a moment.”
Mr. Gostrain smiled broadly. “I understand perfectly. As I said, my lord, the news is astonishing. The wife you thought penniless has brought a dowry of four hundred thousand pounds to the marriage, which will be yours upon signing some simple documents.”
Hugo just nodded. Meggie … poor Meggie. How was she going to take the news about her parentage? He’d have to break it very, very gently, assure her that he didn’t mind at all. He frowned as a realization hit him. He really
didn’t
mind, or at least not for himself. Meggie was Meggie, and whatever her parents had gotten up to was no responsibility of hers. Why should he care if her parents had been married or not?
The real shame was the miserable childhood she’d been condemned to live, just because her reprobate father hadn’t stood by the woman he’d impregnated. Hugo’s blood boiled with anger. If he’d
really
wanted to find his child, he could have, and Meggie might have been spared all those years in institutions.
“Lord Hugo, you are very quiet. Do you not have any questions? Four hundred thousand pounds is a great deal of money.”
Hugo looked up. “Yes. Yes, I do have a question. What do you know of this David Russell? What sort of a man was he?”
“Oh, joy! Sister, did you hear that? All our worries were for nothing!”
Hugo spun around in his chair to see the Mabey sisters barging into the room with a tea tray. “What the devil?” he sputtered. “What do you think you are doing, interrupting a private meeting?”
“We thought you needed nourishment, and a good thing we came in when we did, or we never would have heard you ask about dear David.”
Hugo slammed his hands down on his desk. “That’s it!” he roared. “I will not tolerate any of your foolishness when I am trying to sort through a very sticky problem. Out with both of you!”
“But you wanted to know about David Russell, and who better to tell you than us, isn’t that right, Dorelia?” Ottoline put the tea tray on the low table in front of the sofa. “Milk or sugar, Mr. Gostrain? Neither? Good, much better for the digestion.”
Hugo groaned. “Please forgive them,” he murmured to the solicitor, who was looking back and forth from one twin to the other, his eyes blinking rapidly. “It is their advanced age…”
“Age has not affected my brain, and there’s nothing wrong with my hearing either,” Dorelia snapped. “Do you or do you not wish to hear about Madrigal’s father and what happened between him and Meg Bloom that summer of 1799?”
“Do you—do you mean to say that you actually
know
something?” Hugo said, gripping the edge of his desk so hard that his knuckles showed white. “You know something about Meggie’s parents and neither of you has bothered to speak up before this? What in God’s name is the matter with you?”
Ottoline pushed a cup of tea at him. “There’s no need to work yourself up, dear. We were only waiting to discover how much you knew, if you knew anything at all. We didn’t want to say anything that might alarm you or Madrigal. Why, was there something important?”
“Oh, only a small matter of four hundred thousand pounds that David Russell left to the daughter no one could find,” Hugo said dryly.
“Goodness gracious.” Dorelia clapped a hand to her cheek. “Cousin David did make a success of himself after all. I always hoped he might.”
Hugo stared at her. “Cousin David?” he said faintly.
“Yes, dear. Lally’s brother. He was a clever boy, if a bit impetuous.” She plopped onto the sofa. “A good nose for business does run in the family, if I do say so myself.”
Hugo’s mouth opened, but nothing came out except a strangled choke. Meggie was actually related to the crazy old bats? Well, he knew of one thing that really did run in the family. Poor Meggie—no wonder she had ended up at Woodbridge Sanitarium. Between her miserable upbringing and the family tendency, he was amazed she coped as well as she did.
“Why don’t you calm down, dear?” Ottoline said to Hugo as she handed a cup to Mr. Gostrain. “We’ll have a nice little chat after we’ve had our tea. In the meantime, we can discuss that bequest we mentioned.”
“The bequest,” Hugo said, rubbing his finger hard over the space between his eyebrows where a vein pulsed rhythmically.
“Exactly, the bequest,” Dorelia said. “We have a little money in a trust that we’d like to give to darling Madrigal as a part of her dowry.”