Unknown

by Unknown

Door­way To His Heart Door­way To His Heart

He stopped a breath away from her lips, his gaze pinned to hers, and de­cid­ed that she would have to make the fi­nal move. 

She leaned clos­er as he held his ground. He felt her un­even breath against his lips.  She swayed back a lit­tle, and for a mo­ment he thought she would turn away, then her mouth pressed against his.  The sub­tle trem­bling of her lips, the way she slid her arms ten­ta­tive­ly around his neck, spoke more of her feel­ings than any words ev­er could. 

She was afraid of her new life, for that is what it was, like a child learn­ing to walk.  He owed her noth­ing for the pain she’d caused him over the years, but he could not turn his back on her.  He’d loved her once, or thought he had.  Per­haps he still did.  And yet he sensed this was some­thing dif­fer­ent, a new love, one just be­gin­ning to grow in his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him as he deep­ened the kiss.  On a moan, her body fold­ed in­to his, her del­icate curves press­ing against him.  Her fin­gers slid in­to the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a growl of pure need from deep in his throat. He’d been with­out a wom­an for so very long.  Years of celiba­cy had tak­en its toll. Celiba­cy that she de­mand­ed, for she knew he would nev­er take a mis­tress, and she would not have him in her bed.

 

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

Door­way To

His Heart

 

by

 

Jo Bar­rett

Door­way To His Heart

This is a work of fic­tion. Names, char­ac­ters, places, and in­ci­dents are ei­ther the prod­uct of the au­thor’s imag­ina­tion or are used fic­ti­tious­ly, and any re­sem­blance to ac­tu­al per­sons liv­ing or dead, busi­ness es­tab­lish­ments, events, or lo­cales, is en­tire­ly co­in­ci­den­tal.

 

Door­way To His Heart

 

COPY­RIGHT

Ó

2010 by Jo Bar­rett

 

All rights re­served. No part of this book may be used or re­pro­duced in any man­ner what­so­ev­er with­out writ­ten per­mis­sion of the au­thor or The Wild Rose Press ex­cept in the case of brief quo­ta­tions em­bod­ied in crit­ical ar­ti­cles or re­views.

Con­tact In­for­ma­tion: in­fo@thewil­drose­press.com

 

Cov­er Art by

R.J.Mor­ris

 

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Vis­it us at www.thewil­drose­press.com

 

Pub­lish­ing His­to­ry

First En­glish Tea Edi­tion, 2010

 

 

Pub­lished in the Unit­ed States of Amer­ica

Door­way To His Heart

For Mom

I miss you.

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pro­logue

 

 

 

 

The ap­plause grew to a won­drous crescen­do as the au­di­ence came to their feet.  Tears hung in Emi­ly’s eyes.  She knew their ova­tion was most­ly out of kind­ness due to her los­ing bat­tle with can­cer, she’d not played as well as she once could, but she cher­ished ev­ery mo­ment.  It was her last con­cert, her good­bye, and this was theirs.  With an un­steady bow the cur­tain fell, and her ca­reer as a con­cert pi­anist came to a close.

With a heavy heart and weary body, she made her way to the dress­ing room with the help of one of the stage­hands.  To be hon­est, he prac­ti­cal­ly car­ried her.

Thank you, George, she said with a sin­cere smile.

My plea­sure, Miss May­field.  He re­moved his arm from her waist, made sure she was steady on her feet, then dis­ap­peared among the bustling work­ers back­stage.

She man­aged to get in­to her street clothes, al­though not with­out some se­ri­ous cussing.  She was far more tired than she’d thought she’d be. 

I hope I can still take that trip to­mor­row, she mur­mured, hold­ing on to the back of the chair as she wrig­gled her feet in­to her shoes. 

Lila, her agent, had ar­ranged for her to go on one last ex­cur­sion to the En­glish coun­try­side. She loved the sym­me­try the gar­den­ers of the large coun­try es­tates had cre­at­ed long ago and so care­ful­ly tend­ed.  They al­ways set­tled her, gave her peace, a re­prieve from the fran­tic con­cert sched­ule she’d kept up for five years.  That was one of the rea­sons she’d de­cid­ed to re­turn to Eng­land for her last tour.  Al­though Amer­ican by birth, Eng­land felt more like home, and she couldn’t wait for to­mor­row, most­ly be­cause she knew she’d nev­er see it again.

Reach­ing for her jack­et, she grum­bled, Stop think­ing neg­ative­ly.  It doesn’t help.

You ready? Lila asked, as she en­tered the dress­ing room.

Emi­ly sighed at her re­flec­tion in the mir­ror.  The wig wasn’t re­al­ly her style, but it was bet­ter than walk­ing around bald, a re­sult of the chemother­apy, and it kept her head warm. 

With a nod to her friend, they left the the­ater and rode back to the ho­tel in si­lence.  Emi­ly was be­yond words, and they both knew any­thing said at this point would sound trite. 

Af­ter a light din­ner Emi­ly bare­ly touched, they re­tired for the night, each hop­ing that to­mor­row would be a good day, not one filled with fa­tigue and pain, but it was in­evitable.  Emi­ly hadn’t the heart to tell Lila how much she hurt, that even breath­ing seemed a chore.  But she’d take her pills, just enough to take the edge off, not enough to make her loopy, and breathe in the sweet smell of the En­glish coun­try­side with her friend by her side.

Un­for­tu­nate­ly, when morn­ing came, Emi­ly knew the trip would be more than dif­fi­cult.  But de­ter­mined to go out, she forced her­self out of bed and put on a bright smile for her friend.  Lila would in­sist Emi­ly stay in if she knew how hor­ri­ble she felt.

Are you sure about this, Em?  Lila knelt in front of her and slipped Emi­ly’s ten­nis shoes on to her feet.  You re­al­ly should rest for a few days be­fore you take on some­thing so tir­ing.

I’m sure.

Lila looked up af­ter ty­ing the laces.  You bare­ly made it out of the the­ater last night.  Hell, you bare­ly made it off stage.

She grinned and pat­ted her friend’s shoul­der.  I have to do this.

Lila’s eyes filled with tears.  Then we make ar­range­ments for a wheelchair, she said, her voice rough.

Shak­ing her head, she said, No wheelchair.  I’ll be in the car for most of it, any­way.  It’ll be okay, Lila.  Ev­ery­thing will be fine.

With a grim smile, Lila stood and helped her out of the ho­tel and to the car.  Emi­ly watched the city sky­line shrink to rolling hills as her pain meds fi­nal­ly kicked in.  She rolled down her win­dow and took a deep breath.  She was al­most home, she mused, then laughed at the ab­surd thought. 

Home

, an in­ter­est­ing con­cept.  She didn’t have one in the re­al sense of the word, with her par­ents long gone, her trav­el­ing non-​stop, but to­day, for some rea­son, she tru­ly felt like she was go­ing home.

That was the po­et in her, she thought.  The re­al­ist knew what it ac­tu­al­ly meant.  She was close to the end of her life.  Her death was not far away, weeks at most.  Then she would tru­ly go home.

Lila pulled to a stop in a small park­ing area be­side a mas­sive manor house, jar­ring Emi­ly from her thoughts.

This es­tate was owned by a vis­count, Lila said, read­ing from the guide the trav­el agent had cre­at­ed for them.  Al­though still pri­vate­ly owned and oc­cu­pied, the de­scen­dants al­low for lim­it­ed tours of the main floor of the house and gar­dens.  So, do you want to go in­side or just tour the grounds?

All of it, Emi­ly said, hur­ry­ing to climb from the car.

Em, slow down.  It’s not go­ing any­where, Lila said, rush­ing around the car to help her.

No, it isn’t.  But I feel like I have to hur­ry.

Lila clutched her arm.  Em—

Oh, Lila, no, she said, hug­ging her friend.  I didn’t mean it that way.  I’m fine.  Re­al­ly, she lied.  But this house, she turned to look up at the enor­mous struc­ture, there’s just some­thing about it.

Lila chuck­led rough­ly.  Yeah, you want to live here.  Like you’ve want­ed to live on ev­ery es­tate you’ve ev­er seen.  You’re hooked on these places, it’s like a drug, she joked.

Laugh­ing, they made their way in­side with Lila sup­port­ing most of her weight.  Her friend did her best to be in­ter­est­ed in the tour guide’s ora­tion, but she said she’d seen one big house she’d seen them all.  Emi­ly knew her on­ly con­cern, her on­ly rea­son for go­ing through them was for Emi­ly, and she deeply ap­pre­ci­at­ed it.

Af­ter a few rooms, the guide’s words seemed to ebb and flow around her, un­til they be­came noth­ing more than a low hum, like that of a lazy bum­ble bee.  Her legs grew weak­er with ev­ery step, they’d been quiv­er­ing since she’d got­ten out of the car, but she had to see this house.  She had to be in­side this house.  Al­though she sus­pect­ed it was like­ly the last she’d ev­er see, there was some­thing spe­cial about it.  She grinned at the thought.  It was her fa­vorite by far, but…

I need to sit down, Lila, she whis­pered, as the room be­gan to spin.  Just for a minute.  But her legs lost their will to work, and she col­lapsed to the floor.

Emi­ly?  Em!

She looked up at her friend and the rich­ly or­nate ceil­ing over Lila’s head and smiled.  I’ll miss you, she whis­pered, then closed her heavy lids.

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter One

 

Emi­ly opened her eyes and tried to fo­cus on her sur­round­ings.  Some­thing was very wrong.  Where were all the blink­ing, bleep­ing ma­chines?  Why was she at the ho­tel in­stead of at the hos­pi­tal? 

She vague­ly re­called sirens, some­one shout­ing out or­ders, and Lila cry­ing.  Some­where amid the chaos she’d giv­en up the fight and let the black­ness take her.  But sure­ly they would’ve tak­en her to the hos­pi­tal, or had she re­cov­ered enough to be sent home?  Maybe she’d on­ly been tired af­ter all. 

Maybe…wait.  This wasn’t her ho­tel room, she re­al­ized as she gin­ger­ly sat up.  It was a beau­ti­ful­ly ap­point­ed room, but it wasn’t where she and Lila had been stay­ing.

Oh my.  You’re awake, a voice said from the door­way. 

Emi­ly blinked a few times and brought the young wom­an in­to view.  She didn’t rec­og­nize her at all, but what on earth was she do­ing dressed like that? 

I’ll fetch his lord­ship, the wom­an said.

His what? she asked, her voice grav­el­ly, but the wom­an hur­ried out the door with­out a re­sponse. 

Emi­ly shift­ed her legs to the side of the bed, paus­ing on­ly a mo­ment when a wave of dizzi­ness caught her un­aware.  With a steady­ing breath, she stood.  Her legs were a bit wob­bly, but she man­aged to make it across the room to the hearth.  A warm fire burned in the grate.  Where in the world was she? 

Noise from the door­way drew her around, but she held firm­ly to the man­tle for bal­ance. 

A tall man, lean, and rather hand­some, wear­ing a neck cloth and weskit of all things, strode to­ward her.  He didn’t seem hap­py.

You should not be out of bed, he said. 

He reached for her, and she backed away, her shoul­ders bump­ing in­to the man­tel.

Where am I?

His brows drew to­geth­er.  In your room.

She war­ily shook her head.  This isn’t my room.

His eyes nar­rowed.  Re­turn to bed.  You’re over­wrought.

Not un­til you tell me where I am.  She held fast to the man­tle, but her strength was fad­ing.  Her gaze dart­ed from his to the oth­ers stand­ing be­hind him, all of them wear­ing the odd­est clothes, and their faces were pulled in­to wor­ried frowns.  Who are you peo­ple?  Why have you brought me here?

The hand­some one seemed to make some men­tal de­ci­sion as his stern fea­tures re­laxed. 

We’re here to help you.  Now, you must get back in­to bed.  He reached for her again and she jumped back, rat­tling the fire pok­er in its stand. 

No!  She snatched up the pok­er with her shak­ing hands and waved it in front of her.  Get back.  I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m not stay­ing long enough to find out. 

She eased to­ward the door, will­ing her legs to obey her, but they had oth­er ideas, as did her head.  The room was spin­ning wild­ly.  Just stay—back—all of—you. 

The pok­er slipped from her fin­gers and fell to the floor with a clat­ter and her body fol­lowed, but the man scooped her up be­fore she com­plet­ed her de­scent.  She felt his warmth, in­haled his scent, and it odd­ly soothed her. 

Who are you? she rasped, fight­ing off the black­ness clos­ing in around her.

No one you need fear.  The rum­bling of his voice echoed through her weary body. 

Name, she said, grip­ping the lapels of his coat, strug­gling to speak.

He laid her down on the bed and pulled the cov­ers to her throat.

Please, she breathed, her strength near­ly gone.

His cool gray eyes peered in­to hers.  Vis­count West­more.  Your hus­band.

She tried to shake her head, she had no hus­band, and even if she did and for some rea­son couldn’t re­mem­ber, she knew with­out a doubt he wouldn’t be a vis­count.  But her strength de­sert­ed her com­plete­ly, and she was lost to the black­ness once again.

Watch her close­ly, Martha.  In this state she may in­jure her­self, Vis­count West­more said.

Yes, my lord.

Barn­aby looked at his wife one last time be­fore leav­ing the room.  He doubt­ed she was play­ing at one of her games this time.  She seemed al­most in­no­cent when she’d looked up at him from her droop­ing lids.  He saw con­fu­sion clear­ly in her crys­tal blue eyes and fear.  Still, it would be best if he kept a care­ful watch on her.  His wife was a de­vi­ous witch, one he dare not un­der­es­ti­mate.

****

Emi­ly opened her eyes to the same room she’d thought she’d dreamed.  The bed, a more lux­uri­ous com­fort she’d nev­er known, not even in the five star ho­tels she’d stayed in, en­cap­su­lat­ed her weary body.  But those peo­ple, she thought and sat bolt up­right in the bed.  Who were they? 

She looked around the room again, it was exquisite­ly fur­nished with an­tiques.  Even the wall­pa­per was over a cen­tu­ry old.  All those tours of old En­glish homes had taught her a thing or two about vin­tage decor.

Well, she whis­pered to her­self, who­ev­er you are, if you want­ed to hurt me, you wouldn’t have put me in here. 

Good morn­ing, my la­dy.

Emi­ly jumped at the sud­den ap­pear­ance of a young wom­an. 

Um, good morn­ing. She vague­ly re­mem­bered her from yes­ter­day or had she been out of it longer than that?  Ei­ther way, just be­cause the room was nice, and the wom­an seemed pleas­ant enough, didn’t mean there wasn’t some­thing severe­ly wrong. 

Would you like your break­fast now, my la­dy?

And what was with the my la­dy stuff?  I—um, yes that would be nice.

The wom­an moved to the side of the bed and Emi­ly leaned away, leery as she reached out then pulled on a silk rope hang­ing by the bed. 

Emi­ly let out her pent-​up breath.  She need­ed to get a grip, or bet­ter still some an­swers.  Who are you?

The wom­an’s pleas­ant round face twist­ed in­to a wor­ried frown.  Martha, my la­dy.  Your maid.  Don’t you re­mem­ber?

Right.  My maid.  Sure.  Okay, she’d play along for a while.  And how long have you been my maid?

For five years, my la­dy. 

The wom­an’s ex­pres­sion grew more wor­ried with Emi­ly’s ques­tions, so she de­cid­ed to back off a bit and play dumb. 

I’m sor­ry, she said with half a laugh.  I’m afraid I’m—I’m a lit­tle con­fused. 

The maid smiled soft­ly.  It isn’t any won­der you’re a bit out of sorts. You’ve been ter­ri­bly ill.

Yes, she was ill, very ill, but now… she felt fine.  Well not fine, but not in any re­al pain, just tired.  Um, what ill­ness did I have, ex­act­ly?

I—I don’t know, my la­dy.  On­ly that you slept for days.  We were afraid that—well, it’s no mat­ter now. 

Martha did know, but for some rea­son wouldn’t say, Emi­ly was sure of it. 

An­oth­er wom­an, a few years younger by the looks of her, ap­peared bear­ing a tray as Martha propped her up in the bed and ad­just­ed the cov­ers.  This one was timid and lit­er­al­ly quak­ing in her boots.

Thank you, Phoebe, Martha said and took the tray.  The young girl dis­ap­peared as if death were chas­ing her. 

Death.

  It all came rush­ing back.  Death had been chas­ing Emi­ly.  She’d been dy­ing of can­cer.  Then there was the con­cert, and Lila, and her trip to the coun­try, but how did she end up here?

Martha placed the tray across her lap.  Here you are, my la­dy.  Af­ter a hearty break­fast, you’ll feel right as rain in no time, she said and moved across the room.  Emi­ly fol­lowed her with her gaze un­til Martha un­blocked her view of the mir­ror above the van­ity, lodg­ing a gasp in her throat.

Lit­tle did Martha know Emi­ly would nev­er be right again.  The wom­an star­ing back at her from the mir­ror was not Emi­ly May­field. 

She lift­ed her hand and touched her cheek, al­though pale, it was a pleas­ant­ly shaped cheek, but it wasn’t hers.  Nor were the nose or eyes—the hair. 

My God, she breathed.

I’m sor­ry, my la­dy, did you say some­thing? Martha said from the door­way.

Emi­ly swal­lowed then shook her head and the wom­an left.

Okay, she whis­pered.  There’s a per­fect­ly good ex­pla­na­tion.  I’m ei­ther dead or—I’m in a com­ma!  Of course!  

She took a few calm­ing breaths, glad to have solved the mys­tery.  It was just a lit­tle hal­lu­ci­na­tion, noth­ing to wor­ry about.  Af­ter all, her hair was gone from the chemother­apy, so it made per­fect sense to cre­ate long flow­ing locks for her­self, al­though she wasn’t sure why she’d de­cid­ed on blonde in­stead of her own shade of brown.  And her eyes looked blue, while hers had been green.  She war­ily lift­ed the neck­line of her night­gown and ex­am­ined her body. 

Huh, not bad, she mut­tered, but it wasn’t what she was used to.  A bare­ly there bust, even when she was healthy, and most­ly skin and bones af­ter all the treat­ments was the norm, but this—it was a shape­ly, nice­ly en­dowed body, and com­plete­ly un­be­liev­able. 

She dropped the neck­line with a frown.  Why all the changes?  Why not just dream I was healthy?  Her stom­ach grum­bled.  Can you be hun­gry in a co­ma?

She thought for sev­er­al min­utes as her stom­ach con­tin­ued its growl­ing.  Well, food seemed to be what she need­ed, so she’d eat.  What else could she do?  Nev­er hav­ing hal­lu­ci­nat­ed be­fore, she wasn’t too sure how it all worked.  Af­ter all, what could it hurt to en­joy it?  So far it was nice.  Re­al­ly weird, but nice.

She lift­ed the fork to her lips and waves of plea­sure washed over her.  Just the thought of food like ham and eggs usu­al­ly made her nau­seous, but no more.  She dug in­to the fare with gus­to, sa­vor­ing ev­ery morsel as it slid over her tongue.  It had been so long since she’d en­joyed the sim­ple plea­sure of eat­ing.  This dream is a keep­er, she mum­bled around a bite of ham.

As she ate, she looked more close­ly at her sur­round­ings.  She did love the old manor hous­es scat­tered all across Eng­land, which might ex­plain the decor, in­clud­ing a vis­count, and the ab­sence of the can­cer was an easy guess.  No one would wish that on them­selves, but why the new body?  Why not dream up her old self? 

She glanced at the long ta­pered fin­gers and won­dered if they could play the pi­ano as well or per­haps bet­ter than her own.  Her fin­gers had been one of her tri­als.  They were of­ten too short to per­form cer­tain com­pli­cat­ed pieces, but she’d over­come the dis­ad­van­tage.  Oh, she wasn’t the toast of the town by any means, but she had a fol­low­ing of a sort, and she rel­ished her lim­it­ed suc­cess. 

Okay, so longer fin­gers make sense, but the whole pack­age?

She set the tray aside af­ter thor­ough­ly clean­ing her plate and set­tled back against the pil­lows as she tried to make sense of ev­ery­thing.  Im­ages, mem­ories per­haps, she wasn’t sure, drift­ed through her mind. 

There was that odd sense of walk­ing through a mist af­ter she’d col­lapsed.  She re­called pass­ing a wom­an, and she’d been smil­ing, but she nev­er looked at Emi­ly.  She just kept on walk­ing, her des­ti­na­tion, a strange glow­ing door, was all she seemed to see. 

Emi­ly snapped her head up and looked at her re­flec­tion.  That was the wom­an she’d seen, the one in the mir­ror!  But who was she?  And why had she tak­en on her ap­pear­ance in her dream?  Had she seen the wom­an some­where on tour and plucked her out of some for­got­ten mem­ory?

Want­ing a clos­er look, she eased from the bed and stead­ied her­self on the var­ious pieces of fur­ni­ture as she crossed the room to the dress­ing ta­ble.  She sat on the small cush­ioned stool and looked more close­ly at her re­flec­tion. 

I don’t know you, she whis­pered, cer­tain she’d nev­er seen the wom­an be­fore, ex­cept for that odd misty mem­ory. 

She picked up the brush and ran it through her sleep-​tan­gled hair, sur­prised that the pull and tug stung just as it would if it were re­al.  But how could she be feel­ing ev­ery­thing if it were on­ly a dream?

A small pil­low of hat­pins sat to the side.  She pulled one from the vel­vet and with grit­ted teeth, pricked her fin­ger.  Ouch, she hissed.

Shov­ing her fin­ger in her mouth, she re­turned her gaze to the mir­ror and stared in awe. 

No, it isn’t pos­si­ble.  A nurse prob­ably just stuck me with a nee­dle or some­thing, she mut­tered around her sore fin­ger.  She was in a co­ma in some hos­pi­tal some­where.  And yet a dis­tinct chill raced across her skin.  Would a nurse have pricked her fin­ger? 

No, she mut­tered, shak­ing her head.  She would’ve stuck a nee­dle in my arm. 

That re­al­iza­tion had her rush­ing back to bed and pulling the cov­ers up over her head. 

How could this be?  Could she be dead and this was a sort of heav­en?  If so, then death was some­thing far dif­fer­ent than she’d ev­er imag­ined.  But why take on the form of a shape­ly blonde?  It wasn’t as if she’d been unattrac­tive—be­fore.  She was com­fort­able in her body, when it was healthy.  Most­ly, and as lu­di­crous as it sound­ed, she didn’t feel dead.

With her lips grow­ing numb from her nib­bling, one fi­nal pos­si­bil­ity popped in­to her head.  Eas­ing the cov­ers aside, she sat up and looked once again at the stranger in the mir­ror. 

Was it pos­si­ble that she’d some­how been giv­en a sec­ond chance?  Through some twist­ed form of rein­car­na­tion, had she been giv­en a healthy body and a new life to live?  If so, then why back­ward in time, which she as­sumed by the an­tique clothes, and her su­perb but his­toric sur­round­ings?  Why not for­ward?

She slow­ly shook her head at her re­flec­tion.  It doesn’t mat­ter, she whis­pered, a crooked grin on her lips.  She was alive and she was enor­mous­ly grate­ful. 

Her eyes looked heav­en­ward and she whis­pered her thanks.  But if this is a dream and I’m in a co­ma, I’d like to stay here ‘til it’s over if you don’t mind, she added, just to be sure.  It was a much nicer place to leave be­hind than a cold an­ti­sep­tic hos­pi­tal room.

A small noise caught her at­ten­tion.  At first she thought noth­ing of it, a house this size, one she as­sumed was rather large and with a full staff made nois­es.  This, how­ev­er, was a breath­ing noise.

She turned her head and caught sight of a pink ruf­fle stick­ing out from be­hind a chair near­est the door.

She’d have to set things straight with ev­ery­one she’d met so far.  Wav­ing a pok­er at them wasn’t a good way to be­gin.  She didn’t want them think­ing she was a nut­case, but this, she sus­pect­ed, was some­one she’d yet to meet.

Hel­lo, she said, at­tempt­ing to coax out her not-​so-​stealthy pint-​sized vis­itor. 

A lit­tle blonde head peeked out from around the chair.  They said you were awake.

Yes, as you can see I am.

The child stepped in­to view, but made no ef­fort to move clos­er.  She ac­tu­al­ly seemed wary of her, the fire pok­er in­ci­dent ap­par­ent­ly hav­ing reached her small ears.

They al­so said you were mad, the lit­tle girl said, and her eyes shot wide as she dodged back to her hid­ing place.

Emi­ly let out a rough chuck­le.  It’s all right.  I’m not about to blame you for some­thing you over­heard.  But you re­al­ly shouldn’t re­peat ev­ery­thing you hear, she said soft­ly.  It’s not po­lite.

You’re not an­gry? she asked soft­ly from her hid­ing place.

Of course not.

She peeked out from around the chair.  Is it true then?  Are you mad?

Now that was the mil­lion-​dol­lar ques­tion, wasn’t it?  But re­gard­less of what she be­lieved, be she dream­ing or rein­car­nat­ed, she didn’t want to fright­en a lit­tle girl, so she de­cid­ed to play along. It was her on­ly op­tion, and this child with her blunt way of speak­ing might just be the per­son she need­ed to help her get her bear­ings in what could be her new life.

I’m not crazy, but I am…con­fused, she said.

Her pret­ty lit­tle face scrunched up in un­cer­tain­ty.

Can I tell you a se­cret? Emi­ly asked.

That drew the child out and she nod­ded.

I don’t re­mem­ber who I am, where I am, or any­thing?

Her pret­ty blue eyes widened.  You don’t?

No, not a thing.

Is that why you talk fun­ny?

Ah, yes, her ac­cent.  She’d have to work on that.  At least it wasn’t too far off, she’d moved about so much do­ing con­certs, she’d dropped most of her Amer­ican­isms, but she def­inite­ly didn’t sound like En­glish Gen­try, and if she had in deed tak­en over an­oth­er wom­an’s life, she need­ed to make some ad­just­ments to her speech and her be­hav­ior. 

Yes, um, I’m sort of re­learn­ing how to do things.  Start­ing over, she said.

That doesn’t sound like fun, the child said.

Emi­ly shook her head grave­ly.  No it isn’t.  But you could help me.  If you want to, she hur­ried to add.  You could tell me things.

The girl eased to the foot of the bed.  I don’t know a lot.  I’m on­ly six.

She smiled at the child.  I’ll bet you know more than I do.  For in­stance, I didn’t know you were on­ly six.  You look much old­er and are far brighter than I would’ve thought for your age.

She straight­ened her spine and smiled bright­ly.  Pa­pa says I’m smart.

I’m sure he’s right.  And, um, Pa­pa is the Vis­count West­more?

She nod­ded with a wor­ried frown.  You re­al­ly don’t re­mem­ber, do you?

So this beau­ti­ful lit­tle girl was her daugh­ter—sort of.  All of it was very con­fus­ing, but she’d deal with things as they came at her as best she could. 

No, I don’t, Emi­ly replied.  But it’s our se­cret, all right?  If your pa­pa knew, he might send me away, and I don’t want to go away.  Do you un­der­stand?

Oh, Pa­pa wouldn’t do that.  He’s a nice man.  He would want you to get bet­ter.

I’m sure he would, but he and I might dis­agree on how I should go about ac­com­plish­ing that.

Oh.

So will you help me and keep my se­cret?

She nod­ded.

Thank you.  What’s your name?

Her brows rose and her eyes widened.  Michelle.

Michelle.  That’s a love­ly name.  And, um, do you know my name?

The girl blinked and said.  Mil­li­cent. 

And I’m—I’m your moth­er?

She nod­ded slow­ly.

Emi­ly rest­ed back against her pil­low, mar­veling at her sit­ua­tion.  She was now a wife and moth­er.  Two things she’d not ac­com­plished in her life, but had in­tend­ed to, once her ca­reer slowed down.  Of course she hadn’t met the right man, but then she’d thought she had time.

How come you re­mem­ber how to eat? Michelle asked with a glance at the tray. 

Well, there are some things, I sup­pose, we just don’t for­get.  They’re sec­ond na­ture, like breath­ing.  We just know how.

Are you still sick?

Not re­al­ly, no.  But I’m not quite ready to—to—  She had no idea what she was sup­posed to do.  She had no ex­pe­ri­ence at be­ing a vis­count­ess, healthy or oth­er­wise.

Dress?

Yes, dress, she said with a smile.  I’m still a bit tired.  And com­plete­ly out of my el­ement.

So you’re not go­ing to die like they said?

Emi­ly blinked at that, not quite sure how to an­swer.  I hon­est­ly don’t know.  Ev­ery­one dies at some point, but I feel fine.  So I don’t think I’m about to die any­time soon, she said with a grin, some­how know­ing she was right.  She was healthy, for the first time in a very long while.  She could feel it.

The lit­tle girl tilt­ed her head as she stud­ied her.  You look dif­fer­ent.

I do?  She glanced at the mir­ror over the dress­ing ta­ble and touched her cheek.  Dif­fer­ent how?

Well, she said, squig­gling up on­to the foot of the bed.  You don’t have those lines around your mouth any­more, she said, her fin­gers cir­cling in the air to­ward Emi­ly’s face.  Or that fun­ny bump be­tween your eye­brows.

She laughed.  I think I like the im­prove­ment then.

Michelle’s eyes widened and her mouth fell lax as she stared at Emi­ly. 

Emi­ly sat bolt up­right.  What is it, sweet­ie?  What’s wrong?  Are you sick? She’d nev­er had any close fam­ily, just a few friends, and she’d nev­er been around chil­dren much.  But the look on Michelle’s face struck a bolt of fear straight to her heart.

The child shook her head slow­ly.  You smiled.  And laughed.  I don’t think I’ve ev­er seen you do that be­fore, she said with awe.

You haven’t seen—oh sweet­heart, she fell back against the cush­ions with a gig­gle.  But the hu­mor quick­ly died in her throat. 

What sort of wom­an was this Mil­li­cent West­more?  And what had re­al­ly been wrong with her?

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Two

 

Emi­ly de­cid­ed to ex­plore her new life, hav­ing come to the con­clu­sion this was no dream.  She’d been here for days and her health had on­ly im­proved, and yet that could mean she was dy­ing.  Still, she was de­ter­mined to move for­ward and quit think­ing of her death—birth—or re­birth.  It was a new day, a new world, and she would join it with a smile on her face.

  First, how­ev­er, she need­ed to get dressed and went to the ar­moire to search for some­thing to wear, al­though cer­tain she wouldn’t have a clue how to get in­to any of the gowns.  Re­gard­less, she need­ed to get out of her room.  She’d had enough con­fine­ment to last her sev­er­al life times. 

Al­though Michelle vis­it­ed of­ten and was a ton­ic to her rest­less­ness, her hus­band had not ap­peared since that first day.  She was grow­ing more and more cu­ri­ous about the man who ap­peared in her dreams, the man Michelle idol­ized as a daugh­ter tend­ed to do.  The sense of right­ness as he’d held her wouldn’t go away.

She pushed the vis­count from her thoughts as best she could and fum­bled through the mas­sive dress­es and all the ac­cou­trements. 

