Unveiling Love (6 page)

The fellow nodded and left the room.

Barrington heard the front door close. He sank into his chair and drew the rattle out of his pocket. He shook it, listening to the tinkles that sounded like flapping angel wings. He wondered how different things would be if he or God had chosen to be at Mayfair with Amora.

Amora sat at her vanity pulling curl papers from her hair. Four weeks of doing nothing but eating warm porridge and milk may have strengthened her limbs but did nothing for her restless mind.
 

Since that horrid night, Barrington sat with her every day, bringing her the milk, reading her Shakespeare and bits of case law.
 

Not once did he mention the miscarriage. Not once did he accuse or condemn her.
 

He should yell or prepare his summation assigning guilt.
 

She lost their child. How much worse could his charges be than the ones repeating in her head?
 

Pretending nothing was wrong was her suit, not his. Offering her kindness and sad looks couldn't change anything. Her eyes stung but they were long dried of tears. Keeping the babe safe in her bosom was her only job and she failed. Why did she let horrid Cynthia work her into a frenzy? Why did Amora believe she could walk a block in the dark without her nightmares chasing her?

She dropped her head into her hands and pushed at her sorry temples, trying to force the memories from her brain. But they were with her. Always would be.

Maybe she should just tell Barrington of her
disappearance
as Cynthia put it.
 

If she'd blurted it out after all these years, what would Barrington say?
 

Could he understand the terror of being dragged from Papa's orchard? No, he'd think her foolish for painting so far from Tomàs Manor, away from her mother's watchful eye.

And if he'd known, the shame would've forced him to abandon Amora, never marrying her. Maybe it would have been best if they never wed. It had to be better than continually disappointing him.
 

Than losing his child.

Her heart hung low. Those dry eyes sprung a new droplet. The truth would send him to "willing arms". Marriage wouldn't prevent it. A difficult wife, one with lies, would give him ample excuse.

She rubbed her sleeves. Her skin suddenly chilled thinking of Cynthia in Barrington's arms, bearing him a babe. No. The cold truth had to remain a secret.

A knock echoed from outside her bedchamber.
 

Her breath caught. Barrington? She straightened and tugged the remaining papers from her tresses. "Come in."

The door opened. It was only Mrs. Gretling.

Relief and disappointment battled within Amora's lungs. Relief won.

Tartan skirts flapping, her housekeeper brought a basket of linens and snowy chemises to the closet and began moving one muted frock and then another. "Mrs. Norton, it's so good to see ye up."
 

"I thought it about time to move about. Next, I'll try being useful." She bit her lip. No need to affirm her sad state.

Mrs. Gretling traipsed closer and offered one of her I-pity-you looks with her scrunched up sherry eyes. "It's Thursday. Would you like to go with me to the hospital?"

"What?" Her pulse pounded as visions of a high table and tight leather straps crossed her mind's eye. She lowered her shaking hands to her lap. "I don't…"

One silvery eyebrow rose higher on her abigail's long face. "I meant the Foundling Hospital, ma'am. You usually go with me."

Oh, the abandoned children, the poor orphans. Amora blinked a few times and waited for her pulse to return to normal, whatever normal was. "I can't see a precious babe someone gave away." She shook her head. "I'm not ready."

"Maybe next week." She set down the basket and wiped her hands on her thick apron before fluffing Amora's spiraling locks. "Hurry, you can have breakfast with the master."

Stunned, she clasped Mrs. Gretling's hands to stop her primping. "Mr. Norton's not at court?"
 

"No, he's been having his breakfast here most days.
 

Fishing a ribbon through Amora's tresses, she pinned up the chignon. "I think he liked the pattern you two set before. Oh, listen to me run on. Go see him."

Mrs. Gretling took up her empty basket, then shuffled back through the doorway. "He's devoted to you, you know."

The door closed, leaving Amora even more confused. Barrington kept at their routine, even with no baby?

