Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) Page 2

  At first Bethlyn was tempted to refuse Mavis’s invitation, but after a few seconds consideration, she decided she wanted a sample of Mrs. Hempstead’s stew and ached to visit Mavis and bask in the warmth of a real family’s love. Casting a quick look in the cottage’s direction to be certain that Miss Grosvenor didn’t watch from the upstairs window, she nodded to Mavis.

  Soon both girls were running down the road to Mavis’s home, and before either was ready, after much giggling and talking and helping Mrs. Hempstead in the kitchen, the hot-seasoned stew was placed before them.

  The meal passed in happy talk, the kitchen bustling with the other members of the Hempstead family. Mr. Hempstead leaned back in his chair and pulled out a pipe and then regaled his brood and Bethlyn with a long forgotten folk song about the life of a fisherman.

  At such times Bethlyn almost believed she was part of the Hempstead family. For years she’d been sneaking away from Miss Grosvenor and partaking of this family’s kindness to her, kindnesses she could never repay. For how did one repay others for friendship which was given freely? The only way she knew was to be friendly in return, and with these people her shyness always disappeared and no one treated her as different. She felt free to indulge in conversation, to say whatever popped into her head without thought of chastisement. The younger children climbed onto her lap and snuggled against her, and more than once she prayed that one day she’d have such little ones to love.

  Everyone settled by the hearth, warmed by the firelight, forgetting that a storm raged through the night. Mavis was telling a story to the younger children, her face bright and beautiful. A surge of envy for her friend coursed through Bethlyn. Would she ever be as pretty as Mavis? She sincerely doubted it. More than once Miss Grosvenor told her that plain people couldn’t rely on looks to get them through life; they must make their fortunes through ingenuity, their minds. And she told Bethlyn she had a fine mind, which led Bethlyn to believe that Miss Grosvenor and her father, as well, did consider her less than attractive.

  A loud rap sounded on the door and was thrown instantly open by a very wet Milly. Her gray hair hung limply about her head and she sneezed in lieu of a greeting before settling her gaze on Bethlyn.

  “I thought I’d find you here, my lady. You better be getting on home. The dragon is breathing fire and more upset than normal.”

  “I’d forgotten the time,” Bethlyn said in alarm and grabbed for her cloak off a wall hook. “Miss Grosvenor will probably make me memorize ten Bible verses for morning.”

  “Then get on with you, miss,” Milly said, ushering her through the door before Bethlyn could bid anyone farewell.

  The two of them ran through the rain. Bethlyn, being the younger and the faster, reached the cottage first. No sooner was she in the doorway than Miss Grosvenor pulled her into the parlor.

  The woman’s hands trembled, an unusual occurrence for the normally composed governess, as she helped Bethlyn off with her thin, wet cloak. She ordered Milly to light a candle and the hearth in the damp room. “You’ll die of a chill, Lady Bethlyn. How often must I warn you to bundle up properly when you go outdoors? Such a wet and cold night as this will no doubt find you ill on the morrow.”

  Bethlyn knew that a chill was the ultimate malady to Miss Grosvenor. Bethlyn guessed it wasn’t so much that the woman cared about her charge’s health, but lived in dread that the earl would dismiss her for negligence. More than once Miss Grosvenor had complained about being forced to take up residence on Hallsands, but she was being paid a more than adequate sum for her services. In that respect, Bethlyn reluctantly credited her father. He did wish her to be well educated.

  When the room glowed with dancing flames and the candle had been lighted, Milly departed. Miss Grosvenor beckoned to Bethlyn to take a seat beside a small, round table while she sat across from her. “I doubt your father would be pleased to learn of your associating with those people. You’ve a position to maintain and I must chide you to remember it. Now more than ever.”

  Bethlyn dutifully mumbled she would remember, but her ears perked up. What did Miss Grosvenor mean by now more than ever?

  Miss Grosvenor settled her spectacles on her nose, and Bethlyn noticed her hand shook. Picking up a book from the table, she withdrew a folded square of paper from it. “As you can undoubtedly see, the seal on the letter is your father’s. I received this missive early today.” She sounded curt, more so than usual. “The earl writes to say that his wife has died.”