No won­der ladies had per­son­al maids in the old days.  Lac­ings, but­tons, and what­not, she was most def­inite­ly not look­ing for­ward to a corset, but es­cap­ing the four walls of her room was a goal she re­fused to give up. 

Per­haps I could by­pass that un­der­gar­ment with­out too much no­tice, she mut­tered.  Of course it would be scan­dalous for a la­dy in the mid­dle of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry to go with­out, but she’d do her best to avoid the thing.  As­sum­ing she’d lost weight since her—Mil­li­cent’s—ill­ness, she could hope­ful­ly get in­to a dress with­out the masochis­tic de­vice.  She shook her head as she looked through the dress­es. 

What wom­en would do to look thin? What they still do, will do, what­ev­er, she said with a gig­gle.  Ad­just­ing to the time change was go­ing to take a lot of get­ting used to.

A shawl fell from a hook to the floor of the cab­inet and she bent to re­trieve it, but it snagged on some­thing.  Dig­ging deep be­hind the dress­es she found an or­nate box.  She pulled it from the back of the ar­moire and placed it on the dress­ing ta­ble and sat down.  It was a beau­ti­ful piece of work, the paint­ed de­tail of a man and wom­an in sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry garb sit­ting in a gar­den was exquisite.  She at­tempt­ed to lift the lid, but found it locked. 

A key, she mum­bled.  Where would Mil­li­cent stash the key?  The jew­el­ry box per­haps?

Af­ter a not too lengthy search she found the key and opened the box.  Not too stealthy there, old girl, she said, lift­ing what ap­peared to be a di­ary.

Leaf­ing through the el­egant scrib­blings, hop­ing to have a clue as to the wom­an she’d be­come, her jaw fell open.  The lurid con­tent, the ex­plic­it de­tail, turned her stom­ach.  She’d gleamed from Michelle that Mil­li­cent was an un­kind wom­an, but she had no idea that she was an adul­ter­er with some rather graph­ic sex­ual tastes. 

No won­der the vis­count hadn’t both­ered to vis­it her since that first day.  He prob­ably knew about Mil­li­cent’s il­lic­it li­aisons with some­one called Fran­cis and want­ed noth­ing to do with her.  And frankly, she couldn’t blame him.

As Emi­ly read on, she learned more than she ev­er want­ed to know about her pre­de­ces­sor and her kinky side, but it gave her a clear in­sight in­to the wom­an and this life Emi­ly had stepped in­to.  A life she was not go­ing to waste the way Mil­li­cent had.  She had a love­ly daugh­ter, a hand­some hus­band, clothes, com­forts, all the things many wom­en in this time would sell their soul for, and yet Mil­li­cent still wasn’t sat­is­fied. 

She wrote on and on about Fran­cis, whom she was ap­par­ent­ly in love with, but he’d run off when he’d been caught with an­oth­er wom­an by a man not will­ing to turn a blind eye the way Barn­aby had.

Barn­aby, Emi­ly whis­pered, hear­ing her hus­band’s giv­en name for the first time.  It sound­ed friend­ly and warm.  How could Mil­li­cent do the hor­rid things she’d done to him?  The in­sane wom­an ac­tu­al­ly or­ches­trat­ed ways in which to em­bar­rass and hu­mil­iate the man. 

Al­though she’d on­ly seen Barn­aby once, Emi­ly re­mem­bered ev­ery de­tail clear­ly, she re­al­ized with a slight blush, and had a grow­ing re­spect for the man.  To live with such an aw­ful wom­an, to face the world and know they had to be talk­ing and laugh­ing be­hind his back had to cut deeply. 

With a grim frown, she read on.  For a mo­ment, a very brief mo­ment, she felt sor­ry for Mil­li­cent and the pain she felt from Fran­cis’ be­tray­al.  She’d tak­en to her bed af­ter mak­ing her last en­try, wish­ing for death.  She seemed to ac­tu­al­ly beg for it. 

Emi­ly’s gaze shift­ed to the bot­tle of medicine by her bed.  Af­ter Martha had asked if she want­ed any, she re­al­ized what it was.  She didn’t need or want any lau­danum, al­though Mil­li­cent had ob­vi­ous­ly used it. 

But if she want­ed to die so bad­ly, she could’ve tak­en the en­tire thing and—Good Lord, she whis­pered and hur­ried to the bed­side.  Lift­ing the bot­tle, she re­al­ized it was near­ly emp­ty.  Had Mil­li­cent tried to kill her­self? 

Her thoughts whirling around her, she looked at the small book in one hand and the bot­tle in the oth­er. 

Or per­haps she suc­ceed­ed, she mur­mured.

No, that didn’t make sense.  If Mil­li­cent had died, then they would have both been walk­ing in the same di­rec­tion, to­ward the light, or so she as­sumed.  But Mil­li­cent must have been very close to death.  A death she craved.  So who­ev­er was in charge of these things, de­cid­ed that they would switch places, grant­ing one the life she yearned for, and the oth­er her death. 

With a de­ter­mined stride, she crossed to the cham­ber pot still by her bed and poured the re­mains of the lau­danum in­to it then tossed the bot­tle in­to a waste­bas­ket.  She glanced at the di­ary in which Mil­li­cent had painstak­ing­ly record­ed her lurid thoughts, her venge­ful games, even her dis­dain for her daugh­ter, still clutched in her hand. 

No one should ev­er read this, she mur­mured.

I brought you some tea, my la­dy, Martha said, then ner­vous­ly glanced at the di­ary.  I’m sor­ry, my la­dy.  I didn’t mean to dis­turb you.  She quick­ly shuf­fled back to the door.

No, don’t go, Martha.  Emi­ly moved to the fire­place and tossed the hor­rid book in­to the flames.  She watched with sat­is­fac­tion as the pages curled and turned to ash.  Mil­li­cent was gone, and this was now her life.

Sat­is­fied that noth­ing read­able could be re­cov­ered from the hearth, she turned and smiled at her gap­ing maid.  Would you be kind enough to help me dress? 

Yes, my la­dy, she said, quick­ly cov­er­ing her shock.  She placed the tea tray on a ta­ble be­fore the hearth then moved to the ar­moire, and pro­ceed­ed to pull out an un­usu­al con­coc­tion, not some­thing Emi­ly would’ve cho­sen for her­self.  Ev­ident­ly Mil­li­cent’s tastes and hers were noth­ing alike in any way.  Which, she sus­pect­ed, was a good thing.

I don’t think that one will suit, Martha.  I’d like to go for a walk in this glo­ri­ous sun­shine.  Some­thing more, um, sim­ple would be best.

Sim­ple, my la­dy?

Emi­ly smiled and strolled over to the ar­moire.  Yes.  Some­thing that says, I’m hap­py to be alive.  She fin­gered a dress with tiny blue flow­ers cov­er­ing it.  I think this one, don’t you?

But, my la­dy, you—you hate that dress.  I was go­ing to de­stroy it like the oth­ers, she rushed on, but then you be­came ill and I nev­er had the time to—

Emi­ly pat­ted her maid on the shoul­der.  It’s all right, Martha.  And I’m very glad you didn’t de­stroy it, she said, pulling it out for a bet­ter look.  It’s per­fect. 

It is?  I mean, of course, my la­dy.

She glanced back at her maid, who seemed more ner­vous than usu­al.  Martha, why do I have the feel­ing there’s some­thing you’re not telling me?

I—I—

Emi­ly sank to the small set­tee, the flow­ered dress cas­cad­ing over her robe.  You haven’t de­stroyed any of the gowns Mi—I told you to, have you?

She dropped her head.  No, my la­dy.  Af­ter his lord­ship caught me burn­ing the first batch some time ago, he told me to give them to any young ladies in the vil­lage who couldn’t af­ford a prop­er dress.

Emi­ly smiled as the gen­eros­ity and in­tel­li­gence of the vis­count warmed her heart.  Not on­ly was it kind to give the dress­es to those in need, he knew Mil­li­cent would nev­er ven­ture any­where near the lo­cals’ cir­cles to see them, so she would nev­er know. 

And then there was Michelle.  The light in that lit­tle girl’s eyes when she spoke of her pa­pa was all she need­ed to see to know Barn­aby was a good man.  He had to be with the years of pain he must have suf­fered at the hands of his hor­ri­ble wife.

Martha was still stand­ing be­fore her, her head bowed and her hands wring­ing. 

The wom­an gasped as Emi­ly reached out and took them in hers.  It’s all right, Martha.  You did what the vis­count in­struct­ed, I’m not an­gry with you.  Not in the least.  The young wom­an blinked sev­er­al times and Emi­ly grinned.  But it does pro­pose a prob­lem, she said, drop­ping Martha’s hands and gaz­ing sad­ly in­to her wardrobe. 

Ev­ery one of the dress­es, well al­most ev­ery one, was aw­ful.  Dark sin­is­ter col­ors with miles of flow­ing crepe.  Be­ing a pale, fair-​haired wom­an, she’d look like a vam­pire in them, some­thing she sus­pect­ed was Mil­li­cent’s true call­ing, if her di­ary was any in­di­ca­tion. 

This is the on­ly dress that I can see, oth­er than that deep blue ball gown, she said, point­ing at the el­egant work of art, that I like.  And I ob­vi­ous­ly can’t go around in this one ev­ery­day or that one ev­ery night.  And it seems a bit too for­mal for din­ner at home, don’t you think?

Yes, my la­dy, Martha whis­pered, glanc­ing be­tween the wardrobe and Emi­ly, some­thing ob­vi­ous­ly on her mind.

Martha, you wouldn’t still have some of those oth­er dress­es, the ones I used to not like, still hid­den away some­where, would you?

For the first time since she’d met the wom­an, the maid smiled bright, set­ting her green eyes to sparkling.  I’ve a trunk full, my la­dy.

Won­der­ful!  Could you have it brought in?  I’d love to have a fresh new look at them.

While await­ing the trunk to be brought in, Martha helped Emi­ly in­to her on­ly ap­pro­pri­ate gown then fixed her hair, but with care­ful in­struc­tion from Emi­ly.  She didn’t want the tight high bun that ac­cen­tu­at­ed her sharp fea­tures, Mil­li­cent’s usu­al hair­do, but some­thing soft­er, more like the Gib­son girl look, al­though she doubt­ed it was in style yet.  Martha was a bit flab­ber­gast­ed, but did as she was told.

You look love­ly, my la­dy, the maid said, af­ter Emi­ly fin­ished get­ting in­to the morn­ing dress with the blue flow­ers.

That’s sweet of you to say, Martha.  I couldn’t have achieved this with­out you, she said, pat­ting at her hair.  It was per­fect.  She felt won­der­ful, fresh and new, and—well—pret­ty.  It was vain to think of her­self that way, but she’d felt the op­po­site for so long.  It was a wel­come change.

There was a knock at the door. 

Place it over there, Martha said, show­ing the two men where to put the trunk. 

They did as they were told, then turned to leave, but the younger one paused, his mouth gap­ing open as he caught sight of Emi­ly.

She could on­ly as­sume she re­al­ly did look dif­fer­ent than the old Mil­li­cent, and when she smiled the boy’s eyes near­ly popped out of his head.

The old­er man grabbed his arm and shuf­fled him to­ward the door mum­bling, Mind yer­self, lad.

Thank you for bring­ing in the trunk, gen­tle­men, Emi­ly quick­ly said with a wide smile.

They both cast her a glance, shock ev­ident in their eyes, then hur­ried out of the room.  Emi­ly made a men­tal note to learn their names lat­er. 

Her walk post­poned with the ar­rival of the trunk, she and Martha spent the rest of the morn­ing wad­ing through miles of fab­ric, each a new de­light to Emi­ly’s eyes.  With Martha’s help, she de­cid­ed to al­ter a few of the dress­es—some had a bit too much flounce for Emi­ly’s tastes, but over all she had a wardrobe that would suit the new Vis­count­ess West­more, which prompt­ed a ques­tion.  Why did Mil­li­cent have these gowns made if she didn’t like them?

Isn’t it in­ter­est­ing how you can like one thing one day and not the next, Emi­ly said, hop­ing for some telling re­sponse from Martha. 

The maid didn’t know about her lack of knowl­edge.  That was still a well-​kept se­cret, she hoped, be­tween her and Michelle.  And al­though she got a good deal of in­for­ma­tion from the di­ary, the day to day stuff and oth­er less im­por­tant but in­tri­cate de­tails were go­ing to take some time.

Oh, yes, my la­dy.  I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind.  Es­pe­cial­ly con­sid­er­ing the amount of mon­ey his lord­ship paid for these and you not wear­ing them once, ‘tis a crime.  Martha froze in mid fluff­ing of one of the gowns, her head down. 

Emi­ly knew Martha had spo­ken out of turn for her sta­tion, thus the rea­son for her silent ter­ror, but the lit­tle slip-​up was a telling sign that Martha was grow­ing un­con­scious­ly com­fort­able with Emi­ly, her hap­py bab­bling a dis­tinct in­di­ca­tion.  And that was a good thing. 

You’re ab­so­lute­ly right, Martha.  I’ll nev­er un­der­stand why I did that.  And I can hon­est­ly say I will nev­er do that again. 

Emi­ly stood be­fore the long mir­ror with one of the gowns held un­der her chin.  She could on­ly as­sume the dress­es were the re­sult of Mil­li­cent’s lit­tle fits.  She en­joyed hurt­ing Barn­aby in any way she could, and his wal­let was ob­vi­ous­ly one of her fa­vorite tar­gets.

She glanced at Martha still sit­ting on the floor eye­ing her. 

I’m a changed wom­an, Martha, she said with a laugh and swirled around still hold­ing the dress to her chest.  And I plan to look like one too. 

Martha smiled back.

Phoebe, the younger house­maid, ap­peared and said some­thing, but on­ly Martha seemed to un­der­stand.  The girl spoke bare­ly above a whis­per in Emi­ly’s pres­ence. 

Do you wish to have nun­cheon down­stairs, my la­dy, or have it brought up to your room? Martha asked.

Down­stairs?  Oh, I think that’s a won­der­ful idea, she said with a smile.  Thank you, Phoebe.

With a shaky curt­sy, the young girl left.

Martha, we re­al­ly need to work on Phoebe’s self es­teem, Emi­ly said.  I can’t hear a word she says.

But her brogue, my la­dy.  You hate it. 

Brogue?  Oh dear.  This was re­al­ly go­ing to be hard to hide from Martha, but she had to try.  If the ser­vants knew about her miss­ing mem­ory, Barn­aby would be cer­tain to hear of it, and she didn’t want to risk his re­ac­tion. 

As I said, Martha, I’m a changed wom­an.  The things I’ve said and done, the rules I laid down pri­or to my ill­ness are no longer im­por­tant.  We need to start fresh, she said with a smile.  Yes, that’s it.  Just like my wardrobe.  Let’s start over, as if I’d just mar­ried the vis­count and come to live in this house. All right?

Martha blinked owlish­ly, but nod­ded. 

Good.  Emi­ly placed the last dress in the clos­et and closed the ar­moire doors. 

What do you want me to do with these, my la­dy? Her maid asked, hold­ing sev­er­al of the ug­ly gowns.

Oh, well that is a prob­lem.  They weren’t suit­able for young girls, sim­ple coun­try girls at that, she thought, touch­ing the satin and crepe.  Do you sup­pose we could al­ter them in­to some­thing more suit­able to young ladies?  I’d hate to waste such ex­pen­sive fab­ric, but the de­signs are— she sighed.  Well, they’re just aw­ful.

Martha’s brows rose.

Well they are, she said with a laugh.

Martha gig­gled.  They are a bit un­usu­al.

I’m sure with you at my side we will come up with some­thing.  We just need a well-​stocked sewing box and some imag­ina­tion.  Let’s start on it to­mor­row, all right?  Right af­ter break­fast.

Yes, my la­dy.

Now, I’m starv­ing—uh, fam­ished.  Her con­tem­po­rary slip-​ups were go­ing to be a prob­lem, but she’d work on it. 

With a smile at Martha’s quizzi­cal look, she spun on her heels and left the bed­room with a bright spring in her step.  She fal­tered on­ly a mo­ment, not quite sure which way to go, but not­ed the day­light at the end of the hall, and walked to­ward it.  How to find the din­ing room once she got down stairs was an­oth­er prob­lem en­tire­ly. 

Well, I’ll wan­der ‘til I find it, she mur­mured.  At least she’d be able to get a feel of the house that way.  And she’d been on enough En­glish manor tours to have a ba­sic idea of the lay­out.  It couldn’t be too hard. 

She hoped.

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Three

 

Barn­aby rubbed his brow, his mind on his lat­est prob­lem, or rather his re­cur­ring prob­lem.  Mil­li­cent was up to some­thing.  He’d over­heard Chan­dler and Daniel’s hushed whis­pers about her not act­ing nor­mal when they’d de­liv­ered a trunk to her rooms, which could on­ly mean she was schem­ing again.  Some­thing new, no doubt, to tor­ment and hu­mil­iate him.

With a sigh, he rose from his desk and made his way to­ward the din­ing room for the mid­day meal.  Dread weighed down ev­ery step with im­pend­ing re­turn of the bat­tle­field that was his home.  As un­kind a thought it was, he’d at least had a re­prieve, for how­ev­er brief a time dur­ing Mil­li­cent’s ill­ness.  But no more.  She was re­cov­ered, ac­cord­ing to Martha, and he would have to live with her, no mat­ter what.  He’d made a vow be­fore God, and he would not break it.

Hel­lo, a soft voice said.

Barn­aby paused in mid-​stride and looked up at the vi­sion on the stair.  Mil­li­cent.  You look—you look much re­cov­ered. 

Thank you.

He didn’t dare give her a com­pli­ment, she’d on­ly throw it back in his face.  But she did look love­ly, more so than he could ev­er re­call her be­ing.  Soft and touch­able. 

Is some­thing wrong? she asked, de­scend­ing the stairs.

Bright blue eyes looked up at him with the same in­no­cence he’d seen days be­fore still re­flect­ed there.  It was un­nerv­ing.  No, noth­ing is wrong.

She smiled, and he sucked in a silent breath.  Had he ev­er seen her this way?  Of course she’d smiled over the years, an al­lur­ing, know­ing, cal­cu­lat­ing smile, but nev­er like this.  It was—it was a re­al smile.

Are you on your way to lunch, uh, nun­cheon? she asked.

Yes.

Then will you es­cort me?

His brow fur­rowed with the on­set of a headache. 

Of course, he replied, and lift­ed his arm.  He would play along for now. 

Her hand touched his sleeve as she de­scend­ed the last step, send­ing an odd jolt up his arm.  He re­fused to be­lieve it a spark of in­ter­est, but de­ri­sion in­stead.

They silent­ly en­tered the din­ing room, and he re­leased her, al­low­ing a foot­man to hold her chair for her.  The loss of her touch was a re­lief, he told him­self, not a dis­ap­point­ment.  Her de­meanor, her smiles, the fact she seemed—dif­fer­ent—than be­fore would not sway him.  He would not be tak­en in again by her trick­ery.

En­joy your meal, Madame, he said with a small bow and moved to the oth­er end of the ta­ble and took his seat.

Emi­ly smoothed her brow, afraid the be­wil­der­ment on her face might be mis­con­strued as some­thing else, but the ta­ble was a mile long and they sat at op­po­site ends! 

How sad, she thought, re­al­iz­ing her pre­de­ces­sor’s dis­like for her hus­band and his dis­like of her was far greater than she’d imag­ined. 

They lived to­geth­er in the same house, shared a daugh­ter, but ap­par­ent­ly did ev­ery­thing they could to avoid one an­oth­er, which would ex­plain the look of shock on Barn­aby’s face when she met him com­ing down the stairs.  The prob­lem, how­ev­er, was how many changes could she make to her be­hav­ior be­fore he or some­one else got wise to her?

De­cid­ing it would be best to keep a low pro­file around her new hus­band for a while, she qui­et­ly ate her food.  Or tried to. 

Sev­er­al times he caught her star­ing at him, bring­ing a hot flush to her cheeks as she dropped her gaze.  His col­or­ing was that of a man who en­joyed the out­doors.  Michelle had told her how he liked to ride, sur­vey­ing the es­tate.  His broad shoul­ders filled his jack­et to per­fec­tion.  He would look re­gal, she mused, sit­ting astride his horse, his pow­er­ful thighs squeez­ing—

His fork clat­tered against his plate, in­ter­rupt­ing her dan­ger­ous thoughts.

Is there some­thing you wish to dis­cuss, Mil­li­cent? he asked with a scowl.

I—um—well, I—that is to say—

He an­gled his head slight­ly with one lone brow cocked.  She ig­nored her rapid­ly beat­ing heart.  Lord, he was gor­geous. 

But he de­spised her—Mil­li­cent, which meant noth­ing would ev­er de­vel­op be­tween them.  The dis­ap­point­ing fact set­tled in her chest. 

I’m just hap­py to be up and about, en­joy­ing the change in scenery.  En­joy­ing look­ing at some­thing I can nev­er have. 

She tried to smile with­out look­ing like an id­iot.  She’d just met the man, why would she de­sire him so much so fast?

He blinked a mo­ment then re­turned to his lunch.  His dark hair caught the light seep­ing in through the win­dows be­hind him, and she won­dered how the sun-​warmed waves would feel sift­ing through her fin­gers. 

Drop­ping her gaze, she took a long, deep and silent breath.  She must be los­ing her mind to think that she had feel­ings for him.  Lust, she sup­posed, was un­der­stand­able, he was be­yond hand­some, but there seemed more to it than that.  Had Mil­li­cent’s di­ary shad­ed her thoughts about the man?  Per­haps she’d made him out to be some sort of saint or mar­tyr?

Oh for pity’s sakes.

It doesn’t mat­ter what I think.

  She scowled at her food, hav­ing com­plete­ly lost her ap­petite. 

In an ef­fort to es­cape the press­ing ten­sion in the room, ten­sion she’d caused with her star­ing, she stood.  Barn­aby rose, and she gave him a shaky nod and a smile, which he re­turned with on­ly a nar­rowed glance and bow.  He want­ed noth­ing to do with her, and she would have to live with that, re­gard­less of how much she wished things could be dif­fer­ent. 

She paused at the door and turned to the near­est foot­man.  Please thank the cook for an ex­cel­lent meal.

The man’s eyes widened just the tini­est bit be­fore he bowed.  Of course, your la­dy­ship.

Emi­ly didn’t dare look at Barn­aby.  She’d just done some­thing com­plete­ly out of char­ac­ter, she knew it by the look on the foot­man’s face, but hope­ful­ly it was such a small thing that he wouldn’t be over­ly con­cerned.  And af­ter all, lunch had been good, al­though she couldn’t seem to eat much, what was the harm in say­ing so?

She hur­ried to find Michelle and see if they could take in some of the beau­ti­ful day out­doors, any­thing to keep her­self oc­cu­pied and to stop think­ing about her hus­band.  She would dream about him though, she was cer­tain.

****

Barn­aby re­frained from drop­ping his jaw at her de­par­ture.  What was the wom­an up to?  Com­pli­ments to the cook?  And all that star­ing.  She looked at him as if she’d nev­er seen him be­fore.  Her lat­est game was def­inite­ly a new one, he’d grant her that, but she would not win. 

Rub­bing his brow with the on­slaught of yet an even greater headache, he made his way back to his study.  Drop­ping in­to his chair, he spun around to face the win­dow and let the warmth of the af­ter­noon sun ease his pound­ing head. 

Michelle’s laugh­ter waft­ed in through the open win­dow, and he smiled, his wife for­got­ten.  He leaned for­ward in his chair to look out, and near­ly fell to the floor. 

Michelle and Mil­li­cent sat in the dark sum­mer grass play­ing with a kit­ten.  He’d nev­er in his life seen the wom­an be­have in such a way, sit­ting on the ground with no blan­kets or cush­ions.  Why, she wasn’t even wear­ing a bon­net!  She nev­er went out­side with­out cov­er­ing her head, re­fus­ing to al­low the sun to dark­en her fair skin even the slight­est. 

Then she laughed.  She ac­tu­al­ly threw back her head, the sun catch­ing in her gold­en tress­es, and laughed like a young maid.  In that mo­ment, so rare he dare not ex­am­ine it too close­ly, she was warm, vi­brant, and breath­tak­ing­ly beau­ti­ful.  The most beau­ti­ful wom­an he had ev­er seen.

There was a dis­tinct stir­ring in his loins and an in­crease in his pulse.  Dis­gust­ed with him­self, he spun away. 

What­ev­er you are at, Mil­li­cent, you will not win, he growled.  But their con­tin­ued laugh­ter tor­ment­ed him to the point of near mad­ness, forc­ing him to find so­lace in an­oth­er part of the house.

In his haste, he turned a cor­ner and bumped in­to Mil­li­cent’s maid, Martha.  He moved to catch her be­fore she fell as she was some­what bur­dened with a sewing bas­ket, var­ious frip­peries, and a hideous gown.

Oh, your lord­ship, I’m sor­ry!

It’s qui­et all right, I wasn’t watch­ing my stride.  My mind was on oth­er things.

Smil­ing with a faint blush, she said, As was mine, my lord.

Yes, I pre­sumed as much, he said, glanc­ing at the items in her arms.

Oh, yes, I’m afraid I’m a bit baf­fled as to how to al­ter this one.

One would pre­sume you need on­ly take it in, as I know my la­dy wife has lost con­sid­er­able weight since her ill­ness.

Oh no, my lord.  She wants me to make it over for one of the young ladies in town.  She wants to make over all her dress­es and give them away.

He re­frained from rub­bing his pound­ing tem­ples.  You mean to say, she no longer wish­es to wear any of her dress­es?

No, sir.  She wish­es to wear the old ones she cast off be­fore her ill­ness, and make the new­er ones over.  She even in­tends to help me with the chore, she said, her eyes wide.

Help you?  As in sewing?

Yes, my lord.  Oh, she is so much dif­fer­ent, if you don’t mind my say­ing, sir.  It’s as if she were a dif­fer­ent la­dy all to­geth­er.  She even said so her­self. 

I see, he replied, his tem­per sim­mer­ing.  What the dev­il was she up to this time? 

Are you all right, my lord?  Is there some­thing I can get for you?

He forced a small smile, not want­ing the maid to think his anger was di­rect­ed at her. 

No, thank you, Martha.  Do as my wife has di­rect­ed.  He stepped to the side and start­ed down the hall, but paused.  He looked back over his shoul­der to find her watch­ing him.

Martha.  If you no­tice any oth­er—changes in re­gards to La­dy West­more, re­port them to me.  Un­der­stood?

Yes, my lord, she replied with a curt­sy.

With a nod, he con­tin­ued to­ward his rooms to find a bit of re­lief, and a place to think.  Some­thing very strange was go­ing on, and he prayed it did not in­volve his daugh­ter.  Her wel­fare was his up­most con­cern.

****

Emi­ly went in search of Michelle, as was her way af­ter she and Martha had worked on the dress­es for a few hours.  The child was a de­light, a breath of fresh air, and she sore­ly need­ed just such a dis­trac­tion. 

Din­ing with her hus­band had proved as dif­fi­cult as lunch, as it did each day for near­ly a week.  So Emi­ly de­cid­ed to avoid the din­ing room or rather avoid din­ing with Barn­aby when­ev­er pos­si­ble.  She couldn’t keep from star­ing at the man, and she had a ter­ri­ble time re­mem­ber­ing to sound like En­glish Gen­try. 

Maybe if I hadn’t seen him with Michelle, she mut­tered, clear­ly re­call­ing his smile as he twirled his daugh­ter around the room.

She’d found the li­brary and was re­turn­ing to the par­lor with a book on eti­quette, think­ing it might help her learn to fit in bet­ter, when she’d heard Michelle’s de­light­ed squeal.

Emi­ly paused in the hall, just to the side of Barn­aby’s study door and peeked in­side.  He was twirling Michelle about the room the way her own fa­ther had done to her when she was a lit­tle girl. 

This was the man she want­ed to know, the smil­ing, hap­py man, the man who loved his daugh­ter and de­light­ed in her com­pa­ny.  But it was a wast­ed wish, she knew.  Her at­trac­tion to him was ridicu­lous, they didn’t even know one an­oth­er.  Not that he was aware of that fact.  But lis­ten­ing to Michelle talk about her pa­pa, how much she adored him, and see­ing him look so care­free, had Emi­ly want­ing to know him.  Af­ter all, they were mar­ried.

She’d pulled silent­ly away from the door­way and went to the par­lor, but nev­er suc­ceed­ed in get­ting him out of her thoughts. 

And I still haven’t, she said, climb­ing the stair to the nurs­ery. 

She won­dered if Barn­aby missed Mil­li­cent, the orig­inal wom­an he’d mar­ried.  Well, the wom­an he thought he’d mar­ried.  Sure­ly he wouldn’t have mar­ried her if he’d known what she was tru­ly like, but there hadn’t been much in the di­ary about their ear­ly years to­geth­er, and the one-​sid­ed point of view didn’t re­al­ly give her any good in­for­ma­tion about him.  On­ly that he dot­ed on Michelle. 

Emi­ly silent­ly wished he’d dote on her in a very adult way. 

So not go­ing to hap­pen, she grum­bled. 

She took a deep breath, pushed the dis­heart­en­ing thoughts aside, and stepped in­to the nurs­ery, hop­ing her sur­prise pic­nic with Michelle would make her feel bet­ter, but in less than a heart­beat her smile fad­ed.

But ‘tis a lu­ve­ly dress, Phoebe said plead­ing­ly.

I won’t, I won’t!  The usu­al­ly pleas­ant child tossed her dress to the floor, then pro­ceed­ed to stomp on it.

Phoebe, poor thing, stood there wring­ing her hands. 

Michelle, sat­is­fied she’d made her point, plopped her lit­tle fan­ny down on the bed, her arms crossed.

I’ll get the sack fer sure, I will, Phoebe mut­tered, lift­ing the dam­aged gown from the floor. 

So, some of Mil­li­cent has worn off on her daugh­ter.  This will have to be rec­ti­fied im­me­di­ate­ly

.

Don’t be ridicu­lous, Phoebe, Emi­ly said, mov­ing deep­er in­to the room.  I wouldn’t dream of let­ting you go.  You’re much too valu­able.

The maid blinked, and Emi­ly would swear she saw tears creep­ing to the edge of the girl’s eyes. 

She crossed to the young wom­an and ex­am­ined the dress.  And you are quite right.  It is a love­ly dress.  What a shame it’s ru­ined.  She peeked at Michelle from be­neath her lash­es, not­ing the child’s now quiv­er­ing bot­tom lip. 

I think I can mend it, yer la­dy­ship, Phoebe said, her voice soft.

No, no, Phoebe.  I fear it is tru­ly be­yond re­pair, she said with a sly wink at Phoebe, who near­ly fell over in a dead faint.  I think you should take it out to Mr. Chan­dler so he can burn it.  She tsked and shook her head.  What a shame.

Thank­ful­ly, Phoebe seemed to catch on, or so she hoped, by the look on her face.  The dress was most def­inite­ly re­pairable.  With a nod and a curt­sy, and a tiny smile, Phoebe left the nurs­ery.