No, there had to be another reason. Maybe she should find out. After smoothing her dark gray, almost black muslin bodice, she took step after step until she crept to the other side of her door.
 

With a glance, she gaped at the stairs leading below to the first floor and then the one to the upper levels and attic.

What would he say when he saw her out of her bedchamber? Would he measure his words and offer a dutiful kiss on the forehead, one meant for his poor sick wife? What if he were just waiting for her to be strong enough to tell her he didn't, couldn't love her anymore?
 

The day he discovered she carried his child, he canceled all his appointments and had James take them for a long carriage ride. Barrington chased away her nausea by feeding her sweet ice from Gunter's. He'd kissed her between spoonfuls of the lemony goodness.
 

No, nothing compared to when he was truly happy with her. Pity, those moments were rare.

She clamped her fingers onto the rail then paced up the treads. She'd rather go to the attic and imagine she'd climbed Papa's oak. There she could pretend her mind was well, her marriage whole.
 

The door to the large space creaked open and exposed a room filled with portmanteaus and old furnishings. Dust filled the air, but no other place in the house had better windows. The leaded panes let in London's sun. When it showered, a rainbow became visible and the glass cast orange and blue hues on the walls. Color.

She stepped deeper inside and saw her crimson trunk. With a little bit of grunting, she tugged it closer to the window. Her wardrobe before their marriage was stashed in the big leather box.
 

Barrington had the top mantua-maker on Bond Street design her matronly gowns in "becoming" colors, heavily textured fabrics for his fingers. He gave Amora little say, calling them presents. If she'd spoken up and expressed her displeasure, he may have listened. Maybe. Maybe not.
 

Well, since she wasn't going to get any bigger any time soon, she wouldn't need to purchase new silks of gold or woolens of sage.

A moan slipped from her throat. Loss swept in again and filled her vacant insides. No baby.
 

Why did his god hate her so much?
 

Hadn't she suffered enough?
 

She eased onto the windowsill and coddled her empty middle, rubbing her palms repeatedly over the sad muslin fabric.

A diversion. That's what she needed. No more thinking about what couldn't be changed. Opening the trunk, she sunk her hands into an emerald gown and a garnet shawl. She remembered music, dancing with Papa wrapped in these treasures. Colors. She missed seeing them. Painting was once like breathing.

Her knuckles ached a little. She looked down. Her fingers had clenched as if she played Papa's pianoforte.

A duet of Haydn's music with her father always made her smile. One-two-three, one-two-three. Oh, she missed his music most of all. Papa would stick in an extra chord in the refrain, something that only she would catch. Their private joke. Others thought it original to the tune. Thinking of him, she felt lighter, found herself humming.
 

Digging deeper, she found a walking dress of dark blue, a bonnet with bright puce ribbon. Nothing pale or dull in this box. Mother bought many gowns to make amends for not believing Amora and for every unkindness she'd rendered.
 

Liar.
 

Harlot.
 

Sorry.
 

Forgive me.

Forgiving her mother was a hopeless gesture for Amora. A sigh blasted out. What was left if you couldn't remember the past without anger, and now you hated the present?

She took her fisted hand and punched deeper into the box, down to her old painting smock. The red and bronze stains. She hadn't had a chance to sponge them. An argument with her grieving mother had sent Amora running to the orchard with just paint, a canvas, and an easel. That afternoon, the sun warmed the thick heather grasses as her garnet skirts danced at her feet. Then a hit from behind and blackness.
 

Her nightmares tried to restore her missing memories of what happened next. Maybe she should just give in and remember the monster in the dark. Shaking, she fisted her hands. "Nothing to do with you."

She covered her mouth and thought of the one person who always believed in her. Papa. His love was constant. He'd have chased her nightmares away, and wouldn't think her weak or changed because of it.
 

He would've rescued her.

Swallowing, she peered again into the trunk. Her fingers landed on an old leather case. A faint scent of tart turpentine pushed out. Her old paint set. Mother must've stuck it in here.
 