  ‘‘I’m quite sorry,” Bethlyn muttered automatically, assuming this was the proper thing to say when one learned that one’s stepmother had passed on.

  “Be that as it may,” Miss Grosvenor continued, not caring for the interruption, “the earl states that he shall send one of his ships for you. Why a man in his position wishes to be involved in commerce is strange to my way of thinking, but the aristocracy’s peculiarities are quite beyond me. However, your stepmother left him part of an American shipping company which was bequeathed to her by her father some years ago. The ship will arrive within the next month and you’re to go home to Woodsley.”

  “Woodsley?” Bethlyn’s mind whirled. Her father wanted her to come home! She nearly leapt from the chair, but Miss Grosvenor’s next comment left her firmly rooted.

  “Your father has arranged a marriage for you with Ian Briston, your stepmother’s son by a former marriage. It appears that your days in the schoolroom have ended. As have mine.”

  Miss Grosvenor rose and folded the letter neatly into fourths before finally tossing the parchment onto the tabletop. “Where will I find a position on this short notice? I ask you that. The earl is unfair, quite unfair to dismiss me in such a fashion. Arranged marriage, indeed! You just turned fourteen and are quite unsuited to become a wife. You’re barely old enough to think for yourself much less take marriage vows seriously. What can the earl be thinking?” She rose from the chair and paced the length of the small parlor.

  Bethlyn glanced up, startled at this odd display of temperament from the cold Miss Grosvenor. “I don’t understand your concern,” Bethlyn feebly remarked, somewhat frightened at this sudden eruption of emotion. ‘‘I’m quite surprised at this news but excited also. I wish to be married and loved, to start my own family. My father loves me and chose the best possible husband for me. I know he did. He did,” Bethlyn finished with emphasis, more to convince herself of that fact than Miss Grosvenor.

  Miss Grosvenor pried Bethlyn from the chair and led her to a wall mirror. She positioned the girl in front of it. “Look into the mirror, my lady. See yourself as others see you. You’re as plump and colorless as a dove. Who else could he marry you off to but a boorish colonial who lives in the wilds and probably knows nothing of manners and a gentlewoman’s feelings? Most men know nothing of a woman’s feelings, her thoughts. They care only for how a woman looks, not a ready and quick mind. Your father is no better. He surrounds himself with only the most lovely things, the most beautiful women. Once your mother was buried and you were gone, he no longer had anything to hide. He could open Woodsley to his friends, entertain in grand style with his beautiful new wife.”

  She caught her breath, her voice filled with heated emotion. “I was there long enough to realize that the earl adores perfection. He adored your stepmother, and from what I learned from household gossip, he stayed away from home when your mother was alive, hated to look at her, because she was plain and much too plump for his tastes. He prefers stunning women, women without a thought in their pretty heads. Not someone like you or me. Not a homely, spinsterish woman, someone good enough to educate his daughter but unable to catch the eye of a handsome man like the earl.”

  Dropping her hands from Bethlyn’s shoulders, she turned the girl to her. “I doubt he chose a handsome, well-formed man for you, but a man who will dress like a savage and possess the manners of a goat. However, you’re an earl’s daughter and will tolerate unbecoming behavior in your husband because your father chose him. I hope you do me just
ice, Lady Bethlyn, and don’t forget all I have taught you. Put your good sense to use in this marriage, because I believe that is all you shall have once you realize that fairy-tale endings are found only in books. Cling to any children you have, your poetry, and find pleasure in them. No man will give you happiness. In this life a woman without looks must learn to rely on herself.” Miss Grosvenor trembled so hard she nearly fell backward and was forced to lean on the table edge for support.

  Surprisingly, her cruel words didn’t sting Bethlyn. She sensed a deep and bitter pain behind them. Evidently poor Miss Grosvenor fancied herself in love with the earl and knew that love was hopeless. Still, she felt pain and most probably would feel it for the rest of her life. However, Bethlyn was different from Miss Grosvenor. She wouldn’t be forced to love from a distance.

  Bethlyn touched Miss Grosvenor’s arm. “I’m sorry you hurt so much. I won’t be hurt by this man my father has chosen. I intend for him to love me, for me to love him. He’ll give me the family life I want. You must be happy for me.”