Emi­ly turned to the child, now sit­ting with her head down, snif­fling and shak­ing.  What­ev­er re­ac­tion she ex­pect­ed from Mil­li­cent, it had Emi­ly’s blood boil­ing.  To fright­en a child so much that she lit­er­al­ly shook, was rep­re­hen­si­ble. 

Still, Michelle did de­serve a good talk­ing to at the very least, but she doubt­ed it would have any ef­fect.  No, she need­ed to try a dif­fer­ent tac­tic with her new daugh­ter and some­how find a way to re­move the fear. 

Now, let’s see what you shall wear to­day, she said, ex­am­in­ing Michelle’s wardrobe.  She de­lib­er­ate­ly chose one of her plainest dress­es.  I think this one will do nice­ly.

Sev­er­al min­utes lat­er, a some­what calmer but sulk­ing child by her side, she guid­ed Michelle to the kitchen.

Good morn­ing, Emi­ly said when they en­tered and the room fell still.  Mrs. Hatch, I’m afraid our plans have changed for to­day.  Michelle and I are no longer go­ing on a pic­nic.  From the cor­ner of her eye she saw Michelle’s head snap up then drop once again with her bot­tom lip stick out fur­ther than be­fore. 

She hat­ed to do it, but the child had to learn a les­son, and she wasn’t about to spank her, al­though the thought had crossed her mind.  The girl’s shak­ing had def­inite­ly stopped that, not to men­tion she had a feel­ing if Barn­aby heard about it, he’d do more than just send her away.

Then you’ll be din­ing in the nurs­ery, my la­dy? the cook asked, her voice not quiv­er­ing as much as it had ear­li­er that morn­ing when she’d asked for the pic­nic bas­ket to be pre­pared.  Like­ly Phoebe, who stood near­by, had al­ready passed along the news about what had hap­pened in the nurs­ery. 

Emi­ly was about to say yes, when an idea formed in her mind at the sight of a large bushel of ap­ples sit­ting on the floor by a buck­et of wa­ter. 

No, Mrs. Hatch, I think Michelle and I shall eat in the kitchen to­day.

A col­lec­tive gasp was heard around the room.  Def­inite­ly not ap­pro­pri­ate for a vis­count­ess and her daugh­ter, but a les­son was about to com­mence, and the kitchen was the best place to start.

Yes, my la­dy, Mrs. Hatch said, her face con­tort­ed in con­fu­sion.  Turn­ing, she swat­ted at young Daniel to clear a place at the ta­ble.  But be­fore he could move away all the re­cent­ly cleaned ap­ples atop it, Emi­ly stopped him.

Are these for tonight’s din­ner, Mrs. Hatch?

Yes, I was go­ing to make a few pies, my la­dy.

That’s an aw­ful lot of ap­ples for a few pies, she com­ment­ed.

Well, um, some are for—for the Don­ners.

The Don­ners?

The cook dropped her eyes.  Yes, my la­dy.  Since Mrs. Don­ner passed last spring, and hav­ing all boys, George, I mean, Mr. Don­ner hasn’t had any­one to cook reg­ular for him.  Her gaze snapped up.  But his lord­ship told me I could.  He in­sist­ed we help the Don­ners.  He—

Emi­ly raised her hand with a small smile, stop­ping Mrs. Hatch’s hur­ried ex­pla­na­tions.  And his lord­ship is ab­so­lute­ly right.  With­out a wom­an to care for them, and like­ly still griev­ing, I sus­pect the Don­ners need all the help they can get.

Once again, mouths fell open and gazes widened, it was so fun­ny, she near­ly laughed, but re­strained her­self.  That might send them run­ning out the door.

Yes, my la­dy, cook mur­mured.

I’ll help, Emi­ly an­nounced, and seat­ed Michelle at the ta­ble then sat down be­side her as all eyes watched in stunned fas­ci­na­tion.  She reached for the knife and be­gan peel­ing an ap­ple.  Daniel, would you bring me two bowls, please?

The young man rushed to the op­po­site end of the ta­ble and grabbed a pair of bowls, then al­most rev­er­ent­ly placed them be­fore her. 

Thank you.  Emi­ly dropped the peels in­to one bowl and be­gan slic­ing the ap­ple in­to pieces in the oth­er.  She ig­nored all the amazed faces, and hand­ed Michelle a piece of ap­ple.  Here you go, sweet­ie.  A lit­tle snack to hold you un­til Mrs. Hatch can take a mo­ment to fix your lunch.

Cook spun away and fran­ti­cal­ly pre­pared the meal from the bas­ket she’d packed, while Michelle took the slice and slow­ly put it in­to her mouth, her gaze nev­er leav­ing Emi­ly’s face.  Michelle’s meal ap­peared be­fore her and she turned her at­ten­tion to her food, but not with­out sev­er­al con­fused glances at Emi­ly. 

Do you wish to have your meal now, my la­dy? cook asked.

No, I can wait ‘til lat­er.  We’ve quite a few ap­ples to peel first.

Mrs. Hatch nod­ded and af­ter sev­er­al min­utes of Michelle qui­et­ly eat­ing, the kitchen re­turned to its nat­ural rhythm and Emi­ly let out a silent sigh of re­lief.  One more step for­ward, she thought, but she still need­ed to deal with Michelle.  The child was no longer shak­ing but was still afraid.

Michelle, do you know where ap­ples come from? Emi­ly asked, as she peeled an­oth­er ap­ple.

The trees, she said, her voice bare­ly a whis­per. 

Ah, but who plant­ed and tends the trees to make sure they’re fruit­ful?  She could feel all the ears in the room strain­ing to hear their con­ver­sa­tion, but she didn’t mind in the least.  With luck, they would learn a few new things about her to­day, and hope­ful­ly be­gin to ac­cept her and for­get Mil­li­cent. 

The gar­den­er takes care of the trees, Michelle said. 

And they came to be in the kitchen how?

Daniel helps pick them. I’ve seen him car­ry in lots in big bas­kets.

And the ap­ples are then washed and peeled and sliced for the pie, aren’t they?  Like I’m do­ing now?

Um-​hmm, the child mum­bled around a bite of ap­ple.

Then what goes in­to the pie?

Lots of things, Michelle said, her feet wav­ing back and forth be­neath the stool she sat up­on.  Emi­ly grinned, glad to see she was once again com­fort­able in her pres­ence.

You mean things like, sug­ar, and cin­na­mon?  The lit­tle girl nod­ded then sipped her milk.  And where do those things come from?

Town.  Mrs. Hatch puts it all to­geth­er and bakes it ‘til it’s yum­my, she rubbed her bel­ly with a milky grin.

Emi­ly smiled at the child.  It is yum­my.  But how does she cook it?

Michelle shrugged her shoul­ders.  In the stove.  Isn’t that right, Mrs. Hatch?

The cook looked up from where she was rolling out the piecrust and grinned.  Yes, lamb, that’s how I cook it.

Michelle turned back to her with a proud smile, but Emi­ly shook her head.  But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?

Her adorable lit­tle face scrunched up as she peered up at her.

The woods­man had to give us the wood to burn in the stove, she ex­plained.  And a tins man had to make the pan so Mrs. Hatch could put the pie in it.  A cow gave the cream.  A farmer milled the sug­ar.  The cin­na­mon came from far away, thou­sands of miles, just to be in the pie.  Do you sup­pose it got here by it­self?

Michelle’s brow fur­rowed.  No, some­one brought it, and Pa­pa bought it.

Emi­ly nod­ded at the child, see­ing that she was be­gin­ning to un­der­stand.  With mon­ey earned from the land and all the hard work the many peo­ple who live here put in­to it.  You un­der­stand now, don’t you, Michelle?  The ap­ple pie you love so dear­ly and made so ex­pert­ly by Mrs. Hatch, is re­al­ly the work of hun­dreds of peo­ple, if you look at it from a cer­tain point of view.

Michelle dropped her head guilti­ly.  It’s the same for my dress, isn’t it?

Yes, sweet­heart.  The same.  A farmer had to grow the cot­ton and har­vest it.  A weaver had to weave it and dye it.  A dress­mak­er had to pur­chase the fab­ric to make the dress, and again, many peo­ple worked very hard on the es­tate so your pa­pa could buy you the dress.

And Phoebe has to clean it when it’s dirty and mend it when it needs it, Michelle mum­bled.

Yes, she does.

The child got up from her chair at the ta­ble and crossed to Phoebe stand­ing by cook help­ing her pre­pare his lord­ship’s lunch.  I’m sor­ry I wasn’t nice.

Phoebe smiled down at the child.  That’s all right, luv.  We all have our bad days, she said with a smile and a wink.

Michelle beamed and skipped back to Emi­ly’s side.  Can I help make the pies?

I don’t see why not.  Ex­tra hands are a bless­ing in the kitchen.

Mrs. Hatch wrapped Michelle up in a dou­bly fold­ed apron to pro­tect her dress and with­in mo­ments, she was plant­ed on her fan­ny on the floor scrub­bing ap­ples in the buck­et by Emi­ly’s feet then hand­ing them up to her.

Tell me an­oth­er sto­ry, Ma­ma.  The room had gone still and Michelle war­ily eyed Emi­ly from the floor.  I mean, Moth­er, she said qui­et­ly.

Emi­ly held back her growl at her pre­de­ces­sor, Michelle wouldn’t un­der­stand.  She bare­ly did.  How could she not have loved this child?  She pulled back her anger at the wom­an who’d come be­fore her, and smiled down at her new daugh­ter who had tucked her chin down in­to the apron as she slow­ly washed the ap­ples.  It would seem Mil­li­cent could do noth­ing but be­rate the child at ev­ery turn.  No won­der she was so up­set when she’d wit­nessed her tantrum.

Emi­ly touched the child’s shoul­der and cursed silent­ly at Michelle’s flinch.  Michelle, I made a ter­ri­ble mis­take be­fore.  A lot of mis­takes, and telling you to on­ly call me moth­er was one of them.  If you’d rather call me ma­ma then that’s per­fect­ly fine with me.

Her spine straight­ened slight­ly.  I can?

Of course you can, sweet­ie, she said, brush­ing a fin­ger down the child’s soft cheek.

She beamed bright­ly.  Be­ing sick re­al­ly did make you dif­fer­ent, didn’t it, Ma­ma?

You could say it saved my life, lit­tle one, she laughed, and tweaked her daugh­ter’s nose.

The room let out a re­lieved sigh.

What the dev­il is go­ing on here! Barn­aby bel­lowed and the room went still once again. What is my daugh­ter do­ing on the floor be­hav­ing like a scullery maid?

Learn­ing, Emi­ly said through clenched teeth.

Of all the in­sane, he grum­bled.  Michelle, go up­stairs this in­stant.  Phoebe, see that she gets cleaned up prop­er­ly.

The maid bobbed a quick curt­sy and took Michelle by the hand.

But Pa­pa—

Up­stairs.  Now.  He turned to Emi­ly at the ta­ble.  And you, Madame, will join me in my study this in­stant.  He spun on his heels and left the kitchen.

Mil­li­cent, if I had you here right now… she grum­bled to her­self as she rose and fol­lowed in his stormy wake. 

She knew he hat­ed her, Mil­li­cent, but it was damned an­noy­ing to be blamed for a past that wasn’t her fault.  If he’d on­ly give her a chance, maybe they could live to­geth­er in some sort of peace.  Al­though, she ad­mit­ted, her avoid­ing him wasn’t help­ing mat­ters. 

But then at din­ner, when she tried to start up a con­ver­sa­tion, he stern­ly sug­gest­ed that they eat in si­lence.  There was no doubt he would pre­fer to eat alone, or with a mis­tress.  She wouldn’t blame the man for hav­ing one, she thought, then slapped that idea away, not lik­ing how it made her feel.

Maybe I re­al­ly am crazy, she whis­pered as she en­tered his study.

She took a stand be­fore Barn­aby’s mas­sive desk and wait­ed.  She had to be care­ful with this man.  He had the pow­er to do with her what­ev­er he liked, in this time she was his prop­er­ty.  It ran­kled ter­ri­bly, but it was a fact.  Her on­ly com­fort was in know­ing he would not beat her, or else he would’ve done so to Mil­li­cent.  That would’ve been in her di­ary for cer­tain, but he could send her away if he chose, and she hat­ed the thought of be­ing sep­arat­ed from Michelle.

He lift­ed his gaze from the desk­top, his cool gray eyes a sea of tur­bu­lence.  His strong jaw clenched a time or two as his gaze raked over her face.  He was such a strik­ing man. 

Mil­li­cent, I’ve over­looked much in the past, he growled, then cleared his throat.  But I can­not—will not let you abuse my daugh­ter.

Our daugh­ter, she said firm­ly.

He slammed his hand on the desk as he shot to his feet, mak­ing her jump.  You will con­fine your sick games to the adults and leave Michelle alone.  Or else I shall ship you off to Blan­don and be done with you.  Do you un­der­stand me?

Quite clear­ly.

With a dis­gust­ed sigh he sank back in­to his chair, end­ing the in­ter­view.  Emi­ly spun on her heels and marched to her room, hold­ing back her tears.  Even if she’d tried to ex­plain what he’d seen in the kitchen, he wouldn’t be­lieve her.  Per­haps it would be best if he did send her to Blan­don, wher­ev­er that was.  If she was to en­dure his dis­gust at ev­ery turn and not be al­lowed to spend time with Michelle, she may as well be in soli­tary.

****

I’m sor­ry I lost my tem­per, pet, Barn­aby said to his daugh­ter as she lay silent­ly in her bed.  He’d meant to mere­ly kiss her good­night, but knew that his be­hav­ior ear­ly that day, his fear of what his de­ment­ed wife was do­ing to his pre­cious girl, had fright­ened her.

Then you’re not an­gry with me any­more?

I wasn’t an­gry with you at all.

She climbed from the cov­ers and in­to his lap, her lit­tle arms linked around his neck.  That’s all right, Pa­pa.  Ev­ery­one has their bad days, she said se­ri­ous­ly, and kissed him on the cheek.

He chuck­led and hugged her tight to his chest.  Yes, they do, pop­pet.

Does that mean I can help in the kitchen again?  It was fun.

Fun?

She nod­ded, her pale curls bounc­ing about her cheeks then she made a face.  Well, not at first.  Not un­til Ma­ma told me the ap­ple sto­ry.

Ma­ma?  I see.  A doubt, small but very in­sis­tent nig­gled at him.  Per­haps you should tell me ex­act­ly what hap­pened to­day.

Michelle told of her bad be­hav­ior, along with a pro­fuse apol­ogy to not be­have that way again, and how Mil­li­cent had not pun­ished her.  Then she told him about the ap­ples. 

Barn­aby sat stunned.  Nev­er had his wife ev­er shown such un­der­stand­ing, such com­pas­sion, such in­ter­est in their daugh­ter be­fore.  She’d been changed ev­er since she awoke from her ill­ness, al­most a dif­fer­ent wom­an en­tire­ly, but he feared it was an­oth­er of her tricks.  Some sick joke she was play­ing on him.  But he hadn’t been there with Michelle, he wasn’t a part of the in­ci­dent.  Could it be that she tru­ly had changed?

Pa­pa, are you an­gry with Ma­ma?  Her bot­tom lip stuck out so far, he had to chuck­le.

No, sweet­heart.  As a mat­ter of fact, I think I may owe her an apol­ogy as well.

He kissed her cheek and tucked her back be­neath the cov­ers. 

****

Stand­ing at the win­dow, Emi­ly searched the evening sky for an an­swer to her prob­lem.  She could strike out on her own, but knew full well she wasn’t pre­pared for any­thing of that sort.  She had no mon­ey, knew no one, and wasn’t about to seek out any of the friends Mil­li­cent men­tioned in her ac­cursed di­ary.

Her nerves so fraz­zled, she jumped at the sound of her door open­ing.  Barn­aby strode in­to the room, an odd look on his face.  He’d changed his mind, she feared, and was send­ing her away.  Per­haps it was best.  Oh, how she wished she’d gone to Michelle af­ter Barn­aby’s lec­ture in­stead of keep­ing her dis­tance un­til things had calmed.  Now she may nev­er get an­oth­er chance.

He clasped his hands be­hind his back, his lips pulled in­to a grim line.  I have just left Michelle, he said, his voice some­what strained as he cast his gaze not on her but just over her shoul­der.

A small wave of pan­ic waft­ed through her.  Is she all right?  Is she ill?  She gripped the back of the chair to keep from rush­ing across the room and shak­ing the words out of him. 

His gaze shot to hers, a puz­zled frown on his face.  No, she is quite well.

Oh, thank heav­en.  With a re­lieved sigh she moved around the chair and sat down, her legs a lit­tle wob­bly.  How had she come to care for the child so deeply in so lit­tle time?

It would seem I owe you an apol­ogy, he said, pulling her from her thoughts. Michelle ex­plained the day’s events to me.  He moved to stand be­side her, while fac­ing the win­dow.  I—com­mend you on your imag­ina­tive way of deal­ing with her.  She can be a bit un­rea­son­able at times.

Like her moth­er? she asked qui­et­ly.

She felt his gaze on her, but she re­fused to look at him.  He might see some­thing, some­thing she didn’t wish to ad­mit to her­self. 

Like both her par­ents, he said.

She nod­ded with a small hid­den smile.  Then am I al­lowed to spend time with her?

He spun around and faced her ful­ly. If you are play­ing at some game, Mil­li­cent, I beg you not to in­clude Michelle.

She looked up in­to his se­ri­ous, al­most plead­ing face.  No game, Barn­aby.  I swear it on my life.

His fea­tures re­laxed some­what.  Then you may con­tin­ue.  He crossed to the door and paused.  Un­less you give me cause to change mat­ters, he said, look­ing back over his shoul­der.

I won’t.

With a nod, he was gone, and her heart slowed its rapid pound­ing.  She’d al­most lost him. 

No, no.  Michelle.  I al­most lost Michelle, she mur­mured, but knew it was on­ly a half truth. 

She cared about him, as sil­ly as it was.  She couldn’t ex­plain it, she on­ly knew it was true.  Per­haps she’d known it when he’d lift­ed her that first day and car­ried her to bed. 

Rub­bing her head, she moved to the dress­ing ta­ble to take down her hair and ready her­self for bed, will­ing away the sil­ly wish­es that plagued her thoughts.  She and Barn­aby would nev­er be to­geth­er, not re­al­ly.  He would tol­er­ate her as long as she didn’t make any trou­ble.  It wasn’t how she’d hoped to live her life, her new life, but at least she had Michelle.

Martha ap­peared with a small tray. 

You’ve not eat­en a bite to­day, my la­dy.  

Emi­ly grinned at Martha’s fuss­ing.  They’d be­come friends, or as close as a vis­count­ess could come to her maid.  They’d al­tered a few dress­es over the last sev­er­al days, chat­ted and laughed, it had been won­der­ful.  She had more than just Michelle in this new life.  She would have to re­mem­ber that.

You need to keep up your strength.  We don’t want you get­ting sick again, Martha con­tin­ued, un­aware how much she ap­pre­ci­at­ed her chat­ter.  It helped take her mind off of oth­er things, oth­er peo­ple—and her lone­ly heart.

You’re quite right, Martha.  I’ll be a good girl and eat all my veg­eta­bles and fin­ish my milk, she teased.

Oh dear, Martha gasped with a bright blush, re­al­iz­ing she’d been moth­er­ing her.

Thank you, Martha, Emi­ly said sin­cere­ly and pat­ted the maid’s hand.  Thank you for car­ing.

Well, she said with a nod, her eyes a bit glassy.  Let’s get you out of that dress first, shall we?

As Martha worked on her but­tons, she chat­ted about noth­ing in par­tic­ular, the weath­er, the pies and how Mr. Don­ner had been more than pleased with them.

I’m glad to hear it.  I’m sor­ry I ne­glect­ed to fin­ish peel­ing the ap­ples.

Oh, Mrs. Hatch was hap­py for the help, my la­dy.  Of course, she said you had no busi­ness be­ing in the kitchen.  Wasn’t prop­er, she said.

I have to keep busy, Martha.  If I sit and stare out the win­dow all day, I’ll go nuts.

Beg par­don, my la­dy? 

Um, I mean, I’ll go quite mad.

Martha tucked her in­to a com­fy chair by the fire and placed her din­ner tray be­fore her.  Is there any­thing else you need, ma’am?

No, thank you.

The maid head­ed for the door with a soft good­night.

Oh, wait.  Phoebe didn’t ac­tu­al­ly burn Michelle’s dress, did she?

Martha turned as she stepped in­to the door­way.  Oh, I’d near­ly for­got­ten.  She plans to mend it to­mor­row, but wasn’t sure what you want­ed her to do with it when she’s done.

Oh good.  Tell her thank you for me, and that she can give it back to Michelle when­ev­er she fin­ish­es.  There’s no hur­ry.  It won’t hurt Michelle to think it’s gone for a while.

Yes, ma’am, she said with a broad smile, and slipped out of the room and closed the door.

Emi­ly set­tled back in her chair, and ate her meal with a grin.  And she did fin­ish her veg­eta­bles, but with a very nice glass of wine.

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Four

 

Have the phaeton brought around, Wilkins, Barn­aby said, strid­ing to­ward the stairs. 

Al­though there was no need to re­mind the but­ler that he and Michelle would be leav­ing for church with­in the hour, it was a reg­ular event each Sun­day, he didn’t wish to be late.  He had a po­si­tion, a rep­uta­tion to up­hold, re­gard­less of his wife’s ne­far­ious ac­tiv­ities.

Wilkins cleared his throat as Barn­aby placed his foot on the first step. 

Is there a prob­lem? he asked, the but­ler.

Her la­dy­ship will be join­ing you, my lord.

Her la­dy­ship?

Yes, my lord.  Shall I have the car­riage brought around?

The car­riage, he par­rot­ed, feel­ing the fool. 

Some­how she’d man­aged to con­found him to the point of sound­ing like a blither­ing id­iot.  First the dress­es, then the ap­ple in­ci­dent, and now church.

The car­riage, my lord?

Um, yes, of course.  We will take the car­riage.

The but­ler nod­ded, hid­ing any sign of his own baf­fle­ment with the changes in his wife. 

It was no se­cret that Mil­li­cent did not at­tend church, not the vil­lage church.  She made her week­ly vis­its to the chapel on the es­tate—alone, but nev­er did she ven­ture in­to the vil­lage.  She de­spised any­one not of her class.  But he sus­pect­ed her re­luc­tance to at­tend had more to do with the fact that the wom­an he’d mar­ried nev­er rose from her bed un­til noon at the ear­li­est. 

There in lay the co­nun­drum.  Was she play­ing at one of her sick games, or had she tru­ly changed so much?

He shook the ques­tions from his mind.  It did him no good to pon­der such things, but he would nev­er cease his vig­ilant watch over her ac­tions.

****

Emi­ly had Martha pay ex­tra spe­cial at­ten­tion to her hair and gown.  She want­ed to look per­fect.  She knew this was a first for her and Mil­li­cent.  Ev­ery­thing had to be per­fect. 

Michelle bound­ed in­to her rooms, her curls bounc­ing.  Pa­pa’s wait­ing down­stairs for us, Ma­ma.

She turned with her heart full, lov­ing the sound of Ma­ma on Michelle’s lips.  She’d nev­er re­al­ized how won­der­ful it would be to have a daugh­ter. 

A slight pang of grief re­ver­ber­at­ed in­side her with the knowl­edge that she would nev­er have any oth­er chil­dren.  Barn­aby would nev­er make love to her.

She man­aged a smile, in spite of her de­press­ing thoughts.  Well then, we shouldn’t keep him wait­ing, she said and rose.  She col­lect­ed her retic­ule and fol­lowed her skip­ping daugh­ter down the stairs.

As with ev­ery meet­ing, ev­ery time she caught sight of Barn­aby, her breath hitched in her throat.  Why couldn’t he have been ug­ly, or rude, or—or some­thing oth­er than won­der­ful?

With­hold­ing a growl at her er­rant thoughts, she re­trieved her wrap and then her hat from Martha.  Donned to go out, she took Michelle’s hand, who in turn, took hold of her fa­ther’s, her bright shin­ing face look­ing up at both of them. 

Emi­ly re­tained her grin amid the stormy gaze from her hus­band.  He ei­ther didn’t like shar­ing Michelle, or still be­lieved her up to some trick.  She couldn’t blame the man, but she was get­ting re­al­ly sick of it.  What did she have to do to gain the man’s trust?  Or was she hop­ing for the im­pos­si­ble?

Set­tled in the car­riage with Michelle be­side her and Barn­aby across, she con­cen­trat­ed on the view, hav­ing not seen any­thing oth­er than the im­me­di­ate grounds around the es­tate.  Michelle leaned over and whis­pered in­to her ear as they neared the vil­lage, giv­ing her as much in­for­ma­tion as a lit­tle girl could. 

Emi­ly ig­nored the vis­count’s scowl.  He didn’t like her new re­la­tion­ship with Michelle, and she un­der­stood his mis­giv­ings, but couldn’t he see how much she’d changed? 

The car­riage clat­tered to a halt, and Barn­aby as­sist­ed her down. 

What was Michelle whis­per­ing about?  He’d not want­ed to ask, feel­ing it was noth­ing to wor­ry over­much about, but couldn’t re­strain him­self. 

Mil­li­cent cocked her head at him, an odd grin on her tempt­ing lips.  Girl talk, she said, then pro­ceed­ed to­ward the church.

With a shake of his head at an­oth­er of her odd phras­ings, he turned and lift­ed Michelle down from the car­riage. 

Michelle took his hand and pulled him on­ward where she then took her moth­er’s.  Her imp­ish face look­ing up at them both once again warmed his heart, and yet placed a pall over him at the same time. 

If Mil­li­cent were to re­turn to the wom­an she was be­fore, the wom­an who bare­ly ac­knowl­edged she even had a daugh­ter, it would break his lit­tle girl’s heart.

We’re a re­al fam­ily now, aren’t we Pa­pa?

He lift­ed his gaze to his wife’s as she lift­ed hers.  Her lips turned up, and for a mo­ment he felt a con­nec­tion, an agree­ment that Michelle’s wel­fare was of the ut­most im­por­tance.  That re­gard­less of their cir­cum­stances, she would not suf­fer for it.

Yes, a re­al fam­ily, pop­pet, he said, as a smile, al­beit brief, touched his mouth. 

Mil­li­cent’s gaze widened then warmed.  Dan­ger­ous thoughts set­tled in the fore­front of his mind, but were thank­ful­ly dis­pelled by the ap­proach of the vicar.

It’s a plea­sure to see you again, your lord­ship, the old man said, and shook his hand.

Good morn­ing.

It’s a great plea­sure to see you up and about, your la­dy­ship, the old man said.  We were all grave­ly con­cerned over your ill­ness.

Thank you, you’re very kind.

Feel­ing ev­ery eye up­on them, Barn­aby climbed the stairs and en­tered the church with his wife and daugh­ter be­side him.  The gos­sips would have a feast this day, but so far, Mil­li­cent was as gra­cious as she was beau­ti­ful.  Per­haps he would sur­vive the day af­ter all.

The ser­vice be­gan, putting an end to all the whis­per­ing—for the mo­ment, but he knew it would be­gin again at the end of the ser­mon.

Emi­ly hadn’t missed the many heads bent to­geth­er as they made their way to their box.  She knew all of it couldn’t be good, but she had caught a word or two about the dress­es she’d helped Martha al­ter.  Per­haps there was hope for some of the peo­ple to learn to trust her, but she held out lit­tle hope for her hus­band. 

That odd mo­ment out­side, his al­most plead­ing gaze re­gard­ing Michelle, and how it warmed once he seemed to un­der­stand, was on­ly a blink in time, and the most she would ev­er re­ceive from him.  But it had been won­der­ful and just as de­press­ing be­cause it would like­ly nev­er hap­pen again.

The vicar’s words echoed in the small church, and gave her a wisp of hope.  Faith, he’d said.  One must have faith.  Af­ter all, her be­ing there was a mir­acle in it­self, why couldn’t she be grant­ed an­oth­er just as amaz­ing?

The ser­vice at an end, they rose and ex­it­ed the church.  Barn­aby shook hands with the vicar and a few choice oth­ers, brave enough to ap­proach him, then hur­ried them to the coach.  She could on­ly guess that he’d heard a good deal of the whis­per­ing as well, and hoped to avoid any di­rect con­fronta­tions, en­coun­ters the old Mil­li­cent rev­eled in.  Emi­ly was sad­dened by it all. 

You made life hell for him, Mil­li­cent.  I hope you’re hap­py wher­ev­er you are, and I hope it isn’t all that pleas­ant.

As she lift­ed her foot to step in­to the car­riage a horse and rid­er ap­peared bring­ing a smile so broad to her hus­band’s face, it near­ly knocked her to the ground.  She caught her­self against the car­riage and watched as he strode with a light foot across the road to greet the new­com­er.

The gen­tle­man slid off his horse and gripped Barn­aby’s hand in a firm, friend­ly hand­shake.  Both men slapped at each oth­er’s shoul­ders, their long­time com­pan­ion­ship as clear as the ring­ing of the church bells.

Michelle stuck her head out of the car­riage win­dow with a squeal of joy.  Emi­ly caught her be­fore she could jump from the car­riage and dash across the road.

A la­dy doesn’t run across roads, sweet­heart, she said, more to stall than to teach.  She need­ed in­for­ma­tion and quick.  She gripped the child’s hand firm­ly and slow­ly made their way to the edge of the road.

Who is that? she whis­pered.

Michelle ceased her bounc­ing and looked up at her.  Oh, I for­got, Ma­ma.  I’m sor­ry.  I’m just so hap­py to see Un­cle Con­rad.

He’s your fa­ther’s broth­er?

No, they’re just friends.  They went to school to­geth­er, but I al­ways call him un­cle.

I see.  Well then, we should go greet him, don’t you think?

She start­ed to cross the road, when Michelle tugged her to a halt.  But you don’t like him, she said, a deep frown on her sweet face.

Ah, but that was be­fore, she said with a wink, wip­ing the frown from her lit­tle girl’s face.

With the most per­ti­nent piece of in­for­ma­tion, the man’s iden­ti­ty, Emi­ly was able to re­call a few choice facts from Mil­li­cent’s di­ary.  Dis­like wasn’t ex­act­ly the cor­rect sen­ti­ment. 

Mil­li­cent want­ed the man in her bed.  They seemed to bat­tle ver­bal­ly at ev­ery turn, which ex­cit­ed Mil­li­cent and caused her de­sire for the man to grow.  Al­though there was no men­tion of him ev­er hav­ing slept with her, Emi­ly couldn’t be too sure, and had to tread care­ful­ly.

Barn­aby fell silent as she and Michelle ap­peared be­side them.

There’s my best girl, Baron Stan­ton said, as he lift­ed Michelle up in­to his arms and tweaked her nose.  Michelle gig­gled and Emi­ly smiled. 

If first im­pres­sions were worth any­thing, this man was much like her hus­band.  She had lit­tle doubt that he ev­er touched Mil­li­cent, and the sharp barbs he tossed the wom­an’s way were in­deed in­tend­ed to hurt, not ex­cite.   Emi­ly’s pre­cur­sor had an overblown view of her­self, that was cer­tain.