Were the brushes inside?

For the first time in years, the urge to create gripped her spirit. Her thumb and palm burned where a pallet should be.
 

Barrington ran into the room. "There you are!"
 

Heart slammed against her ribs as if she'd been caught doing something naughty. She lifted from the box and dropped the lid.
 

"I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted…" He sucked in a deep breath as if he'd been chasing a villain. His face glowed brick red, almost fevered.
 

Was he sick? "Barrington, has something happened?"

He cleared his throat and came closer. "I just had to see you."
 

Marching past her, he headed straight to the window. His palms went over the glazing and the old latch. "It hasn't opened in years."
 

A swish of air released from his nostrils as he ran a hand over his lapel.

"Are you well, Barrington? You seem disturbed."

He pivoted, stepped back to her and pulled her into his arms.
 

She went stiffly. Her body wedged against him, as warm as a wooden plank.

"Something the vicar said made me very concerned, but it's nonsense. You'd come to me if you were troubled. No matter how angry you are, you know you can confide in me."

His arms held her tight against his charcoal waistcoat. "I know you feel sometimes as if I don't love you enough. Yes, things are different. But we haven't drifted so far apart."

She pushed at his shoulders, but he wouldn't let her go. Instead he stroked her back, caressed her curves with his big hands.
 

They'd shared a bed almost every night. Of course he knew how to make her melt into him. Did he still want her, even with no baby?

"You can tell me anything, Amora. There's nothing, we can't face together."

"Anyth--"

His mouth was on hers before she could say more. Fingers on her waist tickled, cajoled. Others rummaged her curls, easing the strain in her neck.
 

If the truth came out, would he desire her then? No, he wouldn't. She gave his waist a shove. "No. Barrington."

"Please, Amora. Just take my love. I'll make it enough. This time I will."
 

His deep voice sounded as if he'd finished a court argument. He lifted her chin and took her mouth again. Yet, his reasoning was merely passion. Would it be sufficient?

She could make her arms willing, until she figured things out. It wasn't hard when Barrington was sweet and kissed her as if he needed to sample the air trapped in her lungs.

She clasped her palms on his lapels ruining his perfect cravat. Clinging to him, she hoped to feel his heart. This could be one of the last times she'd know its heavy beat. He'd want nothing to do with her when Cynthia made good on her threat.

Barrington kissed her more deeply. His heart felt ragged and bruised. When Mrs. Gretling said Amora had gone to the attic, all he could think about was the vicar's stupid warning. An image of her jumping headlong from the high window filled him.

Daft vicar. At least the thought of losing Amora shook Barrington from his fog. He flew up the stairs, as if he had wings.

God might be busy again, so it must be Barrington's responsibility alone to protect his wife. He'd ignored earlier signs of her distress and thought her unease was simply hesitation to attend the party. God gave warnings, but it was up to Barrington to act upon them.

Oh, she was so soft, so perfectly curved. Even with all her flaws, no one made him this crazed, made this man of logic lose all reason. He scooped her from the floor, higher into his arms. The buttons on the sleeves of her dark gown bore into his muscles. He didn't care. He couldn't get enough of her warm lips shivering beneath his.

If only they could come to an understanding. Maybe if he never stopped kissing her, all would be well.

He'd do better at making her happy. He owed it to her for not being with her when she miscarried, for leaving her to grieve with strangers.
 

His thumbs caught in the back seam of her gown. A desire to shelter her, to prove his new commitment, made him tug at the muslin.

"Barrington." She pushed at his shoulders. "I'm not ready."

Oh, that lack of reason. He very well couldn't love her so soon after a miscarriage or take her on the hard floor of the dusty attic. He relented and lowered her until her slippers again touched the ground. "We lost the baby and that broke our hearts, but we must go on. There could be another child, one with your violet eyes. We haven't lost us."