  Almost as suddenly as the torrential outpouring of emotion had begun, Miss Grosvenor straightened her spine and said quite primly, “Wash up and study for tomorrow’s lesson. Until the ship arrives, we continue as before.”

  She swiftly left the parlor, leaving Bethlyn alone. A flash of lightning nearly blinded her. In that second she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and saw herself as Miss Grosvenor had. Limp hair framed a full apple-cheeked face, quite pale, and her dark eyes seemed to overpower her features. She thought her nose was too thin, her lips a trifle too thick. Dully, she nodded. Miss Grosvenor was right. She resembled a plain, colorless dove.

  Anxiety washed over her. What if Miss Grosvenor’s predictions proved correct? Then the home life she so desperately craved, the love of one man, would not come to pass.

  “He’ll love me,” she found herself saying. “Ian Briston will love me. I’ll make him love me.”

  She left the parlor and found Milly, who helped her wash. After she’d studied for the morrow’s lesson by the candlelight in her room and Milly tucked her into bed, she grabbed Milly’s hand.

  “Did you hear any of what was said in the parlor?”

  “Aye, I did,” Milly said truthfully. “You mustn’t take Miss Grosvenor seriously. She doesn’t mean the things she told you. She’s no doubt worried about being dismissed.”

  Milly started to turn away, but Bethlyn clung tighter to her hand. “Milly, am I so ugly?”

  A soft smile curved up the edges of Milly’s mouth. “My lady, you’re still young and have a great deal of changing to do before you grow to womanhood. But I tell you that I’ve a good eye and I see that in a few years time, you’ll be a most beautiful lady and your husband will be lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you, Milly.” Bethlyn didn’t know if Milly was really telling her the truth, but she’d never lied to her and so she took comfort in her words. Before Milly blew out the candle, she asked her if Mavis might consider going to Woodsley with her as a lady’s maid. Milly’s delighted laugh echoed through the room.

  “Indeed, my lady, I’ve no doubt she would.”

  After she was left alone in her bed, she watched the play of lightning upon the rain-spotted ceiling. She decided that even if her husband didn’t care for her looks, she’d still have Mavis for companionship and then, one day, she’d have children. Perhaps a husband wasn’t that important. But she did wish for a husband to love her, to have the family life she so achingly craved. As she drifted off to sleep, Bethlyn hoped she’d prove Miss Grosvenor’s less-than-optimistic predictions wrong. She must prove her wrong.

  Her future depended upon it.

  ~

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Two months earlier

  “I suppose I shall be forced to marry the little chit.” This comment was uttered dispassionately, almost in a bored tone of voice.

  Thomas Eversley barely flickered an eyelash at the young man who had just spoken. Though Ian Briston pretended disinterest, Eversley decided that Briston must be quite vexed about the terms of his late mother’s will. It wasn’t every day that one learned such unusual news. Eversley would have given anything for Briston to rant, to rage, to show some sign of displeasure. Briston had just been told that his mother had left part of Briston Shipping to him on the condition that he marry her stepdaughter. Eversley was one of the few men who knew how much Briston detested the Earl of Dunsmoor. Having acted as the earl’s solicitor for the past ten years, Eversley had dealt with young Briston a few times after the death of Briston’s father. He’d found the young man to be cool, unusually cool for one so young, and never betrayed by word or deed what he thought.

  Secretiveness rankled Thomas Eversley a great deal. He never gave his thoughts away, being of the opinion that if one knew another’s thinking, then one had power over that person. At that moment Eversley would have willingly given a year’s pay to see anger flash across Briston’s darkly handsome face and the fury he knew must be concealed behind those cool green eyes. That pleasure was denied him. Thomas contented himself with the knowledge that Ian Briston had been placed in an untenable situation by his own mother. He’d never liked the young man, finding him to be arrogant and too astute for his own good. Evidently Briston took after his boorish colonial father and not his most charming and gracious mother who’d possessed the good sense to place matters of business in his own most capable hands.