Are you stay­ing this time, Un­cle Con­rad? Michelle asked.

That de­pends, he replied, his gaze cut­ting to Emi­ly. 

Uh-​oh, some­thing re­al­ly nasty must have hap­pened the last time he vis­it­ed, she thought.  And she didn’t have a clue how to han­dle it.

Barn­aby looked at her, a de­ter­mined gleam in his eye.  Of course you’re stay­ing.  I wouldn’t have it any oth­er way, he said, al­though his gaze nev­er left hers.

She gave a faint nod and tore her at­ten­tion from his to look at the baron.  Nor would I.  A gen­uine smile stole over her lips as she glanced at Michelle’s bright shin­ing face.  And I be­lieve a cer­tain some­one would be sore­ly dis­ap­point­ed if you did not stay.

Michelle threw her arms around the man’s neck.  You will stay, won’t you?  Both Ma­ma and Pa­pa and I want you to stay, please?

Baron Stan­ton cast a con­fused glance at Emi­ly then to Barn­aby, whose face was awash with its own share of con­fu­sion.

Of course I’ll stay, he said, turn­ing his head back to the bun­dle in his arms and rubbed his nose with hers.  I can­not dis­ap­point my best girl.

Hooray! Michelle shout­ed and hugged him tight­ly.

Barn­aby gen­tly pulled her from the baron’s arms but did not put her down.  We’ll meet you at home, he said, and start­ed across the road, leav­ing Emi­ly to fol­low.

She could feel the baron’s in­tense stare, it near­ly bore a hole through her back.  Prayers, al­though silent, passed her lips that he would not be some­thing oth­er than she be­lieved.  She didn’t think she could suc­cess­ful­ly thwart an old lover and still keep her se­cret in­tact.

****

Once they ar­rived home, Barn­aby sent Michelle off with a maid to get her ready for nun­cheon.  She would dine with the adults in hon­or of Con­rad’s vis­it.  Sur­pris­ing­ly, his wife made no com­ment up­on his un­heard-​of an­nounce­ment and left them to tidy her­self for the mid-​day meal as well.

Ex­plain, Con­rad said, the mo­ment the door closed to his study and they were alone.

I have no ex­pla­na­tion oth­er than to say she’s not been the same since she awoke from her ill­ness.

Her self-​in­duced ill­ness, you mean.

He nod­ded and crossed to the fire­place and stared in­to the cold hearth.  Noth­ing has been the same.  Her at­ti­tude, her clothes, even her speech is dif­fer­ent.

I had no­ticed it was not as cold.

He cast a glance over his shoul­der at his friend.  Con­rad had nev­er liked Mil­li­cent, had warned him he’d cho­sen poor­ly when he’d told him he in­tend­ed to mar­ry her, but he’d been too blind­ed by her beau­ty.

Turn­ing, he reached up and gripped the man­tle, not lik­ing what he was about to ask, but he had to do some­thing to gain some sem­blance of peace to his war weary mind.

I need you to fer­ret out what she’s up to, he said.

Con­rad’s eyes widened, then a frown fell over his mouth and he crossed his arms firm­ly in front of him.  No, not even for a friend, my best friend, will I go near that harpy.

I on­ly wish for you to speak with her, see if you can get her to tell you some­thing—by ac­ci­dent.

Talk to her.  He dropped his arms and sat up­on the arm of the set­tee.  If you re­call, she prefers to ig­nore me, and has tak­en great pains to keep a vast amount of space be­tween us for near­ly a year.

She spoke to you to­day and not with mal­ice.

He sighed and turned his at­ten­tion to the win­dow.  True.  Which makes her all the more dan­ger­ous.

If you won’t do it for me, do it for Michelle.

Con­rad’s head snapped around.  What has she done to Michelle?

Barn­aby grinned at his friend’s ve­he­mence.  He was as pro­tec­tive of his daugh­ter as though she was his own. 

Noth­ing yet.  She and Michelle have be­come quite close.  It con­cerns me, but so far on­ly good seems to have come from it.

Con­rad’s eyes nar­rowed.  And you al­lowed her this at­ten­tion?

He nod­ded, and told him all that had hap­pened since his wife awoke.

I see what you mean.  She has ei­ther changed, which sounds im­pos­si­ble to be­lieve, or she is up to some new scheme.  With a sigh, Con­rad took his hand and shook it.  I will see what I can dis­cov­er.  For Michelle’s sake and for your peace of mind.

Barn­aby grinned with a sigh of re­lief.  Thank you, my friend.  I shall owe you a debt.

A very hefty debt, Con­rad said with a laugh.

The gen­tle­men ap­peared in the din­ing room with grins on their faces.  That al­lowed Emi­ly a brief mo­ment of re­lief.  She knew she had to have been one of the top­ics they dis­cussed, her dif­fer­ence from the pre­vi­ous Mil­li­cent was not eas­ily ig­nored.

The gen­tle­men talked and dot­ed over Michelle while Emi­ly picked at her food, do­ing her best to re­main the loy­al wife, the good moth­er, the ex­cep­tion­al host­ess, and de­cid­ed­ly in­vis­ible. 

She moved her food around her plate for the hun­dredth time.  God, she de­test­ed liv­er.  She hoped din­ner would be more in line with her tastes, or else she’d have to make yet an­oth­er vis­it to the kitchens in the mid­dle of the night for some­thing to eat.

Mrs. Hatch was a won­der­ful cook, and she hadn’t the heart to tell her that she couldn’t abide some of the things she made.  She as­sumed they were fa­vorites of her hus­band’s, but too many more trips and she’d be caught for sure.

Her stom­ach rum­bled and Michelle, seat­ed be­side her, gig­gled.  Emi­ly man­aged to gen­tly scold her with a look and a grin be­fore the men no­ticed.  Al­though know­ing she’d made a mis­take, the smile was not wiped from the child’s face.  If on­ly she could make such progress with Barn­aby.

The meal came to a close and Michelle was sent to her room for a nap.  Emi­ly wished to fol­low, but knew her place was here by her hus­band’s side. 

As they set­tled in the draw­ing room, Con­rad turned a steady, cold gaze on her.  How is Ax­ley? He took the glass of port of­fered by her hus­band.

Who on earth is Ax­ley?

  She men­tal­ly ran through the names from Mil­li­cent’s di­ary, but this one wasn’t’ among them.  Could he be Fran­cis?  She nev­er did get the lover’s last name.

With a calm she didn’t feel, she lift­ed her sewing bas­ket from the floor and re­trieved an out­ra­geous retic­ule she’d been al­ter­ing for her­self.

I’ve not heard from any­one for some time, she replied, which wasn’t a lie, she’d not opened a sin­gle let­ter that came to her.  She’d burned them all with­out open­ing them, rec­og­niz­ing the few sup­posed friends of Mil­li­cent’s.

His eyes nar­rowed as did Barn­aby’s.  Per­haps she should’ve been more truth­ful, per­haps she should tell them both the en­tire truth.  She pricked her fin­ger and flinched, and tried to fo­cus on her nee­dle work.

Re­al­ly?  I was cer­tain I saw a stack of let­ters for you the oth­er day in Wilkins’ hands, Barn­aby said, his tone chilly.  And there were many sent while you were ill.  Per­haps your maid sim­ply mis­placed them in your rooms.

Very well, they weren’t go­ing to leave it alone, so she’d give them some­thing to chew on.

She lift­ed her head, and looked Barn­aby in the eye.  No, she didn’t mis­place them, I burned them with­out open­ing them. 

The men ex­changed per­plexed glances, and she knew it would con­tin­ue this way all af­ter­noon, so she made a hasty re­treat.  She wasn’t up for an in­ter­ro­ga­tion. 

If you will ex­cuse me, gen­tle­men, I will leave you to dis­cuss more im­por­tant things.  I have some gar­den­ing to do.

She set aside her bas­ket and rose to leave the room.  It was that, or blurt out all of her sto­ry and be sent to the nut­house, and with what she knew of those sorts of places in this time, was a very bad idea.  Very very bad.

Barn­aby watched her ex­it the room as if the hounds were af­ter her.  If she were in­no­cent of some treach­ery, would she not be calmer, stead­ier in her pace?

What the bloody hell is go­ing on with that wom­an? Con­rad sput­tered.  She would nev­er so much as con­tem­plate dirty­ing her hands with such a task as gar­den­ing.

A weary sigh slipped from Barn­aby’s lips.  Much more of this and I shall lose what lit­tle wits I have left.

Con­rad placed a firm hand on his shoul­der.  We’ll find the an­swers, my friend.  I promise you.

Barn­aby knew that they would, but feared what those an­swers might be, be­cause more than ev­er he wished his wife was a changed wom­an. 

We should give her time to set­tle in what­ev­er task she’s con­tem­plat­ing then seek her out—stealthi­ly.  Per­haps she’ll show her hand in some way, Con­rad sug­gest­ed.

He moved across the room and poured him­self a small dram, any­thing to ease the ten­sion in his shoul­ders and neck. 

Sneak­ing around his on home to spy on his wife, what a dis­gust­ing en­deav­or.

 

But his friend was cor­rect, they need­ed to catch her in the act, what­ev­er that may be.  He tossed back his drink then set aside the emp­ty glass. 

Let’s be about this busi­ness, he grum­bled, and left the par­lor with Con­rad on his heels in search of the con­found­ing wom­an.

Their first stop was her rooms, where he ques­tioned her maid.

She came and col­lect­ed a bon­net then said some­thing about see­ing Mr. Chan­dler, my lord, Martha said.

With a nod they left to fol­low the trail.

What do you sup­pose she would want with Chan­dler? Con­rad asked.

A horse, no doubt.  Chan­dler man­aged his sta­bles, and was a good man, but un­til re­cent­ly he’d not been agree­able where his wife was con­cerned.  They’d ar­gued many times over her treat­ment of her horse and her de­mands on his sta­ble hands. 

Ax­ley’s not re­turned, so she couldn’t be meet­ing with him, his friend said.  Per­haps a sim­ple ride is all she seeks.  Some­thing to get away from the two of us.

Mil­li­cent de­tests rid­ing.  She hasn’t gone near a horse for more than two years since she was thrown.

A yes, I’d for­got­ten.

They trod across the lawn and drive to the sta­bles, on­ly to find she’d al­ready left, and not on horse­back.

What did she want? Barn­aby asked Chan­dler.

She came to see to Daniel, mi-​lord.  The lad sliced his hand open last eve and she was makin’ sure he was keep­ing the wound clean.  He hung the rope he’d been coil­ing on a hook.  She fussed over him like a reg­ular moth­er hen, he said, look­ing at Barn­aby with al­most as much con­fu­sion as he felt.

Rub­bing his aching brow, Barn­aby asked, Do you know where she went?

Aye, mi-​lord.  To find Mis­ter Motts.

With that he and Con­rad were on her trail once again, nei­ther say­ing a word about what they’d learned.  It was be­yond any­thing they ex­pect­ed.

Mil­li­cent did not care about ser­vants, about their health or well-​be­ing.  She on­ly cared about her­self.

The pain in Barn­aby’s head grew.  None of these things were while in his pres­ence.  None of these things af­fect­ed him di­rect­ly, so how could they be a part of one of her schemes to hurt him?

Fi­nal­ly lo­cat­ing the head gar­den­er, they learned she’d ap­pro­pri­at­ed a pair of gar­den­ing gloves, small hand shears, and a bas­ket.  Ap­par­ent­ly, Vis­count­ess West­more was go­ing to cut flow­ers.  Ros­es, to be ex­act, her least fa­vorite flow­er.

She’d de­mand­ed once some years ago, that all the rose bush­es be dug up and burned.  Barn­aby had man­aged to in­ter­cept that or­der be­fore it took place and in­stead, had the ‘of­fend­ing’ flow­er moved to an­oth­er part of the gar­den where she rarely, if ev­er, ven­tured.

She’d not been the least bit pleased about that, but he stood firm.  His moth­er had tend­ed the bush­es with great care, they were her fa­vorite flow­er, and he would not see his wife de­stroy one of his most cher­ished mem­ories of his youth.

The mem­ory of her ha­tred of the plant, spurred him on.  Al­though armed with small shears, she could do ir­repara­ble dam­age to the bush­es.

You don’t re­al­ly think— Con­rad huffed as they jogged to the se­clud­ed flow­er gar­den.

With­out a doubt.

But as they turned the cor­ner hedge, the sight be­fore them had them skid­ding to an awk­ward halt.

She lay up­on the grass look­ing up at the sky, a bas­ket filled with fresh­ly cut ros­es and oth­er flow­ers sat up­on the ground be­side her as did her bon­net.  Hum­ming some un­rec­og­niz­able tune, her fin­gers twirled a small blos­som be­neath her nose. 

The an­gle of the lawn and the side from which they’d en­tered al­lowed them to go un­no­ticed as they watched her with their mouths agape.

Barn­aby stood stock still for sev­er­al min­utes en­rap­tured by her, by the haunt­ing melody he’d nev­er heard be­fore and by how deeply he want­ed to lie down be­side her.

Con­rad tugged on his arm, pulling him from the en­trance to stand be­hind the hedgerow.

Tell me I did not just see what I saw, Con­rad whis­pered harsh­ly.

I am at a com­plete loss as well.  He peered around the cor­ner, still amazed, then looked back to his friend.  There has to be some ex­pla­na­tion.  He shook his head and be­gan the jour­ney back to the house.  There has to be.

Is she not—was she not al­ler­gic to flow­ers or some such?

Yes, or so she said, which leads me to be­lieve my wife has nev­er told a truth in her en­tire life.

Con­rad snarled a word that best de­scribed his la­dy wife, but at the mo­ment Barn­aby was hav­ing a hard time agree­ing with it for once.  See­ing her ly­ing in the sun­shine, a con­tent­ed smile on her face as she gazed at the bil­low­ing clouds in the sky, as if she had not a care in the world, as if life it­self was ev­er so sweet, re­mind­ed him of a dream long for­got­ten. 

To have a wom­an he could love with his whole heart be his wife.

Or she tru­ly has changed, Con­rad said, in­ter­rupt­ing his mus­ings as they en­tered the par­lor.

I can­not be­lieve it.  He poured an­oth­er larg­er drink and downed most of it in one gulp.

His friend took the snifter from be­neath his hand and poured one for him­self.  Nor I, but the ev­idence is build­ing.

He looked him square in the eye.  Ev­idence of change or ev­idence of some new per­fidy in the mak­ing?

With a sigh, he took a long sip and they both stared in­to space in thought.

What gain would she have in such a vast and com­pli­cat­ed scheme?  Her pre­vi­ous games were bla­tant­ly ob­vi­ous, she pre­ferred it that way.  She want­ed him to know what she was plan­ning so she could watch him squirm.  But this did not even in­volve him.  Just as the in­ci­dent with the ap­ples in the kitchen.  Per­haps she had changed.

No, he slammed his glass to the tray.  He re­fused to be­lieve it.  She was plan­ning some­thing, plot­ting some hor­ren­dous scheme to bring him to his knees.  We must dis­cov­er her plans.

And if we can­not?

Then I will send her to Blan­don where she can­not do any­one any fur­ther harm.

Con­rad looked at him, thoughts preva­lent in his eyes.  You mean Michelle.

Yes, Michelle.  And him­self.

****

Her stom­ach growl­ing loud enough to wake the house­hold, Emi­ly snuck down to the kitchen in her night­gown and robe, with a sin­gle can­dle to light the way.  The pi­geon pie Mrs. Hatch served for din­ner seemed fine to the men, but she just couldn’t bring her­self to do it.  The bird’s feet were stick­ing out of the thing!

A sick wave rolled through her stom­ach.  Don’t think about it.  It prob­ably tast­ed fine, just like chick­en, she thought with a snort.  But those darn feet—Stop it, she hissed, and pushed on­ward. 

She pushed open the kitchen door and peeked in­side, find­ing no one around. 

Per­fect.  She set the can­dle on the ta­ble near­est the large pantry and went in­side to find her prize.  Bread and cheese, the very thing to set­tle her nerves and her hunger.

Turn­ing to place her plun­der on the ta­ble, she bumped in­to a sol­id chest and let out a small squeak of sur­prise.  She bare­ly caught the food be­fore it fell to the floor.

Oh!  You scared me half to death, she snarled, glar­ing up at the baron.  What are you do­ing in here?  She shoved past him and set her food on the ta­ble, then went in search of a knife.  He’d all but grilled her over din­ner, get­ting noth­ing of any re­al im­por­tance from her, and all while Barn­aby looked on.  It thor­ough­ly ticked her off, and she was still an­gry with both of them, whether they de­served to be wary of her or not.

I heard a noise and came to in­ves­ti­gate.

She glanced over her shoul­der and looked at the man cast in the warm glow of can­dle­light.  He didn’t sound very con­vinc­ing.  No sur­prise there. 

Her tem­per flar­ing, she propped her hands on her hips.  You mean you fol­lowed me down here, hop­ing to get some dirt on me.  She spun around and con­tin­ued her search for a knife.  Well sor­ry to dis­ap­point you, Baron, but you’ve got zip.

Par­don?

She winced, her blast­ed tem­per made her for­get who she was sup­posed to be.  I meant that you’ll not find any ev­idence that I’m in the midst of some li­ai­son.

Hmm.

Is that all you have to say?  Hmm?  No apol­ogy for as­sum­ing the worst? 

She found the knife, then grabbed a plate and went back to the ta­ble.  She no­ticed him back­ing up sev­er­al paces. 

Oh, for heav­en’s sakes.  With a shake of her head, she pro­ceed­ed to ig­nore him and went to work on the bread and cheese. 

Once sliced, she went in search of a cup and poured some milk and made her­self com­fort­able at the ta­ble.  Just as she lift­ed her cheese sand­wich to her lips, she caught the look on Con­rad’s face.  The man was be­yond con­fused.

With a sigh, she set the sand­wich back on her plate and waved to a near­by chair.  Care to join me?

He blinked a time or two, but made not a sin­gle move.

Look, if you’re go­ing to watch me eat, you may as well sit down.

He glanced at the knife and she grinned with shake of her head. 

Here, she said, and slid it to the oth­er side of the ta­ble where he stood.

  His head cocked to the side, he stud­ied her for a mo­ment, then eased in­to the chair.

All com­fy now? she teased coarse­ly.

His brow fur­rowed, and she knew she’d bro­ken ranks again, but dang it she was hun­gry! 

De­cid­ing to ig­nore him, she plowed through her meal and rel­ished ev­ery bite.  Some­how she would have to find a way to tell Mrs. Hatch about some of the things she’d rather not eat.

What was the last thing you said to me? he asked.

I asked if you were com­fort­able.

He shook his head.  No, not this evening, the last time we met.

More in­ter­ro­ga­tion?  How nice, she said, acid drip­ping from her voice.  She’d had more than enough ques­tions from the two of them to last her a life time. 

An­swer the ques­tion.

Or what?  You’ll go run­ning to Barn­aby and tell him I won’t play?  His con­found­ed look had her rolling her eyes.  Fine.  The last time we met.  Let’s see.  Hmm.  She pre­tend­ed to think on it, then shook her head.  Nope, can’t re­call a word.  Why don’t you re­fresh my mem­ory? 

She knew by the look on his face, that some­thing ma­jor had hap­pened be­tween them, which could on­ly have hap­pened right be­fore Mil­li­cent took the lau­danum since there was no men­tion of any­thing ex­traor­di­nary in the di­ary.  Then again, Mil­li­cent was wacked, so who knew what was im­por­tant to her from her point of view?

He sat back in his chair an odd ex­pres­sion on his face.  You tru­ly don’t re­mem­ber, do you?

A sink­ing feel­ing set­tled in the pit of her stom­ach.  Michelle.  Should I? she feigned, then sipped her milk.

One side of his mouth quirked up as did one brow.  Yes, you should.  You threat­ened to have me cas­trat­ed, among oth­er things.

A sound­less oh formed on her lips as she low­ered her cup to the ta­ble.  Um, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.  I apol­ogize.  Well, I mean, that is if you didn’t de­serve it, of course.

She crunched her lids closed, know­ing she wasn’t han­dling this con­ver­sa­tion well at all.

A low but def­inite chuck­le rum­bled across the ta­ble.  She opened one eye to see the baron smil­ing.

Michelle told me you’d lost your mem­ory, but I didn’t be­lieve her.  I thought you’d told her a tale, for some rea­son on­ly you could fath­om.  But I am be­gin­ning to be­lieve it is the truth.

A long hiss of air slipped from her lungs and she sat back.  I didn’t think she could keep it a se­cret for long, but I tried.  So, I take it you’ve told Barn­aby about this?

No, as I said, I thought it was just a fib you told the child.

You want­ed to find out more be­fore telling him, she said with a nod. 

I didn’t wish to wor­ry him un­nec­es­sar­ily.

You’re a good friend.

I do my best.

So, now you know, what next?  He won’t be­lieve it.  He’ll think I’m plan­ning some­thing, she said with a dis­gust­ed sniff.  She fid­get­ed with the leav­ings on her plate.  He’ll prob­ably de­clare me in­sane and send me to an asy­lum, or to Blan­don, wher­ev­er that is.  She looked up at the baron, know­ing her heart was in her eyes.  I don’t want to leave.  I want to stay with Michelle and...I want to stay.

It’s hard to be­lieve you, af­ter all that you’ve done.

Yeah, prob­lem is, I don’t know too much about that.  I know I was aw­ful, that I cheat­ed, I mean that I had af­fairs, and that I was a cold, self­ish wom­an, but that isn’t me now.

How do you know of the af­fairs if you can­not re­mem­ber?

A di­ary.  I found it in the wardrobe.  It wasn’t ex­act­ly filled with pret­ty pic­tures, so I de­stroyed it.  But, um, you were men­tioned in it, but she didn’t say—well, we didn’t—  She point­ed at him then at her­self.  You know—we didn’t, did we?

He grinned at her and shook his head. 

Ah, good. That would be a lit­tle un­com­fort­able.

I was men­tioned though?

Yes.  Um, she—that is, I seemed to think you were in­ter­est­ed, that it was all some sort of flir­ta­tious game.

You’ve said ‘she’ twice.  You tru­ly see your­self as a dif­fer­ent per­son, don’t you?

She smiled and rose to put away the food and her dish­es.  The on­ly thing that hasn’t changed is this body.  The rest is a com­plete makeover—um—com­plete­ly new. 

Con­rad slid the knife in­to the block be­side her where she stood.

She looked up at his hand­some face, the cool moon­light on one side while the oth­er ap­peared warm from the can­dle sit­ting on the ta­ble.  Did you re­al­ly think I would at­tack you with that, Baron Stan­ton?

He grinned.  One nev­er ig­nores a threat from Mil­li­cent West­more.  And call me Con­rad.

Did I call you that be­fore?

He chuck­led soft­ly.  That and oth­er names I dare not re­peat.

She gig­gled and moved to col­lect the can­dle.  Are you go­ing to tell Barn­aby?

He has a right to know.

She sighed.  Yes, I sup­pose he does.  Mov­ing to the door, she asked, Are asy­lums re­al­ly as bad as they say they are?

He won’t send you to an asy­lum.

She paused and looked at him over her shoul­der.  He has a thou­sand rea­sons to do it.  You and I both know that, and he’d be jus­ti­fied in do­ing so.

His jaw clenched with the ap­par­ent weight of his du­ty.  She moved through the door, in­to the dark hall­way, and to­ward the stairs.  Con­rad fol­lowed.  Blan­don per­haps.

I thought as much, but have heard of hus­bands find­ing ways to have their way­ward wives com­mit­ted.  But you do what you have to do, Con­rad.  You’re his friend, he trusts you, and you shouldn’t be­tray that trust.  I’m not—I’m just, she turned away with a sigh.  I’m just Emi­ly, she said soft­ly, more to her­self than to him.  Not his wife or his friend.

Did you say Mil­lie?

What?  She stopped half way up the stairs.

You called your­self Mil­lie.

Re­al­iz­ing he’d heard her mut­ter, but in­cor­rect­ly, she played along.  Oh, yes.  A nick­name, one I had as a child I sup­pose.  Just popped in­to my head.

He fol­lowed her up the stairs.  It suits you, some­how, this per­son you are now.  May I call you Mil­lie?

She laughed soft­ly and start­ed up the stairs again.  What­ev­er tricks your trig­ger.

He chuck­led as they paused be­fore her door. 

An­swer me this, he said.  Why did you not send for some­thing, rather than steal­ing down to the kitchens in the mid­dle of the night?

I wouldn’t dream of wak­ing the staff just be­cause I want­ed a mid­night snack.  That’s just sil­ly.

He grinned.  The old Mil­li­cent wouldn’t have had a sec­ond thought, but you wouldn’t have been hun­gry if you’d eat­en this af­ter­noon or ear­li­er this evening.

She scrunched up her nose at the re­minder of the meals.  I de­test liv­er, and the pi­geon pie, well the feet you see—I just couldn’t bear to eat it, she said with a shiv­er.

His shoul­ders shook with silent laugh­ter.  You are def­inite­ly not the wom­an you were.  You loved liv­er in all its vari­ations, and as for the pi­geon pie, I re­call it to be one of your fa­vorites.  Barn­aby de­tests liv­er and is not over­ly found of pi­geon, but in the past, you have—let us say—been sore­ly dis­pleased when those par­tic­ular dish­es weren’t served on Sun­day.  Heav­en on­ly knows why you took such great plea­sure in ru­in­ing meals.

What a bitch.  She cov­ered her mouth, for­get­ting to be a la­dy, but she was so tired.  The en­tire thing was wear­ing pret­ty thin. 

Con­rad on­ly laughed hard­er.  That you—she—was, Mil­lie.  That she was.

She smiled wide.  Well, the first or­der of busi­ness in the morn­ing is to have a very long talk with Mrs. Hatch.  The old me can’t be al­lowed to ru­in any more meals or I’ll starve.

I know Barn­aby will be great­ly re­lieved with a re­vised menu, as­sum­ing you choose more dish­es to his taste.

Oh, well, that may be a prob­lem.

I will de­vise a list for you, Mil­lie.

You will?  Oh, Con­rad, thank you.  She want­ed to hug the man, but knew that was def­inite­ly out, but it was so won­der­ful hav­ing some­one else know most of the truth and want to help.

And I’ll not tell him all, he said with a smile.  But I will tell him not to fear any machi­na­tions on your part.

Thank you.  And I will tell him, soon, but I have to gain his trust first.

That won’t be easy.

Tell me about it, she grum­bled.

With a hearty chuck­le, he said good­night and moved down the hall to his room, and she slipped in­side hers, grate­ful for hav­ing made a new friend.

She won­dered how Barn­aby would take Con­rad’s news.

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Five

 

You can­not be se­ri­ous, Barn­aby sput­tered at the news from his long­time friend.

She has changed, I tell you.

 Pre­pos­ter­ous. He took a hefty swig of his morn­ing tea and glared down at his plate.  She’s up to some­thing.

A weary sigh float­ed across the din­ing room from Con­rad.  You asked for my opin­ion, and I gave it.  I’ll not de­bate the point.  How­ev­er I will tell you this, Mil­lie is no threat to Michelle.  You’ve no need for any dras­tic mea­sures.  I be­lieve it would do more harm than good to re­move her from Lang­ton.

Mil­lie?

A nick­name.  It suits the new La­dy West­more quite well.

Barn­aby nar­rowed his gaze.  She’s got­ten to you, she has pulled you in­to her web like all the oth­ers.

He gave a half-​heart­ed laugh.  You mean like you?

His jaw clenched as he held back a bit­ter re­tort.  It was the truth, af­ter all, she’d lured him in, put him un­der her spell, and he’d paid dear­ly for it all these years.  Re­buff­ing the fact would ac­com­plish noth­ing.  But he did have his daugh­ter be­cause of that witch, and for that he owed her some sem­blance of grat­itude.

He plunked his cup down in­to its saucer with a clat­ter.  Per­haps re­quest­ing that his friend reac­quaint him­self with his wife had been an un­wise de­ci­sion.  And yet, he could find no ba­sis for his dis­be­lief in Con­rad’s opin­ion oth­er than Mil­li­cent’s past be­hav­ior.  He too had to ad­mit that she was not like the wom­an he’d mar­ried since she awoke from her ill­ness.

He sighed and rubbed his aching brow.  If on­ly there were some proof, some way to know for cer­tain she’s changed.

On­ly time will grant you that. 

I tell you she’s up to some­thing.  Her ab­sence this morn­ing is telling, he said, not con­vinc­ing in the least.

Con­rad rose and made for the door.  She ate ear­li­er, but that is nei­ther here nor there, you have my opin­ion.  Now if you will ex­cuse me, I made a promise to your daugh­ter that I would es­cort her to the sta­bles to see the newest ad­di­tion to Lang­ton.

Barn­aby lift­ed his head.  Ad­di­tion?

With a chuck­le, he strolled through the door and called back, Kit­tens, dear fel­low.  Kit­tens!

A wisp of a smile touched Barn­aby’s lips as he re­called the im­age of Michelle and Mil­li­cent sit­ting up­on the lawn in the af­ter­noon sun play­ing with a kit­ten, then vig­or­ous­ly shook the im­age away.  Then the im­age of her ly­ing in the grass with flow­ers around her, bound­ed back in­to his mind’s eye.

No, he would not be­lieve her so changed—he could not dare to hope.

****

Emi­ly smiled at the way Con­rad al­lowed Michelle to pile each of the kit­tens in­to his lap, nam­ing them as she went.  His rapt at­ten­tion to her ev­ery word and the fact he sat amid the pile of straw, heed­less of his fine clothes, warmed her heart.  She won­dered if Barn­aby would be so ac­com­mo­dat­ing.

And which of these re­gal crea­tures is to be your pet? he asked Michelle.

Her brow pinched and she looked to Emi­ly.  Ma­ma said it would be wrong to take them from the sta­ble.

I’m afraid so, sweet­heart.  These kit­tens, as won­der­ful as they are, have a very im­por­tant job to do here, she said.

They’ll keep the rats and mice away, Michelle said with a somber nod.

Con­rad rose with his arms full of claw­ing, me­ow­ing ba­bies.  Sure­ly one would not be missed.

Emi­ly wrung her hands and gave him a be­seech­ing look.  She’d said no to Michelle’s wish for a kit­ten be­cause she was too chick­en to ask Barn­aby if she could have one.  He was sus­pi­cious of her enough as it was, and she was afraid he’d see her re­quest as an­oth­er scheme to get in­to his and Michelle’s good graces for some de­spi­ca­ble rea­son.

Just one, Ma­ma?

The plead­ing face of her new daugh­ter tugged at her heart­strings.  Well, I don’t know—I sup­pose it would be all right—I mean, if your fa­ther—

Con­rad grinned with a faint nod.  Ah, yes, we do need to ask your fa­ther, pet.  Why don’t you choose which of these mag­nif­icent beasts are to be the lucky one, then you and I shall go find him and present the idea?  I’m sure he’ll be con­ge­nial.

Michelle bounced on her toes and danced around Con­rad, her face alight with joy. 

Emi­ly mouthed a thank you to Con­rad.  He gave a slight bow and a wink then crouched down to re­turn the kit­tens to the straw where Michelle could choose from the lot.

