Page 33 of Weave me a Rope
“Then I shall not marry. I shall never have legitimate offspring. The marquessate shall go to John and his descendants.”
The marquess narrowed his eyes. “And if I told you the boy is dead, too?”
Spen refused to show any reaction. “Then I daresay some cousin shall eventually inherit.” On his way to a night in the cellars, he had overheard the servants talking. His stepmother had given birth to a daughter.
The marquess leapt to his feet, his fist raised for a blow, then thought better of it. “The cow I married has proved able to bear children,” he pointed out. “Sooner or later, I shall have a legitimate son of my own flesh to replace you. Meanwhile, you remain a prisoner until you obey my will or until you die.”
Or until you die, Spen thought, but did not say. He would never change his mind, and they would see whose will prevailed in the end. Even if the marquess spoke the truth, and Cordelia and John were both dead, he would not give in. The marquess deserved far worse from Spen than simply refusing a marriage the old man planned, but he held the power. For the moment. The only revenge Spen could currently take was to refuse him and to keep refusing him.
Chapter Thirteen
Uncle Josh wasnot happy with Cordelia’s decision, but his attempt to browbeat her into taking the tea ran aground on the shoals of his concern for her blindness. Once they returned to London, he called in doctor after doctor, but they either said to wait and see, or they proposed cupping or some noxious medicine, neither of which Cordelia would allow.
The darkness of both sight and memory oppressed her mind, but the greatest agony was not knowing what had become of Spen.
Two weeks after her fall, the darkness around her lifted a bit. At first, she could see only shadowy shapes, but slowly her sight returned, until six weeks after the fall she was able to move around again without fear of tripping over something unseen. One of the doctors had experienced another case like hers and assured her she could expect more improvement over time.
She hoped so. She still could not see well enough to read easily or to sew. She had tried to write to her friend Margotta, and to Regina, who had married and left London while she was away in the country. But even writing brought back her headache.
Her memory of her time with Spen had not returned. Nor had her courses. And she was finding it hard to keep food down. What she had always heard calledmorning sicknesswas with her all day every day.
She had not yet told her uncle she believed herself to be with child. She could not begin to guess how he would react. They were barely talking. Cordelia knew his anger at Spen and his frustration with her reflected his love. He was shocked and distressed at her injury and wanted to rescue her from the consequences of her own choices. He would have been upset with anyone who got in his way. Even her.
She was frustrated in her turn. If he tried, she was sure he could find where Spen had been taken. Deprived of her usual good health and with limited eyesight, Cordelia had to depend on others to bring her news. Uncle Josh wouldn’t. Aunt Eliza knew nothing and burst into tears if Cordelia questioned her. John wasn’t available—he had been sent to stay with a tutor who was preparing him for school.
Uncle Josh was going to send him to a small school just outside of London—a public school set up to provide a gentleman’s education for the sons of those in trade. John had apparently spent his school life to date alternately hiding from and then fighting with bullies and was delighted at the prospect of a different school experience.
There was Fielder, of course. Cordelia had not seen him since they left Crossings, but she knew Uncle Josh had given him work in the stables. So today, once her stomach was as settled as it got, she was going to evade Aunt Eliza and her maid and go to the stables.
It wasn’t too hard. She had to hold on tightly to the banister as she felt her way downstairs, for her distance vision was still not functioning properly, and she couldn’t judge the depth of each step by sight. Her ears were working well, however, and she stilled each time she heard footsteps or conversation.
She assumed no one came close enough to see her, for she reached the back door unmolested. Out in the sunlight, the world around her was clear. She was able to walk briskly downthe garden path and out of the gate, then across the mews to the stable. The shadows of the stable seemed night-black by contrast. Slowly her eyes adjusted, and she found the head groom and two stable boys staring at her.
“Can I help ye, miss?” asked the head groom.
“I wish to speak with Will Fielder,” Cordelia told him.
But it was all for nothing. Fielder had not heard from anyone in the village and had no idea what had happened to Spen. He dismissed her suggestion he might have friends in the marquess’s townhouse. “Sorry, Miss. I ain’t never been to London. No one I know has.”
She must have shown her distress, though she tried not to, for Fielder said, “If you can tell me where it is, Miss, I’ll walk over and see what I can find out. It’s my half day tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you the address and some money for a hack,” Cordelia promised. “No need to spend the whole of your half-day walking there and back.”
“I’d do it for Lord Spenhurst, Miss,” Fielder insisted. “He is a good man.”
But Cordelia insisted he take the money. “Come to the back door when you are ready to leave, and I’ll make sure it is ready for you, with a note giving the address.”
The following morning, she sent Gracie, her maid, with the purse and note for Fielder. Gracie reported the man had asked her to read him the address three times before putting the note in his pocket along with the purse. It had not occurred to Cordelia that the man couldn’t read, but at least he’d come up with a way to solve the problem.
She wandered her rooms restlessly all afternoon, waiting for him to return, and headed to the stables towards the end of the day, to hear his report. Before she could let herself out of the back door, a footman intercepted her to tell her that her uncle wished to see her in his study.
Cordelia ignored the arm Uncle Josh’s messenger offered and marched back through the house. The footman followed. Was he told to make sure she obeyed? Did her uncle think she was going to run back up to her room and bar herself inside? She was not such a coward.
In the wide hallway that led to the study, the footman managed to pass, open the door, and announce her. “Miss Milton, sir.”
Cordelia entered the room, which was well enough-lit that her sight was clear. She could see who it was unfolding himself awkwardly from one of the chairs that faced the desk from behind which Uncle Josh ruled this house and his business empire.
Fielder nodded, sheepishly. That put paid to any doubt her uncle knew exactly what she had been up to.