  A large part of Eversley’s dislike stemmed from the fact that he felt an upstart like Briston would be wasted on the earl’s daughter. What did such a man know of the aristocracy? Thomas felt that he himself would have fit quite well into such an enchanted world, if not for his low birth. The son of a tradesman, he’d lifted himself to his exalted position at Briston Shipping on his own, with no mother to leave him a company to run. He felt life was unfair, so it was up to him to even things out in the end, and preferably his end would be a bit fatter than the other.

  Eversley leaned back in his chair and calmly folded his arms across his chest. Yes, for the moment, whether the arrogant young pup admitted his true feelings about the will and the arranged marriage, Eversley took delight in knowing the news he’d brought must bother the upstart a great deal.

  “Your mother’s will was quite specific on that score. Either marry the girl as a way of uniting you with your stepfather, the man your mother loved, and claim your share in the company, or forfeit it all. What is it to be?” Eversley fixed Briston with a calm stare which he knew must grate upon the younger man’s nerves.

  Ian Briston grinned a dazzling white smile, seemingly nonplussed by Eversley’s placid demeanor. “I won’t be used as a pawn in this game, Eversley. Tell your mighty employer that for me. I admit I shall have to marry his daughter, but I will do it on my own terms.”

  A small ripple of discomfort slid down Thomas’s back. He didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you plan to do?”

  Briston laughed and hauled his imposing six foot frame from a large chair behind his glossy rosewood desk. He went to stand by the second-story window which overlooked Front Street. The roll of carriage and cart wheels over the cobblestones, the raised voices of the dockworkers as goods were loaded onto ships lining the Delaware River, and the hollow clanging of ships’ bells drifted up to the two men. A shaft of sunlight shone through the window, enveloping Briston in a hazy sunbeam. The green orbs in his face glowed like fiery emeralds.

  Briston stuffed his hands in the pockets of his black trousers, leaning indolently against the window jamb, The simple black frock coat he wore over a matching waistcoat, reaching to the tops of equally dark knee boots, gave him an austere almost foreboding appearance. Eversley felt a long moment of uneasiness when Briston shot him a penetrating look before speaking. “You don’t think that I would tell you, Thomas, now do you. I am entitled to my little secrets, as I’m certain are you.”

  Thomas straightened in his chair. His face flushed. There was no way
Briston could possibly surmise that he’d stolen funds from the London run end of Briston Shipping. Only he and the earl were privy to the books. Nathaniel Talbot, Earl of Dunsmoor, never bothered to check the books, more interested in living the highlife than to be bothered with business. Eversley singlehandedly ran the company in England for Lady Jessica, while her son, Ian Briston, took care of mundane matters in the Colonies. As far as Thomas knew, Briston had never had a chance to see the books. In fact, no one ever saw them but himself. He mustn’t give Briston pause to think anything was amiss here. He needed the money he pilfered.

  How else could he live the luxurious lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to without stealing? Granted, the earl paid him well for legal advice, but not enough to alleviate his itchy palms. Only money could soothe that affliction.

  “I’m certain we all have our secrets, Briston. If you don’t snoop into my private affairs, I promise not to dig into yours.”

  “Agreed,” Briston said and barely concealed his disgust for the solicitor who dressed in the most expensive silks and satins, fabrics which Briston surmised he could barely afford without a hand dipped in the till on occasion.

  “Then you’ll marry the girl?”

  “Ah, Thomas, you sound unsure that I’ll go through with the wedding. I told you I shall. I’m a man of my word.”

  Thomas nodded but didn’t appear completely satisfied. He stood up and arranged his brown periwig and prepared to take his leave. “We sail in two days. I trust you’ll be ready by then.”

  “Have no doubt, Thomas. I eagerly await the ceremony.”

  “Good. Until then.” Thomas left the office.

  Ian went to a small serpentine-fronted Sheraton sideboard behind his desk and opened it to withdraw a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He poured a heaping serving, but instead of drinking it, he lifted the glass and hurled it across the room where it smashed against the wall, The brownish liquid stained the white baseboard and the plush Persian carpet on the floor, but Ian didn’t care. At that moment he wished he had the hateful Earl of Dunsmoor’s neck between his powerful hands. He’d delight in choking the life out of him. However, his mother was the one who’d listed the terms of the will, and if she’d been alive, he’d have gladly twisted her pretty neck also.