Sev­er­al min­utes lat­er af­ter much de­lib­er­ation over each of the kit­tens’ col­or and per­son­al­ity, Michelle chose the runt of the lit­ter.

He needs me, she stat­ed mat­ter-​of-​fact­ly.

A wise choice, dear­ling.  A very wise choice, Con­rad said.

To­geth­er, they made their way back to the house with the new res­ident safe­ly nes­tled in Michelle’s arms, but as they en­tered the main hall, Emi­ly turned to the par­lor.  She thought it would be best if they pre­sent­ed the kit­ten idea to Barn­aby with­out her.  She so want­ed Michelle to have it, and didn’t want to sway her hus­band’s opin­ion in the wrong di­rec­tion.  Al­though Barn­aby didn’t ap­pear to be a vin­dic­tive man, Mil­li­cent had been so hor­ri­ble to him for so very long, she sus­pect­ed a knee-​jerk re­ac­tion, and she wouldn’t blame him in the least for it.

She set­tled in­to a chair and picked up her sewing bas­ket, a small smile on her face.  Know­ing Barn­aby as she did, know­ing how much his daugh­ter meant to him, she had no doubt he would al­low her the kit­ten. 

Mrs. Hatch ap­peared in the door­way.  Beg­ging your par­don, your la­dy­ship, but I was told you wished to speak to me.

Emi­ly low­ered the retic­ule she didn’t think she would ev­er fin­ish to her lap and swal­lowed her ner­vous­ness.  She’d for­got­ten she’d asked Wilkins to tell the cook she want­ed to speak with her this morn­ing.

Um, yes, Mrs. Hatch, please come in.

The cook stood be­fore her, her hands tight­ly wound to­geth­er in front of her.  If I’ve done any­thing wrong, your la­dy­ship—I’m sor­ry—I—

Oh, no, Mrs. Hatch, she gasped.  Noth­ing like that.  Please don’t think any such thing.  I mere­ly wished to dis­cuss a slight change to the reg­ular menu.

The old­er wom­an swal­lowed hard.  The menu, your la­dy­ship?

Yes, well, it would seem, that is to say, my tastes have dras­ti­cal­ly changed since my ill­ness.

The cook re­laxed, but on­ly a lit­tle.  What is it you wish to change, your la­dy­ship? I’ll be more than hap­py to make what­ev­er you like.

Ah, yes, how to put it, she thought.  Well, I find that I can no longer abide the taste of liv­er.  Al­though I’m sure you pre­pare it beau­ti­ful­ly, she hur­ried to say, but I’m afraid I can­not eat it.  Nor can I eat the pi­geon pie.  I find that I have very sim­ple tastes these days.

You don’t want—um, of course, your la­dy­ship.  I’ll not fix them again.  Per­haps—per­haps your la­dy­ship would like to re­view the menu for the week?

She re­laxed back in her chair and looked up at the con­fused but some­what re­lieved cook.  Emi­ly was no doubt not the on­ly one who didn’t care for liv­er or per­haps even pi­geon pie. 

Thank you, I think that might be a good idea un­til we dis­cov­er what I can and can­not eat.  How­ev­er might I sug­gest that you plan dish­es that you know his lord­ship would pre­fer?  Then from there we can make slight al­ter­ations for my own tastes with­out in­ter­fer­ing with his.  She reached in­to her pock­et and re­trieved Con­rad’s list.  I think these would be a good place to start, she said.

The cook smiled, al­though a slow and ner­vous one, and took the list.  I’d be hap­py to, your la­dy­ship.

Thank you, Mrs. Hatch.  I knew I could count on you.

Emi­ly smiled as the cook re­turned to her du­ties.  The meal cri­sis had turned out to be noth­ing at all.  What a re­lief!  Now if she could just man­age the rest of her new life as eas­ily as that, she’d be all set.

That is a pipe dream and a half, she grum­bled.  A long hiss slipped from her lips and stirred a loose ten­dril of hair by cheek.  She tucked it away as she flopped back against her chair. 

Her hus­band would for­ev­er be a tri­al.  She couldn’t blame him, but it put a ma­jor damper on her mood.  To live in the same house with a man she was at­tract­ed to on so many con­fus­ing lev­els, and know she would nev­er gain his trust hurt in ways she hadn’t dreamed.

I have Michelle, she mut­tered.  A daugh­ter, a life, none of which she had be­fore in her own time.  Barn­aby—love—just wasn’t in the cards for her.

I am thank­ful for all that I have.  With a de­ter­mined nod, she re­sumed her sewing.

But her task was in­ter­rupt­ed once again with the sound of lit­tle feet run­ning through the main hall.

Michelle ap­peared in the par­lor, some­what wind­ed from her ex­cite­ment and her mad dash.  Ma­ma, Pa­pa said I could keep Lancelot!

That’s won­der­ful, I’m hap­py to hear it.  Lancelot, is it?  She reached out and scratched be­hind the tiny kit­ten’s ear.  I am hap­py to meet you, Lancelot.

Con­rad and Barn­aby strode in­to the room.  Con­rad smiled and gave her a wink, while Barn­aby cast her a sus­pi­cious glance.  She had to let it go, her sil­ly wish that he would trust her—want her as a wife—and live the life she’d been giv­en.  It was so much more than she ev­er dreamed she would have once she’d been di­ag­nosed with ter­mi­nal can­cer. 

She had to stop hop­ing things would change be­tween them. And yet, she had hoped and prayed her can­cer would go away and she would live.  Per­haps a lit­tle hope wasn’t such a bad thing af­ter all.  She doubt­ed she could get her heart to stop wish­ing any­way.  It seemed to have made up its mind.

Jerk­ing her at­ten­tion from her hus­band’s guard­ed gaze, she fo­cused on Michelle and her hap­py bab­bling.

Beg par­don, my lord, Wilkins said, stand­ing at the door.  Her la­dy­ship has vis­itors.  La­dy Whit­ley and La­dy Haber­sham.

Barn­aby swal­lowed the growl ris­ing in his throat.  Two har­ri­dans, friends of his wife, a more vi­cious pair he would be hard-​pressed to find.  Present com­pa­ny ac­cept­ed.  And yet the look on his wife’s face was one of pure pan­ic. 

In­ter­est­ing.  Did she fear they would give the game away?

Send them in, he said, not al­low­ing her the op­tion to refuse their vis­it.  This meet­ing he had to wit­ness.  Per­haps he would learn the very thing he need­ed to prove—or dis­prove her treach­ery.

Her at­ten­tion turned to Michelle, who’d grown stoni­ly silent, her eyes wide. 

Per­haps you should pick-​up Lancelot, sweet­heart.  I wouldn’t want him to get stepped on, Mil­li­cent said, her voice quiv­er­ing.

Very in­ter­est­ing, in­deed.

Yes, Ma­ma. 

His daugh­ter gath­ered her new pet in her arms and stood, not sure what she was sup­posed to do.  In the past, Mil­li­cent had or­dered her from the room when­ev­er one of her friend’s called if she hap­pened to be any­where near, but to­day was dif­fer­ent.

Mil­li­cent placed her sewing aside then held out her arm, beck­on­ing Michelle to her.  A ten­ta­tive smile touched his daugh­ter’s face and she moved to stand by her moth­er’s side.

They ex­changed a whis­per or two, and Michelle shook her head.  Mil­li­cent ut­tered a soft, Oh boy, an odd phrase to be sure, then pro­ceed­ed to nib­ble at her bot­tom lip.

Barn­aby’s gaze lin­gered over her lips, red from the ner­vous ges­ture, a ges­ture he could not re­call his wife ev­ery per­form­ing.  Now lus­cious, damp, and en­tic­ing, he want­ed to taste them more than ev­er, as if he’d nev­er had the plea­sure. 

It was a faint mem­ory, hard­ly worth re­call­ing, but he had kissed her some years ago, when he’d held to the mis­guid­ed be­lief that she cared for him.  Would her kiss be dif­fer­ent now?  Would she wel­come him anew or mere­ly tol­er­ate him as she’d done so many years ago?

Dar­ling!  How won­der­ful to see you up and about, La­dy Haber­sham ex­claimed, as she hur­ried through the doors with La­dy Whit­ley on her heels, both their faces filled with ex­pec­ta­tions, none good, he spec­ulat­ed.  But at least they’d man­aged to yank him from his per­ilous thoughts.

Mil­li­cent rose and greet­ed them as ex­pect­ed, but her smile was false, that much would be ap­par­ent to any­one. 

How won­der­ful of you to call.  Please, sit down.  She looked to Wilkins in the door­way.  Some tea, please, Wilkins.

Barn­aby cast Con­rad a glance, both hav­ing not­ed the un­easy quiver in her voice.

The ladies sat af­ter cast­ing him and Con­rad de­ri­sive glances.  Men were a ne­ces­si­ty in their eyes, he’d heard Mil­li­cent ex­pound on the the­ory many times.

Their skirts ad­just­ed to their lik­ing, they stud­ied Michelle with quirked brows as she eased clos­er to his wife.

Mil­li­cent wrapped her arm around her.  I don’t be­lieve you’ve ev­er met our daugh­ter, Michelle.  Sweet­heart, this is La­dy Whit­ley and La­dy Haber­sham.

Michelle curt­sied as best she could with a kit­ten claw­ing its way up her to her shoul­der.  This is Lancelot, she said, but not with her reg­ular fer­vor. 

Barn­aby couldn’t blame her, they were a fright­en­ing pair. 

How—nice, La­dy Whit­ley smiled, but there was pure re­vul­sion in her gaze.  I per­son­al­ly don’t al­low any beasts in my house, they’re so un­san­itary.

Oh, my yes, La­dy Haber­sham said, her head bob­bing in com­plete agree­ment.  Of course if La­dy Whit­ley said the sun rose in the west, her co­horts would agree.  She was the ringlead­er af­ter all.  He’d not known when he’d met Mil­li­cent that she was groom­ing her­self for the un­of­fi­cial post.

Which brings to mind the ques­tion, why were the ladies vis­it­ing?  They shared con­fi­dences on a lim­it­ed lev­el since his wife’s last dis­taste­ful af­fair.  The barbs from her own kind were painful, he sup­posed, and she’d dis­tanced her­self from them.  How­ev­er, it had not soft­ened her in the least, on­ly made her more dis­agree­able. 

Un­til her ill­ness.

He watched his wife’s arm tight­en around Michelle in a pro­tec­tive man­ner.  The mo­tion, so com­plete­ly out of char­ac­ter, had dis­tract­ed him and he’d not heard what she’d said in re­sponse to the la­dy’s cut­ting com­ment.

I com­plete­ly agree, my dear, Con­rad said, and leaned over Mil­li­cent’s hand and kissed the back.  But to al­low you some time alone with your—friends, I shall take my best girl for a walk in the gar­den.  Then her new pet won’t of­fend you, ladies.

Barn­aby blinked, stunned by his friend’s sup­port of his wife.  Was noth­ing to be the same as it was?  This was Mil­li­cent!  The wife who de­spised him, who went to great lengths to hu­mil­iate and dis­hon­or him! 

 I’m sure Lord West­more would love to stay and chat.  Af­ter all, his la­dy is on­ly re­cent­ly re­cov­ered.  He would not wish her to over­tax her­self, Con­rad said.

Has he lost his bloody mind?  Stay with these bid­dies?

Oh, no, I—I know you’re very busy, Barn­aby.  I wouldn’t dream of tak­ing you away from y-​your work, Mil­li­cent sput­tered.

Con­rad moved to­ward the door, Michelle’s hand in his, and mo­tioned with his head to Barn­aby, urg­ing him to sit by his wife.

The world has gone mad, he mut­tered to him­self. 

Yet, Mil­li­cent’s sput­tered re­sponse had him cu­ri­ous.  Did she want him gone so they could dis­cuss schemes and plans, or did she want him there as some sort of shield be­tween her and these crones?  Un­able to make a guess, he found him­self tak­ing a seat next to the wom­an who’d rather see him dead than sit­ting be­side her.

Tru­ly, you needn’t stay.  It’s very kind of you though, she said.

He found sin­cer­ity in­stead of mal­ice shin­ing in her eyes, and was tak­en aback by it. 

Could Con­rad be cor­rect?  Had his wife in fact changed?  He should stay, yes, and watch her, study her.  It had noth­ing to do with the del­icate scent she wore that wove through his sens­es, the soft­ness of her gaze as she looked at him, the ner­vous touch of her tongue to her lips, warm­ing his blood—none of that had to do with his de­ci­sion to re­main by her side. 

Of course not.  No, he need­ed to un­der­stand her mo­tives, what she want­ed, so he chose a di­rect path, one sure to un­cov­er the re­al Mil­li­cent.

He took her trem­bling hand and kissed the back.  I’ll not ig­nore my du­ty as your hus­band.

Her soft in­take of breath and the sud­den flush to her skin per­plexed him.  This was not the re­ac­tion he ex­pect­ed.  Mil­li­cent ab­horred any sort of over­ture on his part.  The fact that she took his arm as es­cort to dine was odd enough, but this...this sort of dis­play should have brought the she-​dev­il down up­on his head, re­gard­less of her friends’ pres­ence.

He searched her gaze for any sign of the wom­an he thought she was.  She re­turned his re­gard, and he sensed a sim­ilar con­fu­sion in her. 

Emi­ly want­ed to cry.  He’d man­aged to stir up her emo­tions, raise her hopes, on­ly to have the re­al­iza­tion come down hard. 

Du­ty

.  She was his du­ty, and know­ing what she did of the man, he would nev­er be­have with­out hon­or, no mat­ter how hor­ri­bly she’d treat­ed him in the past.  He didn’t want her, he on­ly want­ed to do his part, play his role as Vis­count West­more, her hus­band.

And yet, she could on­ly guess that these re­pug­nant wom­en knew her sit­ua­tion all too well in re­gards to Barn­aby.  They were just as nasty as she imag­ined Mil­li­cent’s friends to be from her di­ary.  Which raised the ques­tion, why kiss her hand?  It wasn’t nec­es­sary or ex­pect­ed.  He could have eas­ily es­caped with Con­rad and Michelle, it wouldn’t have bro­ken any so­cial rules, and was like­ly the more ap­pro­pri­ate thing to do.

What on earth had Con­rad said to him?

His gaze warmed as he low­ered her hand to the set­tee, al­though his brow fur­rowed.  What­ev­er had been said, things had changed be­tween them.

Her gaze slid to the set­tee where his hand re­mained atop hers, bring­ing a flut­ter to her stom­ach.  Would this be the on­ly time he touched her with­out for­mal­ity, or would there—could there be more?

Wilkins ap­peared with tea, startling La­dy Whit­ley and La­dy Haber­sham.  Their rapt at­ten­tion, mouths agape, had not gone un­no­ticed, on­ly ig­nored. 

With re­gret, Mil­li­cent need­ed her hand to pour their tea.  Barn­aby re­fused a cup with a faint shake of his head, nor did she take one, so she sat back to lis­ten to the ladies chat­ter with half an ear.  She had no in­ter­est in them in any way.  The man be­side her was all she cared about at the mo­ment. 

She re­turned her hand to the set­tee, think­ing of his touch, imag­in­ing the fab­ric still warmed by it, when he sur­prised her and laid his hand atop hers once again.  A gasp trapped in her throat, and she slow­ly looked his way.

 The chat­ting and twit­ter­ing about Lon­don, the sea­son, who was do­ing what with whom, and so forth, was lost to her ears.  The touch of his skin on hers, his crisp clean scent waft­ing in the air around him, en­slaved her sens­es.

She stud­ied his pro­file as he nod­ded at the var­ious things the wom­en said, and won­dered how Mil­li­cent could have ev­er not been in love with this man.  He was hand­some—oh so very hand­some—strong but kind, and ev­er gra­cious.  Not lov­ing him would be the more dif­fi­cult task.

He turned his head and looked at her, a lone brow lift­ed.

Uh-​oh, she’d missed some­thing they’d said.  She opened her mouth, formed var­ious words but no sound came out. 

Barn­aby al­most grinned at the lost look on her face.  He re­fused to think it had to do with his touch, an im­pulse he’d been un­able to sti­fle.  No, his wife had not been at­tend­ing the con­ver­sa­tion, or dis­ser­ta­tion, rather.  La­dy Whit­ley had not shut her mouth for the du­ra­tion.  Even La­dy Haber­sham hadn’t been able to com­ment on the up­com­ing ball at Whit­ley’s coun­try es­tate next week. 

Un­usu­al tim­ing, as most were in Lon­don this time of year, but he wouldn’t be sur­prised to learn that La­dy Whit­ley had planned it just to nee­dle his wife in some way.  Al­though they were alike in man­ner and deeds, they were fierce ri­vals.  At least they were be­fore the ill­ness.

Still, Mil­li­cent looked love­ly with her face a flame of col­or, her mouth mov­ing silent­ly, beck­on­ing to him, and her gen­tle trem­bling be­neath his hand.  She need­ed to be res­cued, and odd­ly enough, he want­ed to do just that.  Still, it did pose fur­ther op­por­tu­ni­ty for study—yes, study of his new wife and her be­hav­ior in pub­lic.

I think a ball is just the thing, he said.

Her eyes widened and she looked to the ladies.  Um, thank you La­dy Whit­ley, we would love to at­tend.  She looked back at him, a soft smile on her lips.  If that is what my hus­band wish­es. She shift­ed her hand be­neath his just so, en­twin­ing her fin­gers with his.

He had to re­frain from snatch­ing his hand away as if bit­ten—and from lean­ing to­ward her and kiss­ing the breath out of her.  What sort of spell was she weav­ing over him?  And had he walked straight in­to her trap?  Had she been feign­ing ig­no­rance the en­tire time, her goal to at­tend the ball af­ter all?

Good, then that’s all set­tled.  Oh, and I sup­pose the Baron is in­vit­ed too, La­dy Whit­ley added with a vague wave of her hand.

 Thank you, I’m sure he’ll be hap­py to at­tend, she said, still gaz­ing at him.

He tilt­ed his head, study­ing his wife.  Yes, I’m sure, he said, when he in fact, he wasn’t sure of any­thing at all.

The ladies rose, forc­ing him to stand as well, end­ing his ex­per­iment for the mo­ment.  How would she be­have at the ball?  Would she refuse to dance with him, as was her way, or would she al­low him at least one turn about the floor?  He in­stant­ly re­gret­ted the thought as Mil­li­cent took her place be­side him.  To waltz with her, to feel her in his arms, to smell her sweet per­fume—to know that she was his, but in name on­ly stung.

It’s been a love­ly vis­it, La­dy Haber­sham said. 

Yes, we must be off, I’ve so much to do, La­dy Whit­ley said.

Yes, I can imag­ine.  Um, thank you for com­ing, Mil­li­cent said.

Yes, it’s been very—ed­uca­tion­al, he said, look­ing at this wife.

She blinked owlish­ly up at him, com­plete­ly un­aware of his dou­ble-​en­ten­dre, or was she that good at de­cep­tion?  Had she been play­ing him all the while?

With a few more part­ing words the ladies were gone and he was left alone with her.  She shift­ed from foot to foot and eyed the door.  Ner­vous to be in his pres­ence or afraid he’d found her out?

I think I’ll go find Michelle and Con­rad, she said, and start­ed for the door.

Con­rad, was it?  He stepped in­to her path and she sucked in a breath.  I’ll go with you.

Oh, well, you don’t have to do that.  I know I put you out enough with the ladies’ vis­it.

It’s no trou­ble, he said, and of­fered his arm.

She eased her hand over his arm, he not­ed her trem­bling had grown.  Do you not wish to re­trieve your bon­net?

No, I’ll—um—be fine.  I rather like the feel of the sun on my face, we get it so rarely, she said with a forced laugh.

The im­age of her ly­ing in the grass rose up once again.  Yes, I sup­pose you are cor­rect.

They strolled through the doors lead­ing to the pa­tio and down the steps to­ward the gar­den, not a word said be­tween them.  But he was very much aware of her, it bled in­to his pores, stir­ring his blood.  He was no longer the un­tried youth he’d been when they’d met, but a man who knew what he want­ed, and he want­ed her with all that he was.

Lust­ing af­ter my own wife.  I’d thought I’d sure­ly seen the last of those days.

Oh look, she breathed.

They paused at a par­tic­ular spot, one he’d had de­signed to in­ten­tion­al­ly make the ob­serv­er stop and ad­mire the view.

It’s like a paint­ing, framed just so by the trees, she said, a note of won­der in her voice.

You have been along this path many times, he said, stat­ing the ob­vi­ous.

Oh, yes.  I—I have, of course.  It just looks es­pe­cial­ly nice to­day, don’t you think?

In­deed.

They con­tin­ued along the fa­mil­iar path as he watched her face.  It was as if she’d nev­er seen the gar­dens be­fore.  At ev­ery turn, she ex­am­ined things anew, made com­ments on their beau­ty, even la­beled sev­er­al species of plant life.

I don’t re­call you ev­er hav­ing any in­ter­est in gar­dens be­fore.  He did not men­tion her al­leged al­ler­gic re­ac­tion to flow­ers.

Oh, well, I guess af­ter be­ing so ill for so long, I’ve gained a new per­spec­tive.  I ap­pre­ci­ate things more.

He won­dered how far this new per­spec­tive went, for he was be­gin­ning to like the wom­an on his arm, and not just lust af­ter her.  Still, she had ob­vi­ous­ly lied about her sen­si­tiv­ity to the out­doors.  Bod­ily re­ac­tions to things such as that did not change.

Pa­pa, Ma­ma!  Michelle bound­ed across the small lawn when they round­ed the last hedge along the walk, her arms wide.  She trapped them both around the legs and held tight, her bright smile shin­ing up at them.

Hel­lo, sweet­ie, Mil­li­cent bent and kissed the top of Michelle’s head.  Are you hav­ing fun?

Barn­aby could on­ly gape at the wom­an be­side him.  He slow­ly turned his at­ten­tion to Con­rad seat­ed on a quilt not far away with the kit­ten in his lap and a know­ing grin on his face.

He’d known that she and Michelle had grown close, but he’d had no idea that his wife could or would dis­play such open af­fec­tion to any­one, as she’d nev­er done the like be­fore.

Michelle bounced away on her toes, full of laugh­ter and sun­shine.  Mil­li­cent made to fol­low, but he touched her hand where it still rest­ed on his arm, stop­ping her de­par­ture. 

She looked at him, a wor­ried frown now mar­ring her love­ly face, where a smile had been not a mo­ment ago.  He stud­ied her close­ly, her fea­tures fa­mil­iar and yet so dif­fer­ent.  This wom­an he could love, this wom­an he want­ed to love, and it ter­ri­fied him.

I will take my leave of you now, he said, his voice some­what gruff, as if filled with grav­el.  You will in­form Con­rad of the Whit­ley’s ball?

A sense of sad­ness stole over her face as she eased her hand from his grasp.  Of course.  If you wish. 

He could feel her re­treat­ing, pulling back from him, emo­tion­al­ly as well as phys­ical­ly.  They’d en­joyed one an­oth­er’s com­pa­ny along their walk, he re­al­ized, and now he’d ru­ined it with the dis­tance he placed be­tween them.  But he had to, or else he’d be pulled in as be­fore, and this time he would not sur­vive.

With a nod to Con­rad, and a pat on his daugh­ter’s head who’d danced her way back to his side, he dis­ap­peared back up the path, away from Mil­li­cent, from what she made him feel, yet on­ly man­aged to go a few yards. 

Hid­den by the shrubs, he stood for sev­er­al min­utes lis­ten­ing to his daugh­ter’s hap­py chat­ter.  Then Mil­li­cent’s laugh­ter rang through the soft sum­mer air, and he couldn’t run fast enough.

 

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Six

 

A few days passed with lit­tle in­ter­fer­ence from Barn­aby where Michelle was con­cerned.  She dined with him and Con­rad on most oc­ca­sions, but some­thing had changed since La­dy Whit­ley and La­dy Haber­sham’s vis­it.  She’d felt things ease be­tween them as they’d walked the gar­dens, al­most a truce, maybe a new be­gin­ning, then in a blink, things were dif­fer­ent.

Con­rad cast away all thoughts of the pre­vi­ous Mil­li­cent, and she adored him for it.  She couldn’t ask for a bet­ter friend, but some­how his ac­cep­tance of her, of Mil­lie, didn’t sit well with Barn­aby.  At least that was her best guess.  He was so closed mouthed and dis­tant, she didn’t know what to think. 

Con­rad said to give him time, but it was dif­fi­cult, fight­ing the need, the de­sire to talk to him, to be with him.  She couldn’t be­lieve she was falling for a man who did his best to pre­tend she didn’t ex­ist.

Martha fin­ished fix­ing her hair and grinned at her re­flec­tion.  You’re as love­ly as a pic­ture.

The deep blue ball gown was per­fec­tion, al­though it had need­ed a tuck here and there with her loss of weight, not to men­tion an al­ter­ation at the neck.  Why did Mil­li­cent like such high-​col­lared dress­es?

Martha sur­veyed her skirts as she cir­cled her.  Her gaze lit on the ad­just­ed neck­line.  Are you sure you don’t want a fichu?  You’ve nev­er wore a dress so—re­veal­ing be­fore.

No, I think this is per­fect. 

Her fin­ger trailed the odd scar across her breast par­tial­ly hid­den by the soft lace edge of the dress.  She won­dered how she—Mil­li­cent got it, but there was no one to ask, not even Barn­aby.  She doubt­ed he’d ev­er seen it, if her com­pre­hen­sion of the di­ary was cor­rect.  She and Barn­aby did not, and she doubt­ed they ev­ery tru­ly had, share a bed.  Not the way she want­ed to.

She spun away from the mir­ror and slipped on her gloves.

Per­haps you should take it with you, in­case you get chilled, Martha sug­gest­ed, hold­ing out the small scarf, a wor­ried frown on her face.

There was some­thing telling in her in­sis­tence she take the thing, then it hit Emi­ly.  Mil­li­cent was as vain as she was cru­el.  She used the high col­lars and fichus to hide her scar.

She glanced at the abun­dance of pow­ders on her dress­ing ta­ble, most­ly un­touched by her since she’d ar­rived.  The wom­an be­fore hid be­hind her cold white pow­ders and lay­ers of ex­pen­sive fab­rics, al­ways de­ter­mined to present per­fec­tion, her idea of per­fec­tion, any­way.

Tak­ing the fichu from her maid, she nod­ded.  Thank you, you’re quite right in that it might grow chilly.  But with all the fab­ric hang­ing on her and the ef­fort it took to car­ry it all, she didn’t think a win­ter freeze would cool her off.  But it eased the wor­ry from Martha’s face.

She moved to the door, then paused.  Martha?

Yes, my la­dy?

Thank you, she said, smil­ing.

Martha beamed.  You’re very wel­come, my la­dy.  I know you’ll have a grand time.

Emi­ly took a deep breath, hop­ing the same, and left to join the men.

****

She was an ab­so­lute vi­sion.  Barn­aby had nev­er seen her so love­ly in his life.  As she de­scend­ed the stair, her gaze met his and held him.  Warmth em­ulat­ed from her, some­thing he’d nev­er dreamed his wife pos­sessed.

Con­rad nudged him in the back, forc­ing him for­ward to take her hand as she stepped from the fi­nal stair.  You look…

Love­ly, his friend in­ter­ject­ed, then lift­ed her oth­er hand and be­stowed a kiss to the back.  Love­li­er than you’ve ev­er been, Mil­lie.

She smiled at Con­rad.  Thank you, and the both of you look very hand­some. 

She turned that sweet smile to­ward him and he forced him­self to not pull her in­to his arms.  In­stead, he shift­ed her hand to his arm, placed his over it and es­cort­ed her to the car­riage.

An hour lat­er, amid the milling ton, he felt fa­tigued by the weight of their whis­pers.  The pity­ing looks and en­vi­ous glares.  It had al­ways been this way, an odd mix of at­ten­tion, and all be­cause of her.  And yet, she’d not left his side for a sin­gle mo­ment.

Con­rad leaned near.  Dance with her, you fool, he whis­pered harsh­ly.

He shot him a look, know­ing full well his friend knew that Mil­li­cent nev­er danced with him, but he did have a point.  They’d dis­cussed the evening in great de­tail.  Con­rad was con­vinced she’d changed, while he was con­vinced she was up to some­thing more sin­is­ter.  In any event, they both agreed that how she re­act­ed this evening would pro­vide him with in­valu­able in­for­ma­tion.

With a deep breath, he turned to her, in­ter­rupt­ing an inane dis­ser­ta­tion from one of her old friends—male friends, and said, Ex­cuse us, Hick­ston.  And pulled her to the floor.

She went will­ing­ly, he not­ed, not ut­ter­ing a sin­gle word against him, nor a flus­tered apol­ogy on his be­half for his rude be­hav­ior to­ward Hick­ston.  Then he turned her in­to his arms at the start of the waltz, slip­ping his hand around her waist, and fell in­to eyes of deep, liq­uid blue filled with—dare he think it—ado­ra­tion?

He blinked, and start­ed their tour around the floor.  No, it had to be a trick of some kind, and yet, when he looked down at her face and her sweet smile, he no longer knew what to think.

Con­rad was right.  You are quite love­ly tonight.  He shouldn’t have said it, bit the in­side of his cheek the mo­ment the words had es­caped, know­ing she’d throw it back in his face, but once again, the wom­an sur­prised him.

Her gaze warmed con­sid­er­ably.  Thank you, Barn­aby, she said, her voice but a whis­per.

A whis­per that raced along his spine and in­to ar­eas best not thought of at present, but it didn’t stop him from pulling her clos­er, aching to feel her pressed against him.  Yet he stopped, just bare­ly, be­fore com­plete­ly breach­ing all deco­rum.  If it was a trick, one of greater mag­ni­tude than he though her ca­pa­ble, the blow would be dead­ly in the end, but that didn’t stop him from hold­ing her, look­ing at her, rel­ish­ing the feel of her in his arms.  Her hand tight­ened at his shoul­der, a gen­tle squeeze as she shift­ed to fol­low his steps, al­most a ca­ress, and he couldn’t con­tain his grin.

 Emi­ly smiled in re­turn and swirled to the mu­sic, lov­ing the feel of Barn­aby’s arm around her, his strong, grace­ful stride about the room.  He was all a wom­an could ev­er want and more, and she’d not missed the en­vi­ous glances from the ladies of the ton, nor had she missed the pity­ing ones, or the dis­taste­ful ones.  But she was not Mil­li­cent, and she would ig­nore the past of her pre­de­ces­sor and rev­el in the mo­ment of danc­ing with her hand­some hus­band.

The mu­sic end­ed and she and Barn­aby stopped still, star­ing at one an­oth­er as if they were strangers who’d on­ly just met and yet they were bound to one an­oth­er in ev­ery way. 

Thank you for the dance, she said.

My plea­sure, he said, his voice low and warm, his hand still on her waist.

Then that hor­ri­ble man ap­peared at her el­bow, Hick­ston, or some­thing, and Barn­aby re­leased her. 

My dear, I had no idea you were well enough to dance.  Please, my I have the next?

Her gaze jumped to him then back to Barn­aby, now strolling from the floor, his back ram­rod straight.  Had she done some­thing, said some­thing, danced in­cor­rect­ly?

Mil­li­cent, dear?

I’m sor­ry, I’m not feel­ing very well.  The waltz took a great deal out of me, I’m afraid.  She pressed a hand to her fore­head, feign­ing a weak­ness she didn’t feel, and al­lowed the aw­ful man to es­cort her off the floor.  Thank­ful­ly, Con­rad rushed to aid her.

He snatched her hand from Lord Hick­ston’s and sum­mar­ily shoul­dered him out of the way.  The look on the odi­ous man’s face al­most brought a gig­gle to her lips, but she stalled it long be­fore it made it up her throat.  She was sup­posed to hate Con­rad and her hus­band, whom she just danced with, so she sup­posed those that knew her, were shocked.

Are you all right? Con­rad asked.

No, yes—I don’t know.  I just want to get out of here.

Come, we’ll take in the night air for a few min­utes.

She start­ed to nod and let him lead her out the door, then stopped short.  No, they’ll think you’re my next vic­tim.

He chuck­led.  And you care what they think?

No.  I care what they think of Barn­aby.

His hu­mor fad­ed to a soft, un­der­stand­ing smile.  I am be­gin­ning to tru­ly like the new you.

She grinned.  Thanks.  But— she looked around the ball­room, feel­ing ev­ery eye on her.  I still want out of here, big time.  Park me by the re­fresh­ment ta­ble then find Barn­aby.  Con­vince him to join us out­side.

He quick­ly kissed the back of her gloved hand with a chuck­le and did as she asked.  It didn’t hit her till she picked up a glass of cham­pagne that she’d not curbed her speech. 

With a sigh she took a long sip, hop­ing no one else had heard, nor would they seek her out.  Af­ter Hick­ston, and a few of the oth­er men and wom­en who’d plowed through the crowd to speak to her, she was worn out. 

They chat­ted on and on, ig­nor­ing Barn­aby and Con­rad com­plete­ly, as if they were in­vis­ible.   And some of the things they said, the sug­ges­tive things about the past, made her skin crawl.  She could’ve kissed Barn­aby for drag­ging her on­to the floor.  Want­ed to, in fact, and al­most did, hop­ing it would put a stop to all the whis­per­ing.  But she thought bet­ter of it, not sure how he’d re­spond.  The last thing she need­ed was to be pub­li­cal­ly re­ject­ed by her hus­band, al­though she sus­pect­ed Mil­li­cent had done just that to him be­fore.

Are you en­joy­ing your­self, dear? La­dy Whit­ley ap­peared.

Oh yes, I’m hav­ing a won­der­ful time.

Yes.  I can see that, she said, eye­ing Con­rad march­ing her way, a frown on his face.

Great.  Won­der­ful.  Not on­ly was he alone, and look­ing ready to hit some­thing, she’d guessed cor­rect­ly in that all these peo­ple would think she and Con­rad were hav­ing an af­fair.  That would be the low­est blow yet for Barn­aby.  His best friend and his wife.  How aw­ful, but how to fix it?

Con­rad bowed to La­dy Whit­ley.  Good evening, La­dy Whit­ley.

Baron, she said with a nod.

Is Barn­aby feel­ing bet­ter? Emi­ly asked, hop­ing he would catch on, it was all she could think of.

His brows rose a frac­tion then turned down.  No, my la­dy.  I’m afraid he is not him­self at the mo­ment.  He asks if you would care to re­turn home.

Ah, so Barn­aby had de­cid­ed to leave, with or with­out her.  It was that aw­ful Hick­ston’s fault, him and the oth­ers.

By all means.  I hope he’s not con­tract­ed what I had, the poor dear.  She set her glass down and turned to La­dy Whit­ley.  I’m sor­ry to leave so soon, but you un­der­stand, I’m sure.  I must see to my hus­band’s com­forts.

Um, yes.  Of course.

Emi­ly was be­yond pleased to have thrown the dread­ful wom­an with that one, know­ing she’d chew on it awhile.  She curt­sied and took Con­rad’s arm, then quick­ly left the ball­room.

Where is he? she whis­pered.

In the car­riage.

So you were sent to fetch me, is that it?

I was sent to in­form you we were leav­ing, yes.

A foot­man ap­peared with her fichu and she draped it over her shoul­ders.  He didn’t ex­pect me to come, did he?

Con­rad placed her hand on his arm with­out a word.  He knew, no doubt, that the truth hurt, and fill­ing the air with inane ex­cus­es would do no good.

She silent­ly climbed in­to the car­riage with no more than a glance at her hus­band sit­ting op­po­site her, afraid of what she would see.  Anger, dis­dain…the pos­si­bil­ities were end­less, all save the one she wished for. 

His trust.

****

He watched her, couldn’t take his eyes off her in the dim light of the car­riage.  She was beau­ti­ful, even when her un­hap­pi­ness was more than ap­par­ent, but that wasn’t what he ex­pect­ed.  Barn­aby had imag­ined sev­er­al sce­nar­ios, but none of them were of her leav­ing with him with­out a sin­gle harsh word aimed in his di­rec­tion.

Con­rad glared at him from his place be­side him.  Well, what the dev­il was he sup­posed to do when one of her old cronies had the au­dac­ity to in­ter­rupt their dance?  Stand there and be hu­mil­iat­ed as she’d done be­fore?  He’d vowed to nev­er al­low her that sat­is­fac­tion ev­er again!

Mil­li­cent had ac­tu­al­ly laughed in his face once when he’d re­quest­ed she join him on the dance floor, if on­ly to present some sort of mar­riage to the ton so the gos­sips would qui­et a bit, but she’d have noth­ing to do with him.  That was when he re­al­ized how much she rel­ished his pub­lic hu­mil­ia­tion.  That was short­ly af­ter Michelle’s birth, that was the day he vowed to nev­er give her the sat­is­fac­tion again.

She’d been livid when he’d moved them to the coun­try for good.  She rant­ed and raved reg­ular­ly about the bore­dom, about how she missed her friends, but he turned a deaf ear to her ha­rangu­ing.

He looked at her now, the soft glow of moon­light bathing her skin in an ethe­re­al glow.  A glim­mer of some­thing on her cheek caught the light and he re­al­ized it was a tear.  There was a sharp pinch, some­where in the vicin­ity of his heart, but he chose to ig­nore it.  He had to.

They ar­rived at home, the ride long and silent.  He al­lowed Con­rad to as­sist her down from the car­riage, not as if he would’ve been able to do so, in any event.  His friend had snarled at him the en­tire way. 

A twist­ed grin set on his lips.  She’d like that, he thought, hav­ing his best friend as her cham­pi­on.  What a turn his life had tak­en since she’d awak­ened from her ill­ness!

They en­tered the house and he hand­ed Wilkins his hat and gloves.

Good­night, Con­rad.  She hes­itat­ed be­fore look­ing at him from the foot of the stairs.  Good­night Barn­aby.  Thank you for—thank you for a pleas­ant evening.  She turned and climbed the stairs in a rush of rustling skirts, and odd­ly he felt he’d hurt her in some way.

With a silent curse, he spun on his heels and marched to his study with Con­rad but a stride be­hind.  It was that damnable tear that had him think­ing like that.  He grabbed up the de­canter and splashed the am­ber liq­uid in­to a glass.

The door slammed be­hind him, but he paid no at­ten­tion.

You bloody sod, his friend growled.

So you’ve al­ready said.  They’d ar­gued over Mil­li­cent more fierce­ly than ev­er be­fore at Whit­ley’s. 

You still can­not be­lieve what’s be­fore your eyes.

I be­lieve she’s up to some­thing.

Have you any idea what she was do­ing when I went back for her?  Do you even care what her re­ac­tion was?

He paused, his glass halfway to his lips.  He want­ed to know and then he didn’t.  With a sigh he set the glass on the ta­ble, hat­ing what a cow­ard he’d be­come, a man afraid of his own feel­ings, his own re­spons­es to his wife.

She was stand­ing ex­act­ly where I left her, and when I ar­rived, she knew, damn you.  She knew you want­ed to leave.

He turned his head, a puz­zled frown pulling on his lips.  What do you mean, she knew?

She sensed it, some­how, by my face, I sup­pose.  Be­fore I could say a word, try­ing to think of some­thing to say that wasn’t telling in front of that harpy La­dy Whit­ley, she asked if you were feel­ing bet­ter.

If I were—

Yes, damn you!  She made it sound as if you were com­ing down with some­thing and told La­dy Whit­ley that she need­ed to leave im­me­di­ate­ly to see to your bloody com­forts!

He looked away from Con­rad’s killing glare, and swal­lowed a long gulp of brandy.  Why would she do all she could to save face—his face?

The glass­es rat­tled as Con­rad poured him­self a drink and downed it in one swig.  He slapped the glass down and spied him over his shoul­der. 

She was pro­tect­ing your rep­uta­tion, you ar­se.  Just as I said be­fore.  When you, he said, point­ing an ac­cus­ing fin­ger at him, thought her false when she wouldn’t go out­side with me.  He turned back to the tray and poured an­oth­er drink.  You’re a bloody, sod­ding ar­se, you are.

Barn­aby sank to a chair, his legs weak from too much con­flict­ing news.  But Hick­ston—

Is a big­ger ar­se than you, but she wants noth­ing to do with him, or any of the oth­ers.

I don’t un­der­stand, he said, weary be­yond words.

No, you un­der­stand, you just refuse to be­lieve.

With that, he slammed down a now emp­ty glass and stormed from the room, leav­ing Barn­aby doubt­ing not on­ly his wife, but him­self.

 

 

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Seven

 

Walk­ing the grand hall­way, Michelle tripped along­side Emi­ly past sev­er­al closed doors.   

Why does he keep this house so closed up? she mused more to her­self than to Michelle.  Or per­haps it was Mil­li­cent’s do­ing.  She sus­pect­ed he’d had his fair share of bat­tles with her over the years.  Per­haps this was a small bat­tle he’d cho­sen to leave alone.  Noth­ing like the bat­tle the pre­vi­ous night.

She’d avoid­ed him at break­fast, fo­cus­ing all her en­er­gies on Michelle.  He’d hurt her ter­ri­bly last night, but he didn’t know, he couldn’t un­der­stand that she wasn’t the same Mil­li­cent.  And al­though it pained her to ad­mit it, she’d prob­ably be­have the same way if their roles were re­versed.  Years of degra­da­tion and pain wouldn’t be easy to over­come, if at all.

I’m scared to walk down this hall by my­self, Michelle said, pulling her from her mus­ings.

Yes, she said, look­ing up at a rather unattrac­tive paint­ing with spooky eyes.  I can un­der­stand why.  She stopped and glanced at a large pair of doors.  What if we were to open a few of these doors?  It would let in the light from out­side and then it wouldn’t be so fright­en­ing.

To­geth­er they threw open sev­er­al doors to var­ious par­lors and sa­lons and fi­nal­ly the ball­room.  Oh, this is a love­ly room.

Pa­pa said it’s where Grand­ma­ma would have dances, Michelle said as she spun around and around in the cen­ter.  I’m not al­lowed to play in here, she said and stopped.

We aren’t play­ing, sweet­ie, we’re in­spect­ing the room to make sure all is as it should be.  She hid her grin at the bla­tant lie. 

Emi­ly eas­ily pic­tured wom­en and men graced in their finest danc­ing be­neath the gild­ed ceil­ing as she moved in­to the room. 

She paused and looked at the ceil­ing once again. 

I know this room, she whis­pered. 

She looked at the floor then back to the ceil­ing, and spun around in place.  This was the room she’d col­lapsed in.  The need to see this house, the gar­dens, the feel­ing of com­ing home, it all made sense now.  She was meant to be here. 

Per­haps then there was hope for her and Barn­aby yet.  Per­haps she was meant to have ev­ery­thing she ev­er want­ed, here and now.  She closed her eyes and made a silent wish.

Michelle tin­kled on the pi­ano keys, bring­ing Emi­ly back to the mo­ment with a snap.  Was the pi­ano in tune?  Could she, should she dare try to play?  She missed it so much.

Eas­ing over to Michelle’s side, she seat­ed her­self in front of the mas­sive, exquisite pi­ano.  Shak­ing, she lift­ed her hands to the keys and struck a chord that res­onat­ed per­fect­ly through­out the ball­room.

Do you play, Ma­ma?

It’s been a while, but I think…  Her fin­gers slow­ly moved over the keys per­form­ing from mem­ory a piece by Mozart.  It took some time to get the feel of her new fin­gers, but she even­tu­al­ly man­aged to play with well-​re­mem­bered ease.

Oh, you do, Michelle said in awe and twirled out on­to the floor danc­ing her heart out.

Emi­ly smiled at the child’s an­tics, and let the mu­sic fill her.  It filled her to the point of not know­ing any­thing but the melody, the notes res­onat­ing in her soul.  She had al­most ev­ery­thing she ev­er want­ed now.  She could, would be con­tent and thank­ful.

Barn­aby stood trans­fixed as Mil­li­cent played per­fect­ly one of his fa­vorite con­cer­tos.  The on­ly prob­lem with what he was wit­ness­ing was the fact that Mil­li­cent could not play.  Nor could she paint or sew.  She was ac­com­plished in noth­ing oth­er than groom­ing her­self and driv­ing most men to mad­ness with her haunt­ing beau­ty.

This wom­an, how­ev­er, could sew, play the pi­anoforte, rose at an ear­ly hour, and most im­por­tant­ly spent lit­tle time at her dress­ing ta­ble.  Yet she still emerged as beau­ti­ful as ev­er, but in a dif­fer­ent way.  Had she mere­ly pre­tend­ed all these years to not know how to do so many things that most wom­en of her sta­tion did?  Or was Con­rad cor­rect in his state­ment that she was a changed wom­an?

And last eve, had he mis­read the en­tire sit­ua­tion?  Had he seen re­al ad­mi­ra­tion in her eyes af­ter all?

Pa­pa!

He jerked at the sound of Michelle’s squeal and the abrupt end to the mu­sic.  She rushed to him and tugged on his hand, pulling him in­to the cen­ter of the room. 

Play for us, Ma­ma.  Please?  I wish to dance with Pa­pa like a la­dy.

His eyes met hers where she sat mo­tion­less at the pi­ano, her ex­pres­sion wary. 

Yes, by all means, play.

Her brow fur­rowed, and he won­dered for a mo­ment if the wom­an be­fore him was ac­tu­al­ly his wife, then shook off the odd thought.

With a nod, Mil­li­cent looked down at the keys and played a waltz.  Barn­aby took his daugh­ter’s tiny hands and urged her to place her feet atop his as he care­ful­ly waltzed her around the room.  His mind on the wom­an play­ing and not on his steps, he sud­den­ly found him­self con­flict­ed, and the ridicu­lous nag­ging ques­tion of whether or not she was his wife re­fused to go away. 

The tune end­ed and he bowed over his daugh­ter’s hand.  Her face glowed with joy.  If you will ex­cuse us, pop­pet.  I need to speak with your moth­er a mo­ment.  Run along and play in the nurs­ery.

Yes, Pa­pa.  She turned and ran to the wom­an at the pi­ano and grabbed her around the waist.  Thank you, Ma­ma.  I’ve nev­er had so much fun.

Mil­li­cent looked down at Michelle.  Nei­ther have I, sweet­ie. 

Will you teach me?

She ca­ressed his daugh­ter’s fair head and looked at him.  That’s up to your fa­ther.  Now, do as he says, she said, and gen­tly prod­ded her to­ward the door.

I tru­ly wish to learn, Pa­pa, she said and slipped from the room.

Barn­aby stood star­ing at the emp­ty door­way for sev­er­al sec­onds try­ing to de­cide how to ap­proach the prob­lem when Mil­li­cent spoke.

You know, don’t you? she said soft­ly.

His stom­ach dropped as he turned to look at her, her hands clasped tight­ly to­geth­er, but her chin high as she stood. 

Know what, Madame?

She rolled her beau­ti­ful blue eyes, eyes that seemed so much rich­er these past weeks, to the ceil­ing.  Why did she seem so dif­fer­ent?  How was she able to en­tice him by mere­ly cross­ing a room?  Some­thing his wife hadn’t done in years.  He’d lost his de­sire for her short­ly af­ter they’d wed, once he saw her for what she re­al­ly was. 

But now, she was—dif­fer­ent.  The change of style in her gowns, pas­tels in­stead of the dark col­ors she fa­vored that made her pale skin ap­pear al­most translu­cent.  Ghost like, he mused now in ret­ro­spect.  Her haunt­ing vi­sion of love­li­ness had lured him to her, on­ly to trap him in a spi­der’s web.  No—soft col­ors with tiny flow­ers would not have been her choice no mat­ter the sea­son or oc­ca­sion—or game.  Even the way she wore her hair was dif­fer­ent.

And last night she’d been an ab­so­lute vi­sion, one that tor­ment­ed him in his sleep, and con­tin­ued to tor­ment him.

Don’t play games with me, Barn­aby.  I don’t like them any­more than you do, she said.

Very well, no games.  I shall be di­rect.  Why did you hide your tal­ents from me all these years?  Why such a grand cha­rade?

Her slen­der brow quirked and she seemed to al­most smile.  That didn’t set well with him.  Her smiles were in­tox­icat­ing these days and on­ly added to his con­fu­sion.

I asked you a ques­tion, Madame, he said, and stalked to­ward her. The faint stiff­en­ing of her body told him she was afraid, and yet she tilt­ed her chin up and stared di­rect­ly in­to his eyes.

I didn’t.  Not ex­act­ly, she said.

He mere­ly re­turned her re­gard.

Her lips quirked up at the cor­ner as she plant­ed her hands on her hips.  Oh all right.  I’m tired of try­ing to hide it any­way.  I should’ve told you be­fore last night, then maybe— she sighed.

Hide what? he snarled, fear­ing he’d been right all along, that she’d been plan­ning one of her de­vi­ous schemes, pulling his friend, his daugh­ter in­to the heart of it af­ter all. 

Con­rad had been wrong.  She’d known she was driv­ing him mad, slow­ly but sure­ly.  It was all part of her lat­est en­deav­or to tor­ment him.  She’d man­aged to get him in pub­lic last night, build­ing a false sense of se­cu­ri­ty be­fore go­ing in for the kill.

He men­tal­ly braced him­self.

I don’t re­mem­ber much of my life be­fore I be­came ill.  Very lit­tle, to be ex­act.

He leaned back and fold­ed his arms, study­ing her, hid­ing his ab­so­lute shock, she would use it against him, but this was a new tac­tic.  One he’d not con­sid­ered.  Had she hand­ed this yarn to his friend?  Was that how she’d won him over?

But she was not a wom­an to be trust­ed and this was not a con­ver­sa­tion to be had in an open room where any of the staff could hear them.  No, he much pre­ferred to re­ceive the lat­est blow in pri­vate, steal­ing some of her glo­ry.

Fol­low me, he said, and turned to­ward the door. 

He didn’t even pause to see if she fol­lowed. Her feet tread soft­ly be­hind him.  He sus­pect­ed she was afraid, she’d nev­er gone quite so far be­fore with one of her games.  He won­dered if she had any inkling of how close she’d come to win­ning.  He’d nev­er yearned to take a wom­an in his arms so much in his life.  The way she quirked up her lips, her hands splayed at her nar­row waist, she was beau­ti­ful and he hurt for want­ing her.

He’d tossed and turned for hours last night, re­call­ing how she felt in his arms as they danced, the way her sub­tle scent, one he’d not re­called her ev­er wear­ing be­fore, filled the car­riage, mak­ing him gid­dy with it.  And that tear, that damnable tear.  He want­ed to kiss it away, to hold her, to pro­tect her…to love her.

But it had been a game, he re­mind­ed him­self.  She’d been play­ing him the fool, just as be­fore.

She fol­lowed him in­to the study where he closed the door be­hind her.

You say you re­mem­ber lit­tle.  How lit­tle? He crossed to stand by his desk await­ing her an­swer, re­gard­less of how ridicu­lous it would be.  She’d been found out.  They both knew it.

Well… She took a deep breath and let it out slow­ly as she moved clos­er. 

He strug­gled not to low­er his gaze to her per­fect bo­som.  He rather liked the changes she’d made in her at­tire, but that was yet an­oth­er of her dis­trac­tions, he mused.

Noth­ing, re­al­ly, but I’m not in­sane, she hur­ried to add.  Hon­est.  I just don’t re­call any­thing.

And yet you play the pi­ano, sew, cook...

Oh—well, I sup­pose some things are sec­ond na­ture.  She wor­ried her low­er lip, caus­ing his pulse to in­crease.

He con­sid­ered her for sev­er­al sec­onds.  Mil­li­cent, you nev­er did any of those things pri­or to your ill­ness, so you may as well ad­mit you’re ly­ing.  For what rea­son I can­not be­gin to fath­om, but enough is quite enough.

I knew you wouldn’t be­lieve me. 

He lift­ed a lone brow.  No doubt.

Look, I know it’s hard to swal­low, af­ter ev­ery­thing that hap­pened be­fore, but I’m telling the truth. 

Mil­li­cent, I don’t know what you think to gain from this, he said, rub­bing his brow, weary of it all.

I don’t want any­thing, Barn­aby, hon­est.  I would’ve told you soon­er, but well, I thought it would be best not to tell any­one.  Well, Michelle knows, and Con­rad.  She just about burst with our se­cret when he ar­rived.

His mo­ment of con­fu­sion and fa­tigue blurred in­to one of sim­mer­ing anger.  Con­rad and Michelle know of this—con­di­tion of yours?

She nod­ded with a small smile.  Con­rad doesn’t have too much to of­fer, I think he’s afraid I will re­mem­ber and be­come my pre­vi­ous self, but Michelle has been a great help with the day to day things.  She tells me what she knows. 

Her eyes widened and her mouth turned down in a scowl as she plant­ed her hands on her hips.  The wom­an he’d known would nev­er take such a stance.  She would calm­ly look at him, her blue eyes like ice, and cut him to the quick with a few words.  But this wom­an, this wife, was an­imat­ed, vi­brant, pas­sion­ate, and an­gry.

You are not go­ing to pun­ish her for keep­ing my se­cret, she fumed.  She’s just a lit­tle girl, she didn’t mean to do any­thing wrong.  She would nev­er be­tray you con­scious­ly.  She loves you too much to ev­er do any­thing to hurt you.  And as for Con­rad, he’s a grown man, you can take your grievances up with him, but he was on­ly try­ing to help.

For a mo­ment he want­ed to place his lips against hers.  An odd thought, one he hadn’t had since short­ly af­ter they’d mar­ried, but late­ly it seemed it was one of the many things he thought of when he spied her, or dined with her, or danced with her. 

Study­ing her close­ly, more close­ly than was wise, he re­al­ized that not even his high­ly skilled ac­tress of a wife could pre­tend so well. She wasn’t ly­ing.  She tru­ly didn’t re­mem­ber. 

From your out­burst on Michelle’s be­half and your mis­con­cep­tion that I would pun­ish her for keep­ing silent, proves to me you tru­ly do not re­mem­ber, he said, no longer ca­pa­ble of ig­nor­ing the facts be­fore him.  She was dif­fer­ent, and now he had a rea­son.  One he’d nev­er con­sid­ered be­fore, the idea more than lu­di­crous, but see­ing the in­no­cence and anger on his daugh­ter’s be­half shin­ing in her eyes told him it was true.

Thank you, she said soft­ly.  Her eyes were noth­ing like the ice he’d come to ex­pect, but more the shade of a trop­ical ocean, an ocean he could be lost in.  With­out re­al­iz­ing it, he moved clos­er, their bod­ies al­most touch­ing, as he gazed in­to the warm blue depths.

I hope you won’t be too hard on Con­rad.  I can’t re­al­ly blame him.  My old self, well, what I have learned about Mil—my­self, about my past, I don’t care for.

You were not a com­pla­cent wom­an, he con­fessed.

She dropped her gaze to his cra­vat. I was hor­ri­ble, you mean.  I was cru­el to Michelle, to Martha—to you.

He slid his fin­ger be­neath her chin and tilt­ed her head so he could look in­to her eyes once more, search­ing yet again for any mal­ice, but her words, laced with sad­ness and pain, were truth­ful. 

You don’t like the wom­an you were be­fore your ill­ness.

No.  And quite frankly I can’t un­der­stand why you mar­ried me in the first place.

He gave no re­sponse but con­tin­ued to study her. 

I hope some­day you can for­give me for how I be­haved, and be­lieve me when I say I will nev­er be that wom­an again.  Ev­er.

Al­though still hes­itant to be­lieve her words, not a hint of de­cep­tion showed on her beau­ti­ful face.  He had watched her with Michelle, lis­tened to Con­rad’s opin­ion, and the house­hold could say noth­ing against her, they’d ac­tu­al­ly praised her on many oc­ca­sions since she awoke from her ill­ness.  Could he bring him­self to trust her again?  Was she tru­ly changed?

She gen­tly gripped his wrist where he still held her chin.  I am not the same wom­an. I would nev­er do any­thing to hurt you or Michelle.  I swear it on my life, Barn­aby.

His wife, the wom­an be­fore, would nev­er have made such a bold state­ment.  No, she would threat­en some­thing, hold some dis­taste­ful in­ci­dent over his head, but not this wom­an.

He slow­ly low­ered his head, un­able, un­will­ing to stop him­self.  If she was the wom­an he mar­ried, she would not ac­cept any ad­vance from him, not even a sim­ple kiss.  She had bare­ly tol­er­at­ed his pres­ence in the same house since short­ly af­ter she con­ceived.  And even that event had been one of dis­gust to her.  A fact she voiced quite loud­ly when he at­tempt­ed to re­sume their mar­ital re­la­tions af­ter Michelle was born. But this time, she did not pull away or spout her dis­plea­sure.

Yet he stopped a breath away from her lips, his gaze pinned to hers, and de­cid­ed that she would have to make the fi­nal move. 

She leaned clos­er as he held his ground. He felt her un­even breath against his lips.  She swayed back a lit­tle, and for a mo­ment he thought she would turn away, then her mouth pressed against his.  The sub­tle trem­bling of her lips, the way she slid her arms ten­ta­tive­ly around his neck, spoke more of her feel­ings than any words ev­er could. 

She was afraid of her new life, for that is what it was, like a child learn­ing to walk.  He owed her noth­ing for the pain she’d caused him over the years, but he could not turn his back on her.  He’d loved her once, or thought he had.  Per­haps he still did.  And yet he sensed this was some­thing dif­fer­ent, a new love, one just be­gin­ning to grow in his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him as he deep­ened the kiss.  On a moan, her body fold­ed in­to his, her del­icate curves press­ing against him.  Her fin­gers slid in­to the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a growl of pure need from deep in his throat. He’d been with­out a wom­an for so very long.  Years of celiba­cy had tak­en its toll. Celiba­cy that she de­mand­ed, for she knew he would nev­er take a mis­tress, and she would not have him in her bed.

His par­ents had thumbed their noses at con­ven­tion and mar­ried for love, some­thing he’d want­ed for as long as he re­mem­bered.  He would not dis­hon­or them with a slew of mis­tress­es.  His hon­or was all he had left.

He abrupt­ly end­ed the kiss and set her away, de­spis­ing him­self for giv­ing in­to the temp­ta­tion of her.  He could not risk lov­ing her again.

I have things to tend to, he said, and moved to be­hind the desk and quick­ly sat.  As do you, I sus­pect.

She did not take the hint and leave.  He pre­tend­ed to scan the ledger be­fore him, when all he could see was where her dress brushed the edge of the desk from the cor­ner of his eye.  He flinched when her hand set­tled on his arm.

He glanced up at her and found her brow crin­kled and her eyes filled with un­cer­tain­ty.  So dif­fer­ent, he thought.  But would the old Mil­li­cent re­turn as her mem­ories were sure to do?  She stud­ied his face quite thor­ough­ly.  For now she was dif­fer­ent, changed, and he would do his best to re­mem­ber that, but he would al­so re­mem­ber that she could change again. 

He placed his hand over hers where it lay against his sleeve and stud­ied the soft­ness of it.  I be­lieve it is past time for Michelle’s pi­ano lessons.

She bent low to see his face, a smile so bright her eyes shone with her joy.

Thank you, she said, then kissed him, ten­ta­tive­ly, ten­der­ly, then rose and left the room.

Barn­aby couldn’t con­tain his wide grin, nor did he wish to.  Yet, it fell at the re­minder that his friend had not told him all he knew.  Last night he could’ve danced with her again, strolled the gar­dens in the moon­light, they could have had a tru­ly pleas­ant evening.

He went in search of the cur, more than will­ing to place his fist in his face.  His tem­per high, he found the baron loung­ing in his li­brary, some dusty tome in his hands.

You need a sound thrash­ing, he snarled.

Con­rad lift­ed his gaze and stud­ied him.  Ei­ther Mil­lie has told you about her con­di­tion and that I knew, and more im­por­tant­ly, you be­lieve her, or...you’re jeal­ous, he said, a wide smile lift­ing the cor­ners of his mouth.

Jeal­ous?  He was, damn it all!  He was jeal­ous of how his friend made her smile and laugh, and that he could spend time with her, when he dare not get close.  That kiss was proof enough that he need­ed to keep his dis­tance from his wife, but he wasn’t about to give the man the sat­is­fac­tion, he was al­ready her bloody cham­pi­on.

You knew this en­tire time about her ill­ness, how it has af­fect­ed her, and yet you said noth­ing!

Con­rad rose with a lan­guid grace of a man who had no trou­bles.  Oh, to be so un­bur­dened, Barn­aby thought.

I told you she was changed, that she was no threat to Michelle.  He slid the book back in­to its rest­ing place up­on the shelf.

What a bunch of codswal­lop, he grum­bled.

He chuck­led and moved to his side.  With a slap on his back he said, Jeal­ousy does not be­come you, my friend.

I am not jeal­ous.  I am en­raged that you would hold such im­por­tant in­for­ma­tion from me.  You know the sort of wom­an she is.

Was.

That is still yet to be de­ter­mined.  But you said noth­ing of this—this mem­ory loss.

Con­rad shrugged.  You wouldn’t have be­lieved me—or her.

That isn’t the point, damn you!

No, the point is, you are jeal­ous, which means you’re in love with your wife, or rather this new wife you have, and you’d be a bloody fool to ru­in it.

Don’t be ab­surd.

He moved to the door with a laugh.  It’s time I was leav­ing.  I have over­stayed my wel­come, and you need to be alone with Mil­lie.

Would you kind­ly stop call­ing her that? he growled.

Con­rad paused in the door­way.  I be­lieve she is tru­ly changed, my friend.  Don’t let past feel­ings al­ter the cur­rent day.  I can see you be­lieve her, or at least you want to.  Give Mil­lie a chance and for­get about Mil­li­cent.  With that he was gone.

Barn­aby stood in the li­brary, his heart pound­ing in his chest.  The word love, spo­ken so freely made his legs feel weak.  He’d toyed with the word him­self, but hadn’t dared to say it aloud.  Did he love her?  Should he love this new wom­an his wife had be­come?

He strolled back to his study, his thoughts heavy.  Per­haps he should try, per­haps Con­rad was right.

Mil­lie, he whis­pered, lik­ing the light­heart­ed sound of it.

But if she were to change again…God help him.

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Eight

 

 

It’s such a bright sun­ny day, let’s go for a swim, Emi­ly said, any­thing to light­en Michelle’s mood. 

Con­rad’s leav­ing had been hard on her, she so adored the man, and it would lift her own spir­its as well.  His leav­ing had been dif­fi­cult for her too, but it was her hus­band’s new­found at­ten­tion that had her need­ing an es­cape.  The smol­der­ing looks had her about ready to ex­plode, and a dunk­ing in the pond would be just the tick­et to take her mind off of her hand­some hus­band.

Michelle’s mouth fell agape.  You mean you’ll teach me?

Of course.  I would’ve thought you’d al­ready know how.

She shook her head.  I don’t have a bathing cos­tume.

Hmm, nei­ther do I, come to think of it.  We’ll have to im­pro­vise.

To­geth­er they gath­ered tow­els and a small pic­nic and made their way to the lake.  They were go­ing to bathe in their un­der­gar­ments, pos­itive­ly scan­dalous, Emi­ly was sure.  But the wa­ter looked so invit­ing and she was tired and hot, and want­ed the free­dom of float­ing in the wa­ter with­out all of her nine­teenth cen­tu­ry garb.  Well, al­most all.  She did need to keep on her un­der­wear, but the cot­ton would bare­ly be no­tice­able, she hoped.

They cre­at­ed their own lit­tle haven by the lake amid some trees for pri­va­cy.  A spot rarely vis­it­ed, ac­cord­ing to Martha.  Af­ter man­ag­ing to get Michelle in up to her waist with­out fear, she start­ed teach­ing her the ba­sics.  How to float and per­form some sim­ple strokes.  She was such a fast learn­er, and she knew that by the end of the sum­mer she would be slic­ing her way through the chilly wa­ter with no help what­so­ev­er. 

I’m hun­gry.  Can we eat now? Michelle asked.

You go ahead.  I’ll join you in a few min­utes, Emi­ly said, and moved out fur­ther so she could swim a few laps, yet nev­er tak­ing her eye off of Michelle.  She wouldn’t want the child to sud­den­ly get brave and get in­to the deep­er wa­ter.

Pa­pa, look!  Isn’t Ma­ma grace­ful?

Michelle’s shout caught Emi­ly’s ear.  For a mo­ment she was ter­ri­fied she’d got­ten in too deep, then quick­ly re­al­ized it wasn’t Michelle who was in trou­ble.

Barn­aby had ripped off his coat and boots and was fran­ti­cal­ly swim­ming to­ward her.  The look on his face was ei­ther fury or ter­ror.  She wasn’t sure which, but in any event she wasn’t about to let him catch her look­ing like that.  She ducked un­der the wa­ter and out of his reach be­fore he could grab her and swam most­ly be­neath the sur­face back to the shore. 

What the dev­il? he shout­ed as she rose from the wa­ter.

Emi­ly wrapped the child in a blan­ket and fran­ti­cal­ly packed their things back in­to the bas­ket, bare­ly cast­ing a glance at Barn­aby.  Too afraid of what she’d see.

Barn­aby shook off the haze of fear that had gripped him so sound­ly and swam to shore.  He did ev­ery­thing in his pow­er to not look at the wom­an hur­ry­ing about.  Her wa­ter-​laden un­der­gar­ments were as trans­par­ent as glass.  Nev­er had he ev­er seen her naked.  Their mo­ments of in­ti­ma­cy had been in the dark and she’d re­fused to re­move her night­gown.  He’d felt like a dirty old lech­er. 

He’d known then she was beau­ti­ful, but not un­til this mo­ment, he re­al­ized as his feet found sog­gy ground, that she was an an­gel, an ab­so­lute vi­sion.  But more im­por­tant­ly, she was not his wife, for Mil­li­cent couldn’t swim a stroke, was ter­ri­fied of the wa­ter.  That he knew for a fact.

Did you see, Pa­pa?  Did you see Ma­ma swim all that way un­der the wa­ter? his daugh­ter asked, danc­ing on her toes.

Michelle, take the bas­ket and go back to the house and have Phoebe get you in­to a warm bath, he said as calm­ly as pos­si­ble, con­sid­er­ing the prob­lem at hand.

But, Pa­pa—

Now, Michelle.

Con­fused, she did as she was told, but Barn­aby knew he’d have to speak with her lat­er to make sure she un­der­stood that this in­ci­dent was not her fault.

Mil­li­cent, or what­ev­er her name was, made a move to fol­low, but he stopped her with a look. 

The wom­an, the wom­an who could no more be his wife than the dairy­maid, di­vert­ed her gaze and grabbed a blan­ket.  She wrapped it around her like a shield.  He not­ed her lips, no longer rosy, held a faint hint of blue.  They stood there for some time be­fore he spoke, want­ing to be cer­tain that his daugh­ter was well out of hear­ing range.

Who the hell are you and where is my wife? he growled.

She opened her mouth to speak, to de­ny that she was a fraud, but luck­ily for her she did not, for he was not in a for­giv­ing mood. 

Over the last few days since Con­rad’s leav­ing he’d been al­most hap­py.  They’d dined to­geth­er each day, spoke of things, likes and dis­likes, and her eyes would sparkle with her bright smile.  She was learn­ing things all over again with new eyes, and a new heart.

And he want­ed her, craved her, but had not yet worked up the nerve to join her in her bed.  Past re­jec­tions re­played them­selves in his mind, hav­ing not yet man­aged to put them all be­hind him. 

Now he was grate­ful for that fact, and yet at the same time, dis­mal­ly dis­ap­point­ed.  He’d seen her body, and it had on­ly in­creased his need.  But she was not his to take.  The strange phras­es she used and her un­usu­al ac­cent, al­though she’d hid it well most of the time, and her sup­posed loss of mem­ory!  How could he have missed the bloody ob­vi­ous?

An­swer me, wom­an!

She jumped at his de­mand then squared her shoul­ders and lift­ed her chin.  My name is Emi­ly May­field.  I don’t know why I’m here, nor do I know how I got here—ex­act­ly, al­though I have a the­ory, which would def­inite­ly be cause to have me sent to Bed­lam.  Which is worse than jail, from what I un­der­stand, so I’ll keep that to my­self if you don’t mind.

Her bold, ridicu­lous an­swer, al­most forced his jaw to drop.  She was as de­vi­ous as his re­al wife. How much did my wife pay you to im­per­son­ate her?

Her lips quirked up at the cor­ner as she plant­ed her hands on her hips.  He bit the in­side of his cheek at the dis­play of her breasts en­cased in wet cot­ton, the peaks peb­bled and taught against the fab­ric. 

Oh, sure, she said.  Like she gave a damn about you or Michelle.  So much so that she’d pay some­one to take her place.  Not bloody like­ly.

Where is she? he shout­ed.

 I don’t know!  She heaved a heavy sigh and wrapped her­self in the blan­ket once again.  Look, Barn­aby.  Like it or not, I’m here. How or why isn’t re­al­ly im­por­tant, but you’re not go­ing to turn this bizarre sit­ua­tion in­to some Machi­avel­lian scheme cooked up by your wife.

His eyes nar­rowed.  Who are your peo­ple?  Where do you come from?  You couldn’t have got­ten in with­out help.  Did La­dy Whit­ley or that id­iot Hick­ston have any­thing to do with this?  None of the ser­vants would’ve lift­ed a fin­ger to help with this— he waved his hand, send­ing a trail of wa­ter arc­ing through the grow­ing haze of the af­ter­noon, in­sane plan!

There is no plan!

He grabbed her arms and jerked her for­ward, his nose mere inch­es from hers.  I want the truth. All of it.

She tilt­ed up her chin in that jaun­ty way she had, so un­like his wife, no won­der he was so en­am­ored by the wom­an.  Wife or no, she’d fig­ured out a way to drive him whol­ly in­sane. 

I don’t think I’d like Bed­lam.  As a mat­ter of fact, I know I wouldn’t like Bed­lam, she said.

I’ll not send you to Bed­lam, wom­an, but I may send you to New­gate if you don’t an­swer the ques­tion, he snarled.

Swear you won’t send me to Bed­lam.

He gave her a sub­tle shake.  An­swer the bloody ques­tion!

Fine!  I’ll tell you.  All of it.  And when you’ve heard it and de­cid­ed I’m crazy I’ll say I told you so.

Get on with it! 

He need­ed to hear her tale, al­though he sus­pect­ed it would be a load of ma­nure, but more im­por­tant­ly he couldn’t stand the thought of see­ing her go back to pre­tend­ing to be Mil­li­cent.  This mouthy, vi­brant wom­an was the one he longed for, the one he dreamt of ev­ery night, craved ev­ery day, and could not have.  She was a fraud and a liar.  That much about his spouse had not changed.

I was dy­ing, she said.

What?  He dropped his hands to his sides.

I was dy­ing of can­cer.  I knew my time was lim­it­ed, which is why I want­ed to tour Eu­rope one last time.  She smiled crooked­ly.  I was play­ing the pi­ano on tour, small con­certs, but still it was a job and what I loved. 

She lift­ed her gaze to his.  I think I died.  I was ly­ing there one minute then the next I was walk­ing down a long cor­ri­dor.  A wom­an passed me, it was Mil­li­cent. She was smil­ing in the odd­est way and she didn’t take her eyes off the door at the end of hall be­hind me.  I tried to reach out to her, but some­thing stopped me.  It pulled me in the op­po­site di­rec­tion.  When I woke up, I was in her bed and in her body. 

She snort­ed soft­ly.  Scared me half to death when I looked in the mir­ror the first time.  That’s when I rec­og­nized her.  Me.  What­ev­er, she said with a shake of her head. 

Barn­aby blinked sev­er­al times as he looked at the wom­an be­fore him.  She was mad, that was ob­vi­ous.  She ac­tu­al­ly be­lieved her bizarre tale.  He was an au­thor­ity on de­ceit, thanks to Mil­li­cent, and read­ing her ex­pres­sion, search­ing her eyes for any sign of trick­ery he could find none.  It ex­plained so many things, why the in­no­cence he saw in her was re­al, her kind heart, her light laugh­ter, all of it.  She was not his wife.

She ti­tled her head to the side with a quirky grin.  So, do I pack a bag for Bed­lam, or is it just a come as you are kind of thing?

Still, he didn’t have the heart to send her to the mad­house and Michelle adored her. 

I think, Madame, you should go to your room and rest.  You’ve ob­vi­ous­ly had a try­ing day.  He stomped on his boots and snatched up his coat. He would de­cide lat­er what to do with the poor de­ment­ed crea­ture.

She stepped in front of him be­fore he could walk up the path.  That’s it?  No more shout­ing, no more arm wav­ing?

I am wet and cold.  I don’t have time for your games.  He stalked off amid her sput­ter­ing.

She hur­ried up be­side him, her blan­ket flap­ping about her long limbs.  I told you the truth.  My name is re­al­ly Emi­ly.

Of course, Emi­ly.  And some­thing to note for the fu­ture, Emi­ly.  A la­dy does not bathe in pub­lic.

Ah, I see.  You’re hu­mor­ing me.  How nice, she said acid­ly.  Well let me add to the fairy­tale then.  I was not bathing, I was swim­ming, and I’m not on­ly back from the dead, so to speak, I’m from the fu­ture.  The year was two-​thou­sand and ten when I died.  Go ahead.  Quiz me.  I can tell you about au­to­mo­biles, planes, the tele­phone, gov­ern­ment, who will be next on the throne of Eng­land, when the next war will be—

She bumped in­to his back as he stopped cold in his tracks halfway across the lawn be­fore the house.  He turned to face her.  You shall not speak of this, any of this to any­one.  Do you un­der­stand me?

Her brow fur­rowed.  You’re pro­tect­ing me, she said soft­ly.  Why?  Why not send me to New­gate or Bed­lam, or Blan­don for that mat­ter?  You’d be rid of me then.

His jaw clenched as she moved clos­er to stand be­fore him.  Her hair, al­though damp from her swim, caught the sun­shine.  Her cheeks were rosy from the hur­ried pace she’d used to keep up with him.  She was sim­ply the loveli­est crea­ture he’d ev­er seen. 

Barn­aby?  She placed her hand against his chest as she leaned close.

He cov­ered it with his, wish­ing with all his heart that this wom­an, this stark star­ing mad fe­male, was his wife.  Go in­side and rest.

I’m not tired.

You try a man’s pa­tience, he said, his voice rough.

Wom­en have been do­ing that for cen­turies.  She grinned for a mo­ment.  You have to be­lieve me.  I am not in league with Mil­li­cent.  My name is Emi­ly.

He brushed his fin­gers across her rosy cheek.  He wished he could be­lieve her.  She wasn’t Mil­li­cent, that part was fact.  She was not the wom­an who en­joyed mak­ing his life a liv­ing hell.  If any­thing, this wom­an had im­proved life in his house.  But as to her tale of how she came to be there, on that point, he would have to hu­mor her and hope that her delu­sion didn’t grow in­to some­thing more dan­ger­ous be­fore he could fig­ure out what to do with her.

I be­lieve you are not Mil­li­cent.  As to how you came to be here… he shrugged. 

Well—  She nib­bled at her bot­tom lip.  Then it won’t mat­ter if I tell you the rest.

He sighed and gave a nod, pray­ing her tale wouldn’t be more ab­surd than it al­ready was.

I’m in love with you.  She tipped up on her toes and kissed him.

He stood stock still, not sure how to re­spond or even if he could, he was so stunned.  She turned and was gone be­fore he re­gained his sens­es.

****

Emi­ly had tak­en a warm bath and donned a mod­est dress for din­ner af­ter as­sur­ing Michelle that all was well.  She’d hur­ried down to din­ner on­ly to find that she’d be din­ing alone.  Lord West­more was out and would not be home for sev­er­al days.

It was that con­fes­sion, the one about be­ing in love with him that had been the fi­nal straw, she was cer­tain.  He thought she was crazy af­ter her rein­car­na­tion rant.  But some­how she had to con­vince him that she was telling the truth.  That she re­al­ly was Emi­ly May­field.

But how to con­vince him she was from the fu­ture?  It wasn’t as if she had any proof of any kind.  She didn’t know his­to­ry well enough that she could pre­dict some­thing that was about to hap­pen.  She on­ly knew the big stuff, like who was in pow­er when, and there wasn’t go­ing to be any ma­jor world changes for a while yet.

With a sigh, she took her new place at the long emp­ty, lone­ly din­ing ta­ble.  She’d moved to sit be­side her hus­band when Con­rad had first ar­rived, his and Barn­aby’s in­ter­ro­ga­tion didn’t al­low her the anonymi­ty that the end of the ta­ble had giv­en her.  She’d hat­ed it at first, but af­ter her friend­ship had been struck with Con­rad, she en­joyed it. 

Her gaze wan­dered to the chair across where Con­rad had sat and she smiled wist­ful­ly, miss­ing her new friend.  Then her gaze moved to Barn­aby’s chair at the head of the ta­ble where it stayed, even as she toyed with her food.

She imag­ined him there, how he’d looked at her over the last few days with heat in his eyes.  How she’d hoped he would make some move, per­haps an­oth­er kiss, even a brush of his hand against hers along their dai­ly walk in the gar­den, but he’d kept his dis­tance, al­most wary of her.  And yet the look in his eyes, the ten­sion arch­ing be­tween them, he had to know how bad­ly she want­ed him.

And I blew it, she said with a hearty sigh, ris­ing from her un­eat­en meal.

She should have stuck with the mem­ory loss sto­ry, why she’d blurt­ed out the oth­er was a bit un­clear, but his de­mand that she tell him who she was caused it to all to tum­ble out.  How had he known she wasn’t Mil­li­cent?  What had she done to make him be­lieve so ar­dent­ly, against the ev­idence be­fore his very eyes, that she wasn’t re­al­ly Mil­li­cent West­more?

 

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Nine

 

Barn­aby gained en­trance to ev­ery ball­room and soiree in Lon­don, even found his way along a few dark streets where more un­sa­vory en­ter­tain­ments could be had by the gen­try, but found no sign of his wife.

Seat­ed in White’s, obliv­ious to the gen­tle­men around him, he sipped a fine brandy and con­tem­plat­ed his next step.  Where else to look?  To whom else should he in­quire about his wife’s lo­ca­tion?

West­more?

He lift­ed his head from the study of his glass.  Leighton, I didn’t know you were in town.

Nor I you. 

His friend took a seat across from him.  Dare I ask what brings you to Lon­don?

He sighed and re­turned his gaze to his glass.  Lord Leighton’s late wife had been a friend of his wife, which was how they’d met, and in a strange way struck a sort of ca­ma­raderie, both find­ing out too late what their spous­es were tru­ly like.

I see, Leighton said.

Yes, I sup­pose you do…for the most part.  He lift­ed his gaze and forced a friend­ly smile.  And what of you?  I un­der­stand con­grat­ula­tions are in or­der.  You’re a fa­ther, I hear.

The man prac­ti­cal­ly beamed with pride.  I am, a girl.  Her name is Mary.

I’m hap­py for you.  For both of you.  He knew from the mur­mur­ings amid the ton and the un-​avoid­ance of the lo­cal pa­pers that Leighton had found a good match, a wom­an who un­doubt­ed­ly looked past the scars left up­on his face and body by the fire that had killed his first wife, and made him hap­py.  Why was that so hard for him?  Why could he not find the same?

Be­cause he was mar­ried to a de­vi­ous witch, while the an­gel he want­ed, the wom­an he feared he’d al­ready lost his heart to slept be­neath his roof, not twen­ty paces from his bed, and he could not have her.

Thank you.  I’d heard that your wife had been ill of late, but that she’d im­proved.

A half grin teased his lips.  Gos­sip moves fast, I see.

That it does.

She is miss­ing, ac­tu­al­ly, he said, his voice low so oth­ers wouldn’t hear.

Leighton frowned.  That I’d not heard.  What hap­pened?

She left an im­poster in her place.  He swirled the liquour in his glass.  A damnable per­fect one.

His friend sighed.  I see.  Can I be of any help?

Thank you, but no.  I’ve searched the usu­al places, talked with the reg­ular play­ers, but all swear she has not ap­peared since her ill­ness.

And this im­poster, what role does she play?  What does she have to gain in this sit­ua­tion?

Barn­aby lift­ed his gaze, her im­age, Emi­ly’s im­age burned in his mind.  I don’t know.  It makes no sense.  She claims she—she claims she can’t re­mem­ber any­thing be­fore she fell ill, but there are things she says, does…  He couldn’t dis­close her in­san­ity to any­one, not even his friend.  If word of that should get out, her life would be ru­ined, and sense he had no idea what to do with her—af­ter he found his re­al wife, he didn’t want to lim­it her op­tions.

That makes you be­lieve she isn’t your wife, he said with a nod, un­der­stand­ing his prob­lem on some lev­el.  I think, per­haps, you should re­con­sid­er the pos­si­bil­ity that she is who she says she is.

A wom­an from the fu­ture?  He near­ly laughed aloud, the lu­na­cy of it all, the fa­tigue, the pain wear­ing his nerves to pul­ver­ized ends. 

If I have learned one thing about wom­en, Leighton con­tin­ued.  I have learned to nev­er, ev­er un­der­es­ti­mate them.  They have a re­silien­cy be­yond com­pre­hen­sion.

Some of them, per­haps.

Aye, some of them.  But if what she says is true, if she can­not re­call her past, then she must start again.  Wouldn’t it be bet­ter to start anew than re­live or re­vi­tal­ize the past?

And if she isn’t my wife? he asked, still as­sured she was an im­poster, she’d ad­mit­ted it not but a few days ago.

Then, Leighton said with a sigh, as he rose to his feet.  You have a very big de­ci­sion on your hands.  Find the one you don’t want, or let her go and ac­cept the one you have.  The one you want.  The one the ton be­lieves is your wife.  He squeezed Barn­aby’s shoul­der as he walked past.  If you need any­thing, you know how to reach me.

He nod­ded his thanks then fin­ished his drink af­ter Leighton left.

Ac­cept Emi­ly as his wife?  Break his vows of mar­riage?

He walked the streets for a time be­fore go­ing back to his dark town­house.  He had on­ly a lim­it­ed staff on hand, and had told them all to not ex­pect him back un­til the ear­ly hours of the morn­ing.  That was when Mil­li­cent made her reg­ular haunts about town, like a crea­ture of the night.  But the late hour and the si­lence in the house was wel­come.

****

Late at night, just as ev­ery night since Barn­aby had left, the ques­tions and the mere fact he wasn’t there re­fused to al­low Emi­ly to sleep.  So she slipped out of bed and reached for her robe.  She would go down to the kitchen and have some­thing to eat—a lit­tle com­fort food, any­thing to help her to stop think­ing about him.  If on­ly she knew where he was, what he was do­ing, maybe she wouldn’t wor­ry as much?

She stilled at the sound of a small thump from his room.  Mov­ing to the ad­join­ing doors, she not­ed a faint light com­ing from be­neath the door.  Her heart raced, he was home, but where had he been, what was he think­ing?  Did he want her gone?  Had been off mak­ing plans for her de­par­ture to God on­ly knew where?

Throw­ing back her shoul­ders, she de­cid­ed to face the li­on in his den.  She had to con­vince him of the truth be­fore he act­ed on what­ev­er plans he’d been off mak­ing.  Or maybe, af­ter see­ing him again, she would try and con­vince him she was just con­fused and had lost her mem­ory.  How­ev­er it was done, she had to con­vince him to let her stay.

She opened the door and eased in­to his room.  He didn’t no­tice her at first, his gaze on the low fire, a brandy in his hand.  His coat and neck cloth gone, his shirt un­done, dis­played his glo­ri­ous chest. 

He turned his head at her small in­take of breath and held her with his gaze. 

Go back to bed.

Words were lost to her.  She crossed the room and knelt at his feet to tug off his boots.  He looked ex­haust­ed and it was her fault.

She set the boots aside then took his emp­ty snifter and splashed an­oth­er dram in­to the glass.  She held it out for him to take.

He slipped one hand around her wrist, hold­ing her still, while the oth­er took the snifter and placed it on the side ta­ble.  Gen­tly, he pulled her in­to his lap, and she went more than will­ing­ly.

With an un­steady hand, he pulled at the rib­bon of her gown and part­ed the fab­ric, un­cov­er­ing her breasts.  She sa­vored his warm study of her bare form in the dim light, and yet she sensed he’d nev­er been this in­ti­mate with Mil­li­cent. 

A wave of anger surged through her at how that wom­an had treat­ed him.  He was a man full of so much love and kind­ness, and she’d giv­en him noth­ing.  Michelle was the on­ly good thing to come from their mar­riage.  She was glad she’d burned the di­ary, with all its damn­ing ev­idence, filled with her hate­ful words.  Mil­li­cent was gone and Emi­ly was here in her place.  It was where she be­longed, she knew that now.

Touch me, she whis­pered.

His gaze lift­ed to hers, and she sensed his ques­tions and doubts.  She wasn’t his wife, ex­cept in body alone, but now was not the time for un­cer­tain­ties. She knew what she want­ed, and she want­ed him. 

Make love to me, Barn­aby.

His mouth swooped down on hers in a kiss so filled with hunger, she near­ly cried.  His hand cupped her breast firm­ly at first, as if she’d take this mo­ment away from him, take it all back, but with­in mo­ments his kiss soft­ened as did his touch. 

He stood with her in his arms and car­ried her to the bed.  Once there, he re­moved her gown com­plete­ly, then snapped straight at the sight of her.

Barn­aby?  He stood for some time sim­ply star­ing at her.

He moved clos­er and reached out to run his fin­ger along the small scar above her left breast.  Could it be?  Could he have spent days search­ing for his miss­ing wife, for some sign of the har­ri­dan that had caused him so much grief, when she’d been in his house all along? 

The scar was telling.  Mil­li­cent went to great ex­tremes to hide it with pow­ders and fe­male frip­pery, to hide her one im­per­fec­tion. The mark of her treach­ery.

In a mad dash to meet with her lover late one night, her horse stum­bled and threw her in­to a mass of bram­bles by the wood, leav­ing a harsh gash across her per­fect skin, and she blamed Barn­aby for it.  A sense­less charge, but noth­ing was ev­er Mil­li­cent’s fault.

Do you know how you got this? he asked, his voice hoarse.

No.

The truth rang clear­ly, and yet he still doubt­ed the wom­an be­fore him. 

She smiled up at him from where she lay, and held out her hand.  Come to bed, Barn­aby. 

But how could she be his wife?  All the things she did, the things she said?  How could she be Emi­ly May­field in his wife’s body?

The ques­tion bog­gled the mind, and as his was so weary from the past weeks since she’d awak­ened, he gave up the puz­zle, cast aside the ques­tions, and re­fused to think on it any fur­ther.  She was in his bed, in his heart, and he would take what­ev­er the con­se­quences were. 

He pulled off his shirt and trousers then stretched out along­side her.  There wasn’t much night left, but he made sure not to waste an­oth­er mo­ment.  His hands roamed her body, de­light­ing in her soft moans.  She was more per­fect than he’d dreamed, than he’d spied by the pond, and more so be­cause she al­lowed his touch. 

But he want­ed her to beg for him.  Wrong as it was, be­liev­ing this wom­an had no rec­ol­lec­tion of ru­in­ing much of his life, he could not curb the de­sire to hear those same lips that had piled curs­es up­on curs­es atop his head beg for his touch...beg for him.

Her fin­gers tan­gled in his hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him down for a slow per­sua­sive kiss, while her oth­er hand ex­plored the plains of his chest.  He moved his mouth from her dewy lips to her throat and then down to the per­fect peb­bled peaks of her breasts.  She gasped when he pulled the taught berry in­to his mouth and suck­led.  Her body writhed be­neath his hand as it neared her cen­ter, urg­ing him to touch her.

He heed­ed the mes­sage and was met with moist, warm curls be­neath his fin­gers that sent a jolt of heat rid­ing up his arm and through­out his body.  He bare­ly re­frained from groan­ing, his need for her was so high, and still he wait­ed to hear the words that would re­lease him.

Barn­aby, she whim­pered as he fon­dled her while con­tin­uing to taste her breast.  Please, she cried.  She want­ed him, tru­ly and whol­ly.  The plea­sure of that one word—please—freed him, freed his soul.

He eased over her, his mouth sa­vor­ing the taste of her skin, his ears de­light­ing in her con­tin­ued pleas, un­til his rigid shaft met with her tight, hot in­ner core.  All sound, all thought, stopped, leav­ing noth­ing but the sen­sa­tion of their bod­ies joined to­geth­er. 

It was pure bliss.

Slow­ly, his oth­er sens­es re­turned and he be­gan a steady pace, mov­ing in­side her.  She wrapped her long lus­cious limbs around his waist and growled her de­sires in his ear, and he was more than ac­com­mo­dat­ing as they were the same as his own. 

She called out his name on a sweet, shrill note, and he let go of the last teth­er he had on his de­sire.  In fill­ing her body with his seed, she filled his heart, his soul with all that he’d been miss­ing in his life.

And yet, when the morn­ing sun seeped through the win­dow pane as they lay in one an­oth­er’s arms com­plete­ly sat­ed and con­tent, the un­set­tling ques­tions re­turned to the fore­front of his mind.  She was his wife, and yet not.  Could she tru­ly be from the fu­ture?  The body was def­inite­ly Mil­li­cent’s, there was no mis­tak­ing the scar, but he couldn’t seem to re­move the wall of doubt re­gard­ing her sto­ry.  It was too fan­tas­tic to be­lieve.  Still, Mil­li­cent could not have changed so much to lay con­tent­ed along­side him.  She could not be the same wom­an he mar­ried.  Per­haps she tru­ly had no mem­ory of her life and had cre­at­ed this Emi­ly in place of her re­al self?

She moaned soft­ly in her sleep, and it warmed him.  Who­ev­er she was, she was his, and he would not let her go.

The drift­ing of fin­gers across her shoul­der woke Emi­ly from her sleep.  She snug­gled in tighter against Barn­aby and looked in­to his heavy-​lid­ded gaze.

Good morn­ing, she said, slid­ing her fin­ger across his low­er lip.

He grinned and moved his hand down to her back­side be­neath the sheet.  With a moan, she kissed him thor­ough­ly as he ex­plored her body.  His chest vi­brat­ed be­neath her breasts at his groan of plea­sure.  She hat­ed they had pre­cious few min­utes left be­fore the day be­gan.  She want­ed to love him again and again, but knew time was against them.

The door opened, bring­ing Emi­ly’s head around.  Ap­par­ent­ly the day had be­gun, and they had to re­sume their reg­ular rou­tines, re­gard­less of what oth­er plea­sures they could share.

Barn­aby’s valet strolled in­to the room, no­ticed the sit­ua­tion and quick­ly stum­bled out.

I do be­lieve we’ve tak­en a year off of Mor­timer’s life, she said with a gig­gle.

Barn­aby burst out a laugh.  I think two at least.  He pulled her up against him and kissed her smil­ing lips.  I like the way you laugh, he said be­tween lit­tle kiss­es.

I like the way you do a lot of things, she said falling un­der his se­duc­tive spell once again.  The man had on­ly to touch her, and she dis­solved in­to a bliss­ful pud­dle.

Hmm, well as much as I’d like to ex­plore those things, I have a feel­ing a lit­tle girl will be the next to burst in­to our rooms, he said.

Emi­ly groaned and rolled to the side of the bed.  You know how to kill the mo­ment.

He chuck­led and rose from the bed.  One that shall be rekin­dled lat­er.

She peered at him over her shoul­der as she tied her gown.  That had bet­ter be a promise.

He strolled to her side of the bed, glo­ri­ous­ly naked, and pulled her firm­ly against him.  Most def­inite­ly.  He kissed her long and slow. 

I hear Martha hum­ming in my room, she said, rel­ish­ing the nib­bles he was plac­ing down her neck.

Are you sure that isn’t your blood hum­ming, dar­ling?

She felt his smile against her skin and smacked him play­ful­ly on the arm.  Quit gloat­ing, she gig­gled.

Laugh­ing, he stepped back with a bright smile.  Me?  Gloat?  I would nev­er.

Oh you.  She tipped up on her toes and kissed him one last time, find­ing just go­ing in­to the next room in­cred­ibly dif­fi­cult.

He groaned that low deep way he had that sent a quake of long­ing puls­ing through her. 

Martha, where’s Ma­ma?

Drat, she whis­pered, but with a wide smile.  It seems I’m need­ed in the next room.

His smile melt­ed and his face be­came se­ri­ous.  In this room as well, he said, cup­ping her cheek in his large hand. 

She turned her head and pressed a quick kiss to the palm, then hur­ried in­to her room be­fore she cried.  He need­ed her and he wasn’t just talk­ing about sex.

****

The day wore on ev­er so slow­ly, Emi­ly thought she might go crazy with the de­sire to see him.  It was sil­ly, she knew, she’d left his rooms but just a few hours pri­or, but still she couldn’t con­tain this bur­geon­ing need to be in his pres­ence.

Lunch was fi­nal­ly called and she left Michelle in the nurs­ery so she could dine with Barn­aby.  She found her­self hur­ry­ing down the hall, then trot­ting down the stairs like a child at Christ­mas, thank­ful­ly catch­ing her­self be­fore any­one saw her. 

She took a long deep breath and smiled.  I’m in love, she said with a sigh, and strolled with false calm in­to the din­ing room.

Barn­aby, how­ev­er, was nowhere to be seen.  She con­sid­ered ask­ing Wilkins of her hus­band’s pres­ence, he al­ways knew ev­ery­thing, but she hadn’t quite won the but­ler over yet. 

Con­tem­plat­ing her dilem­ma, star­ing blankly at the emp­ty ta­ble be­fore her, she failed to no­tice her hus­band steal­ing in silent­ly be­hind her.

I hope that dour look is for Mrs. Hatch and not for me, he said, slip­ping his arm around her waist.

A re­lieved and con­tent­ed sigh es­caped her lips, and she leaned back against him.  Well, it was for you, be­cause you weren’t here.

He chuck­led soft­ly, his breath tick­ling the side of her neck where he placed a gen­tle kiss.  Miss me that much?

She turned in his arms and laced her fin­gers be­hind his head.  No, this much, she said, and kissed him, lin­ger­ing, sa­vor­ing...promis­ing.

He pressed her hard against him.  You un­do me, wom­an, he growled.

And you me.

Cup­ping her face in his hand, he pulled his head back and stud­ied her for sev­er­al heart­beats. 

I know it’s hard for you to be­lieve, Barn­aby.  I un­der­stand your doubts, I have them too.  I keep think­ing I’m dream­ing and that I’ll wake up one morn­ing and all this—you will be noth­ing more than a dream.  I don’t want you to be just a dream.

A soft smile eased his fea­tures.  Nor I, dar­ling.  Nor I.  His gen­tle kiss sang through her veins. 

If this was a dream, if she should wake and find her­self in a hos­pi­tal, she would for­ev­er re­mem­ber this man.  He would be in her heart, in her soul for all time.

A throat cleared.  With a wicked grin and a wink, he turned to face Wilkins. 

All is pre­pared, your lord­ship, the stern but­ler said, then bowed and dis­ap­peared.

What’s pre­pared? she asked.

He smiled and took her by the hand and led her from the room.  We’re hav­ing nun­cheon on the lawn.

A pic­nic?

Yes, a pic­nic.  Michelle is there al­ready.  He paused in the hall, his body sud­den­ly stiff.  Un­less you don’t wish for her to join us.

Oh, Barn­aby.  With a smile she hooked her arm around his.  As much as I’d like to have you all to my­self, I think a pic­nic with Michelle is a love­ly idea.

Ca­ress­ing the back of her hand up­on his arm, he vis­ibly re­laxed, and they made their way out­side.  He was try­ing, very hard, she re­al­ized.  It couldn’t be easy for him to look at her and not ex­pect the old Mil­li­cent to emerge.

The day was filled with laugh­ter and joy, and nev­er had Emi­ly ev­er been so hap­py.  They ate a de­li­cious meal, played games, and told sto­ries un­til Michelle fell asleep be­side them on the blan­ket.

She is so pre­cious, Emi­ly said, shift­ing a way­ward curl from Michelle’s cheek.

There was a time when you—she didn’t think so.  Barn­aby’s gaze light­ed across her face then fell back to his daugh­ter.

I don’t want to talk about her, about be­fore.  I don’t want to ru­in a per­fect day.

He nod­ded, his doubts more preva­lent than he was aware.  She won­dered if they would ev­er re­al­ly be rid of Mil­li­cent, if she would haunt them for the rest of their lives.  Was she naïve to think that a few new ex­pe­ri­ences, new mem­ories would erase the hurt and pain she’d caused?

It is a per­fect day, he said, and brushed a fin­ger down over her cheek. 

She clasped his hand be­fore he could with­draw it and pressed a kiss to the palm.  His gaze warmed as he linked his fin­gers with hers. 

I think it’s time to take Michelle to the nurs­ery, he said, and lift­ed the sleep­ing an­gel in­to his arms.

Silent­ly, they put her to bed, then de­scend­ed the stairs to their rooms.  With­out a word, she came will­ing­ly in­to his arms the mo­ment the door was closed and locked.  He would love her ful­ly, with ev­ery­thing that he had, for he was just afraid as she that they would awake and find it all had been a dream.

We’re go­ing to shock the en­tire house­hold, she whis­pered be­tween kiss­es.  It’s the mid­dle of the day, and if I know any­thing about his­to­ry, this is a big no-​no.

He chuck­led at her odd phras­ing, won­der­ing again, who she was, if he would ev­er be­lieve her tale, but didn’t let it de­ter him from his task. 

Per­haps, but con­ven­tion isn’t go­ing to stop me from lov­ing you when I please, for as long as I please.

She looked up at him a bright smile on her face.  I do love a man who knows his own mind.

Turn around, he com­mand­ed be­tween nib­bles at the cor­ner of her lips.

She did as he bade, and he be­gan to work on the but­tons trail­ing down her back, plac­ing kiss­es against her ex­posed skin as he went.

I’m go­ing to lose it be­fore we even get to bed, she said on a moan.

Lord, he loved the sound of her plea­sure, but her odd com­ments pulled at his lips at the most in­ap­pro­pri­ate times.  Now was not the time to laugh, not when he want­ed to ex­plore ev­ery inch of her in the light of day where he wouldn’t miss a sin­gle curve or mole.

Barn­aby, hur­ry, she breathed.

With a smile, he di­vest­ed her of her plen­ti­ful skirts and fe­male trap­pings.  All while wor­ship­ing ev­ery dip and mark.  As he knelt be­fore her, his lips near­ing her wom­an’s mound, he smelled the heady scent of her arousal.  Nev­er hav­ing dreamed he would be al­lowed such free­dom with his wife, he rev­eled in her sharp in­take of breath as his lips found the ten­der nub and she thread her fin­gers in­to his hair to hold him to his task.

With one hand mas­sag­ing her de­li­cious bot­tom, the fin­gers of his oth­er mov­ing slow­ly in and out of her tight folds, he sucked and nipped at her cen­ter un­til her cries of plea­sure filled the room.  On a gasp and moan, she fell to her knees be­fore him and in­to his arms.

That was—I’ve nev­er— her eyes popped open on a star­tled breath and she clutched at his shoul­ders.  Do you think any­one heard me?

He smiled at her sud­den pan­ic while al­low­ing his hands to roam her flushed body.  I think they heard you in Lon­don.

Her eyes widened, and she buried her face in his neck cloth with an em­bar­rassed gig­gled.

He rose to his feet with her still in his arms and placed her on the bed.  Her face was flushed with re­lease and em­bar­rass­ment and he’d nev­er seen any­thing so beau­ti­ful in his life.

He un­did his jack­et and shirt, and pulled his con­strict­ing clothes from his body in a rush to join her on the bed.

The mo­ment he lay be­side her, she pressed her hands against his shoul­ders, press­ing him to the mat­tress.  My turn, she said, her voice tinged with a dev­il­ish­ness he could be­come ad­dict­ed to.

Her hands roamed his chest, fol­lowed by soft kiss­es and nips of her teeth.  The sen­sa­tion was over­whelm­ing, or so he thought un­til she reached his rigid shaft.  The del­icate kiss­es she placed up­on his heat­ed skin had him clutch­ing the cov­er­ings be­side him.  Nev­er had a wom­an ev­er done this for him, to him, and for a brief mo­ment, when she pulled him in­to her mouth, he ac­tu­al­ly thought he might black out from the pure plea­sure of it.

She stroked him with one hand while she loved him with her mouth.  His own moans grew loud­er.

Bloody hell, he mut­tered, his teeth grit­ted.

Do you want me to stop? 

She knew she had him right where she want­ed him, the saucy wench.

You are about to un­do me, wom­an.

I don’t mind, she said, and sucked on him long and hard un­til he roared out his re­lease.

Stunned by her ac­tions, he pulled her up and cra­dled her against his side firm­ly, not quite sure how to han­dle the sit­ua­tion.  A la­dy didn’t do such things, or so he’d been taught.  A nig­gle of fear, thoughts of his for­mer wife, edged in­to his mind.  Her tastes had been said to have been un­usu­al, was this her in­flu­ence, was it Mil­li­cent seep­ing through this oth­er wom­an?

Barn­aby, what is it?  Didn’t you—didn’t you like it?

He felt her stiff­en in his arms and shoved the hor­rid thought aside.  This was a new wife, a new life.  He had to let the past go, but re­al­ized it would be a great deal hard­er than he’d ev­er imag­ined.

Lift­ing her head, he kissed her ten­der­ly.  You did noth­ing wrong.

She took his gen­tle kiss, but had not closed her eyes.  In sec­onds she was sit­ting up and look­ing at him, a deep crease be­tween her brows. 

There are a few things you need to know about me, about the fu­ture.

He clenched his jaw, not sure he want­ed to hear any of her tales, afraid he’d be­lieve her, and afraid he wouldn’t.

Go on, he made him­self say.

In my time, sex, love and re­la­tion­ships are very dif­fer­ent.  What I mean to say is...  She shook her head, flus­tered with frus­tra­tion.  Sex isn’t taboo.  It’s spo­ken of, open­ly, with­out any cen­sure.  There are doc­tors, stud­ies, ar­ti­cles, all sorts of things read­ily avail­able to help you find ways to bet­ter please your mate.  Now, mind you, I wasn’t over­ly sex­ual­ly ac­tive, but I know about things you would think a la­dy, a wom­an of a cer­tain rank wouldn’t.  She looked to him, hope shin­ing in her eyes.  Do you un­der­stand?

He lift­ed his hand and sift­ed her long tress­es be­tween his fin­gers.  What things?

Her skin flushed pink from tip to toe, and he loved her all the more for it. 

She picked at a loose thread in the cov­er­ings, not meet­ing his eyes.  Well, what I just did, for one.  And I know there are, well, a lot of dif­fer­ent po­si­tions.

He lift­ed her chin to look in­to her eyes.  I’m sor­ry I made you un­com­fort­able.

She clasped his wrist, her eyes over­ly bright.  You didn’t.  I just didn’t want you to think I was—that I was—I’ve nev­er done that be­fore.

He slid his hand be­hind her neck and grinned.  You could have fooled me.

Her mouth fell open with a squeak of false out­rage and she swat­ted him right be­fore she fell on him and kissed him hard and long.

He was be­gin­ning to think he was prob­ably the luck­iest man alive.

Un­til some days lat­er when Mil­li­cent’s broth­er came to call.

 

 

 

 

Door­way To His Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Door­way­To­His­Heart_w4402

Chapter Ten

 

Ed­ward ar­rived, thor­ough­ly ru­in­ing what was to have been an­oth­er per­fect day.  Barn­aby had thought about noth­ing but the long lus­cious hours he’d spent with his wife the night be­fore and was look­ing for­ward to more of the same. 

As a mat­ter of fact, he’d been steal­ing delectable kiss­es from his beau­ti­ful wife in the par­lor, when Wilkins ap­peared with the news of their vis­itor.

I have a broth­er? she whis­pered, a faint pan­ic in her voice.

Yes, dar­ling.  You do. 

He felt buoyed by her dis­may at the news.  The ques­tion, so guile­less­ly asked, strength­ened the ar­gu­ment that she did in­deed be­lieve she was Emi­ly and not Mil­li­cent. 

And yet over the glo­ri­ous days they’d shared, ev­ery so of­ten, she would move a cer­tain way, or sit in a cer­tain chair that re­mind­ed him so much of the old Mil­li­cent, that his fear that this was some new trick would resur­face to tor­ture him anew. 

His doubts were like a pen­du­lum swing­ing back and forth, and with the ar­rival of her broth­er, he couldn’t ig­nore the sense of fore­bod­ing.  Many times the de­testable lit­tle man had as­sist­ed her in her ne­far­ious schemes, and was like­ly here to work some new web of de­ceit with his wife.  Or rather, with the wom­an she was be­fore.

But was she tru­ly changed?  Was she Emi­ly, a wom­an from the fu­ture, or mere­ly imag­ined she was?  Or was she Mil­li­cent, the con­niv­ing wom­an he’d mar­ried?  Could they have been set­ting the stage for some new hor­ren­dous play at his ex­pense?  The on­ly facts he had were that the body was his wife’s and that he loved the wom­an in­side and out, who­ev­er she was or claimed to be.

I came as soon as I heard the news, his broth­er-​in-​law said, his face flushed with his ea­ger­ness.

What news was that, Ed­ward? he asked.

Why, that Mil­li­cent is re­cov­ered, of course.  He trot­ted across the room and took her hands in his.  I can­not tell you how re­lieved I am you are well, dear sis­ter.

Um, yes, well thank you, she said, strug­gling to ex­tract her hands from his.

Barn­aby stud­ied this in­tro­duc­tion, gaug­ing her re­ac­tion, hop­ing and pray­ing it would set his mind at ease.    

She has been well for some time, he in­ter­ject­ed.

Yes, well, I on­ly learned of it, the man said, as he con­tin­ued to slob­ber over her fin­gers

Emi­ly or Mil­li­cent, he’d still not de­cid­ed what to call her, cast Barn­aby a per­turbed look, and a grin stole over his lips with a silent sigh of re­lief.  She tru­ly did not rec­og­nize her broth­er.

Glar­ing down at the top of Ed­ward’s bald head, she said How nice of you to come for a vis­it.  I’m sor­ry I didn’t send word.

She fi­nal­ly suc­ceed­ed in ex­tract­ing her hands from his.  Her lips pulled at the cor­ners in a bla­tant­ly false smile when Ed­ward lift­ed his head.

Her broth­er gave her an odd look, then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and said, Oh, think noth­ing of it, my dear.  You can­not imag­ine how dis­tressed I was at the news of your ill health.

She ex­tract­ed her hand and moved to stand be­side Barn­aby, her hand slip­ping in­side his.  Well, we’re hap­py to have you.  Will you be stay­ing for din­ner?

Ed­ward shot Barn­aby a glance, know­ing he was not wel­come.  The pair of them usu­al­ly went off some­where to hatch their new plans for their lat­est ren­dezvous with oth­ers of their ilk.  His wife’s un­usu­al re­ac­tion had thrown the old boy for a mo­ment.  But on­ly a mo­ment.

Ac­tu­al­ly, I came to see if you’d like to go on an out­ing, Ed­ward said.

Oh, well, that’s very kind of you, but I have oth­er plans.  Per­haps an­oth­er time.

But your friends miss you.  He went on to name all the play­ers, em­pha­siz­ing one in par­tic­ular.  For Barn­aby’s ears, no doubt.  Sir Fran­cis Ax­ley, among them.  There’s to be a par­ty in his hon­or with his re­turn from Italy.  They all wish to see you, my dear.

Barn­aby watched her face as he rat­tled off the names of those not at La­dy Whit­ley’s ball, she seemed in­tent on try­ing to be po­lite, but at the men­tion of her old lover, he had his an­swer. 

All col­or had drained from her face, and she turned anx­ious eyes to him.  She knew the name, it was writ­ten quite clear­ly on her face.

His jaw clenched.  I wouldn’t dream of keep­ing your from your friends.  He couldn’t con­tain the ven­om in his voice.  She had played him false again.  Killing the bud­ding hope that he might have the on­ly thing he’d ev­er want­ed from her or any wom­an—love and de­vo­tion.

Her brow fur­rowed deeply as she turned to her broth­er.  Ed­ward, would you ex­cuse us for a mo­ment.  I need to speak with Barn­aby a minute, she said, her voice quiv­er­ing, but Barn­aby would not be fooled again.

With a bow and a know­ing grin, her broth­er quit the room.

You still think I’m her, she said flat­ly.

You are her.  You have al­ways been her.  I will ad­mit, you had al­most con­vinced me that you’d lost your mem­ory and had tak­en on this new per­sona, but no more.  Your game is done, Mil­li­cent.  I hope you got what you want­ed, he bit out, and turned his back to her and stared out the win­dow, wish­ing with all his heart her in­sane sto­ry had been true.  But she’d known the name of her lover.  His re­turn from the con­ti­nent struck her quite sound­ly.

Af­ter last night—this morn­ing, all week, I thought you be­lieved me, when all this time you were on­ly play­ing along with your de­ceit­ful wife, wait­ing to see if it was a lie, some new scheme.  You nev­er once be­lieved me, be­lieved I’m Emi­ly, she said, her voice tight with tears.  I hope you got what you want­ed, Barn­aby.

With the re­sound­ing slam of the door, his body jerked.  No, I did not, he mut­tered.  He’d got­ten so much more, and yet for on­ly a sin­gle fleet­ing mo­ment.

He cut through the join­ing doors to his study, avoid­ing the hall, not want­ing to see or hear ei­ther of them.  He would find a way to get past this, past her treach­ery, but his heart would nev­er ful­ly re­cov­er.  Not this time.  She’d stolen it com­plete­ly with her sil­ly sto­ries of life in her time, her moth­er­ly de­vo­tion to Michelle—her fevered re­spons­es to his touch.

No, he would nev­er be the same again.

A scuf­fling and ar­gu­ing seeped be­neath this door, and he turned away, look­ing for so­lace out the win­dow.

****

Emi­ly hur­ried across the hall, strug­gling to hold back her sobs.  She’d trust­ed him, loved him, when all along he was on­ly hu­mor­ing her, wait­ing for the next Mil­li­cent trick. 

God, why did you send me here?

As she crossed to the stairs, Mil­li­cent’s broth­er snatched her by the arm.  Come with me, he whis­pered harsh­ly.

She cupped her aching fore­head and turned a scowl on the man.  Not now, Ed­ward.  I’m not feel­ing well.

She start­ed to turn away, but he pulled her to­ward the front door.  This will make you feel bet­ter.

I don’t want to go out­side.  I’ve al­ready told you I’m not in­ter­est­ed in an out­ing.

But the ir­ri­tat­ing lit­tle man wouldn’t lis­ten and dragged her across the hall.

I just want to go lie down.  Thank you for your con­cern, but—

We must hur­ry be­fore he no­tices.  He pulled her to­ward the door.

Be­fore who no­tices?  What are you talk­ing about?  Where are you tak­ing me?

To Fran­cis, he hissed.

She jerked to a halt.  I haven’t the least bit of in­ter­est in see­ing that man.  Now let me go!

He pulled on her arm again, with a good deal of strength, and in a flash she was out­side and near­ing his car­riage.

Stop be­ing dif­fi­cult, Mil­li­cent, and come along. 

Dif­fi­cult?  I’ll show you dif­fi­cult, buster, she growled, fu­ri­ous with her­self, with Barn­aby, with her en­tire sit­ua­tion.  Ed­ward would be the first to feel the brunt of it all. 

But with her blast­ed skirts and al­ready be­ing off bal­ance with Ed­ward tug­ging her down the steps, she top­pled in­to the car­riage with his fi­nal jerk and land­ed hard on the floor with a very loud un­la­dy­like curse.

****

Barn­aby watched as his wife top­pled in­to Ed­ward’s car­riage head­first.  With her feet kick­ing and sev­er­al shouts the door was slammed closed and the driv­er whipped the hors­es in­to ac­tion.

What in bloody hell?  He tore out of his study and out the front door in pur­suit.  Lies or no, she was still his wife, and she’d not left will­ing­ly, it seemed.

He shout­ed for a horse as he watched the car­riage ram­ble down the lane when the car­riage door sud­den­ly flew open and out came his wife div­ing head­long in­to the flowerbed along­side the drive.  He was half way to her when the coach came to a stop and Ed­ward leapt out.

She had just got­ten to her feet when her broth­er reached her.  The foul words com­ing out of her mouth drew Barn­aby to a dead stop.  He wouldn’t have thought Mil­li­cent or any la­dy would even know such lan­guage much less use it.  Then she swung her fist and land­ed such a fac­er on Ed­ward that it put him on his back. 

Stand­ing over him, she shout­ed, You are the worst ex­cuse for a hu­man be­ing I have ev­er known!  Don’t you ev­er step foot on this prop­er­ty again!

Now, Mil­li­cent, love, Ax­ley said with a chuck­le as he de­scend­ed from the car­riage.  Don’t be so hard on the fel­low.  He was on­ly try­ing to get you in­to the car­riage to—

Don’t you dare speak to me!  You—you—  With a growl she lift­ed her knee and land­ed a blow that sent the man to the ground in a writhing mass of pain. 

Barn­aby winced. 

That was for Mil­li­cent!  She may have been a bitch, but you dumped and ran, you lousy sack of shit!  And if you even think of com­ing near me or my fam­ily again, I’ll shoot you!

Good Lord, Barn­aby mut­tered.  How could he have ig­nored the most im­por­tant de­tails?  How could he have let his damnable fears steer his be­liefs in so dras­ti­cal­ly the wrong di­rec­tion?

Mil­li­cent could not sew or play the pi­anoforte.  Hid­ing such tal­ents would’ve gained her noth­ing.  Nor could she swim.  She was in­deed ter­ri­fied of the wa­ter, and yet the scar up­on her breast was there.  Her sto­ry, re­gard­less of how fan­tas­tic it seemed, was true! 

She spun around, tossed her head back, her long fair locks glint­ing in the sun­shine, and marched to­ward the house.  With­out a glance at Barn­aby, she stormed past and called out to the sta­ble mas­ter. 

Mr. Chan­dler, there is riffraff on the drive.  Please see to it that it is re­moved im­me­di­ate­ly and feel free to use what­ev­er force is nec­es­sary.  Then she sailed through the front door leav­ing Barn­aby stand­ing in the road with a sil­ly grin on his face. 

Emi­ly had come home.

****

Sit­ting in a chair by the fire in her room, Emi­ly stared blankly at the flames.  Where would she go now?  If Barn­aby didn’t want her, didn’t be­lieve her, what was the use in stay­ing?

Michelle. 

She couldn’t leave her be­hind and she couldn’t take her away from her fa­ther.  With a snif­fle, she swiped away the er­rant tear.  She would stay, if Barn­aby al­lowed it.  At least she would have Michelle.  She could avoid him, she sup­posed.  He wasn’t go­ing to pre­tend any longer any­way.  He want­ed noth­ing to do with her now.

She’d trust­ed him, loved him, when all along he’d on­ly been hu­mor­ing her, wait­ing for Mil­li­cent to show her hand. 

God, why did you send me here? she asked again, but re­ceived no an­swer.

The con­nect­ing door to Barn­aby’s room opened.  She lift­ed her head, not quite sure what to ex­pect, but turned away at the sight of him in his breech­es and un­done shirt.  He was too hand­some by far, and it killed her to see him this way.  It made her re­mem­ber too well, her hands on his body, the feel of him pressed against her, the pound­ing of her heart as he brought her to the high­est lev­els of plea­sure she’d ev­er known. 

She looked in­to the flames, and rest­ed her head against the back of the chair, de­feat­ed.  So what’s it to be, Barn­aby?  An asy­lum for your crazy wife, or are you go­ing to just send me away where no one will find me?  Blan­don, per­haps?

I came to apol­ogize.

She snapped her head to the side to look at him, du­el­ing with the hope ris­ing in her chest.

I want­ed to be­lieve you, but it seemed so im­pos­si­ble.  Yet, in al­most ev­ery way you are not her, ex­cept your face and body.  The scar above your breast proves you are her, and yet, you glow when you laugh, and you laugh of­ten.  You thank the ser­vants for their work, you stroll through the gar­dens and see beau­ty where you’d nev­er seen beau­ty be­fore.

He pulled in a deep breath, his gaze warm.  And when you touch me, my body, my very soul is aflame for you.  I nev­er felt that way with her.  Even if you were her—changed be­cause of your ill­ness, I would not—could not feel this way about her. 

He fell to his knees at her feet.  There are a mil­lion oth­er things, but I re­fused to see them.  I can’t be­gin to imag­ine how or why you were brought here, I on­ly know that I am thank­ful.  For­give me for jump­ing on the last shred of doubt still in my mind.  See­ing you rec­og­nize Ax­ley’s name when Ed­ward men­tioned him—  He dropped his head, rest­ing his fore­head against her knee.  I am sor­ry.  So very sor­ry, I can­not say it enough.

She had a di­ary, she said, reach­ing for his head, the temp­ta­tion to touch the dark locks too much to re­sist.  I found it while I was re­cov­er­ing.  It helped me learn quite a bit, but it had some things in it that I didn’t want you or Michelle to ev­er dis­cov­er.  They were in the past, they’d died with Mil­li­cent, and I want­ed them to stay that way, so I burned it.

He rolled his head to the side and held her hand to his cheek then kissed her palm.  Can you ev­er for­give me for doubt­ing you?

She smiled soft­ly.  I sup­pose, if you’d told me the same sto­ry, I wouldn’t have be­lieved you ei­ther.

I love you, Emi­ly, he whis­pered against her skin.

Tears slipped from her eyes at his con­fes­sion.  And I love you, but I’m not Emi­ly.

He lift­ed his head, a con­fused frown up­on his face.

I’m not Mil­li­cent ei­ther.  I’m a com­bi­na­tion of the two.  To­day showed me that.  I can’t ig­nore her life, her past, any­more than I can ig­nore my own.

He grinned and slipped his hands be­neath her, lift­ing her from the chair in­to his arms. 

Then we shall have to find you a new name, my love.  He strolled to­ward his room as her arms wrapped around his neck, her head rest­ing on his shoul­der.

Aren’t you afraid ev­ery­one will think we’ve both lost our minds?

I don’t par­tic­ular­ly care what ev­ery­one else thinks, he said, kiss­ing her fore­head.

She gig­gled and kissed him be­hind the ear.  This from the man who fussed at me about pro­pri­ety bare­ly two weeks ago.

He laid her on his bed and stretched out be­side her.  Bathing in plain sight isn’t the same thing.  He un­did the ties of her robe and laid it open as if open­ing a gift.  I don’t wish for ev­ery farmer or ser­vant to see my wife’s beau­ti­ful body.  He leaned down and suck­led her breast through the thin shift.

I had no idea you were so pos­ses­sive, she said breath­less­ly.

You are mine, wife.  And I don’t in­tend to ev­er share you.

She lift­ed his head and kissed him deeply.  I love you Barn­aby.  Me, this wom­an I’ve be­come.  Do you un­der­stand?

I do, and I love you.  He kissed her long and ten­der­ly.  But I can­not go around call­ing you wife.  You must choose a new name.

What about a nick­name?  That won’t seem as odd to peo­ple.

And what would that be, love?  He paused to re­move his shirt and lift her shift over her head.  Lord, you’re beau­ti­ful.

You act as if you’ve nev­er seen me be­fore.

As you said, he whis­pered be­tween nib­bles and licks at her lips.  You are not the same wom­an I wed, nor are you the same wom­an who ap­peared in my life but two months ago.

Mmm, you know I have a ter­ri­ble time think­ing when you do that, she said, as he nib­bled at her ear.

That’s the idea, he said with a chuck­le.

You’re turn­ing in­to a tease, Barn­aby.  Con­rad is rub­bing off on you.

He lift­ed his head and looked her in the eye.  Con­rad is a rogue.  There is a vast dif­fer­ence be­tween us.

She smiled.  Jeal­ous?

Yes, he said with a smile.  He makes you laugh.

She curled in­to his body with a con­tent­ed sigh.  But you make me hap­py.

He kissed her soft­ly, his hands glid­ing over her body.

Mmm, oh wait, she said, pulling back.  I know.  Why not call me Mil­lie?

He scowled down at her, but his eyes were twin­kling.  That is Con­rad’s name for you, if I re­call.

But it’s per­fect.  It’s a nick­name that will work for ei­ther name.  Mil­li­cent or Emi­ly.  Don’t you see?

He smiled and nipped at her lips.  I’m on­ly teas­ing, love.  I was jeal­ous in that I couldn’t call you Mil­lie with­out you think­ing I was try­ing to mim­ic that rogue.

You sound as if there was ac­tu­al­ly a con­test, and I was the prize.

Mmm, the spoils of war, he said with a low sen­su­ous growl as he nuz­zled her neck.

I like be­ing spoiled, she said with a gig­gle, and in­cred­ibly hap­py.

I like the look of hap­pi­ness on you…and me, he said, and kissed her deeply.

Barn­aby?

Hmm?  His voice was muf­fled against her skin at the side of her neck. 

How do you feel about more chil­dren?

He lift­ed his head, smil­ing.  The ques­tion is, how do you feel?

I think they’re won­der­ful.

He chuck­led and re­sumed his ten­der tor­ture.  Then why did you ask?

Well, there are ways to not get preg­nant, so I want­ed to make sure you want­ed more.

Mmm, I do like the sound of more.

She play­ful­ly slapped his shoul­der.  You are a tease.

Who’s teas­ing?

With a hearty laugh, she lost her­self in his arms, and vowed to love and live her new life to its fullest, fill­ing it with new friends and a house full of chil­dren.  It was so very pre­cious, and you nev­er knew how long you had.

Af­ter all, she had to make sure there was a gen­er­ation in the twen­ty-​first cen­tu­ry who opened the house to the pub­lic, so it would hap­pen all over again.

 

Door­way To His Heart

About the au­thor…

 

Jo cur­rent­ly re­sides in North Car­oli­na with her pa­tient and sup­port­ive fam­ily while she jug­gles her writ­ing ca­reer and her po­si­tion as a pro­gram­mer an­alyst. In her ear­ly years, she wrote folk songs, po­et­ry, and an oc­ca­sion­al short sto­ry or two, but nev­er dreamed of writ­ing a book. She didn't even like to read! But one fate­ful day, she picked up a ro­mance nov­el and found her­self hooked. Not on­ly did she dis­cov­er the joy of read­ing, but the joy of writ­ing books. These days, if she isn't tap­ping away at her com­put­er on a sto­ry of her own, she has her nose buried in the lat­est ro­mance nov­el hot off the press­es, and is en­joy­ing ev­ery minute of it.

 

 

Vis­it Jo’s web­site at www.jo­bar­rett.net

Door­way To His Heart

He stopped a breath away from her lips, his gaze pinned to hers, and de­cid­ed that she would have to make the fi­nal move. 

She leaned clos­er as he held his ground. He felt her un­even breath against his lips.  She swayed back a lit­tle, and for a mo­ment he thought she would turn away, then her mouth pressed against his.  The sub­tle trem­bling of her lips, the way she slid her arms ten­ta­tive­ly around his neck, spoke more of her feel­ings than any words ev­er could. 

She was afraid of her new life, for that is what it was, like a child learn­ing to walk.  He owed her noth­ing for the pain she’d caused him over the years, but he could not turn his back on her.  He’d loved her once, or thought he had.  Per­haps he still did.  And yet he sensed this was some­thing dif­fer­ent, a new love, one just be­gin­ning to grow in his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him as he deep­ened the kiss.  On a moan, her body fold­ed in­to his, her del­icate curves press­ing against him.  Her fin­gers slid in­to the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a growl of pure need from deep in his throat. He’d been with­out a wom­an for so very long.  Years of celiba­cy had tak­en its toll. Celiba­cy that she de­mand­ed, for she knew he would nev­er take a mis­tress, and she would not have him in her bed.