Betrothed: Windemere Hall Trilogy: Book One (Victorian Villains) Page 2

  Branson smiled. This was better than he hoped. “While it is desirable for a woman to have an income of her own when entering marriage, it is not necessary. The value of our union will be in the financial stake I’ll have in your firm. I trust you’ll make the announcement at the next meeting of the shareholders?”

  “The sooner, the better.” Arthur appeared relieved. “The value of our stock continues to plummet; we are in dire need of an injection of capital to keep afloat. I don’t mind telling you, dear boy, these have been trying times.”

  “Then I am glad to be of assistance. I see no reason to delay any longer. Can I be satisfied that Miss Hamilton has accepted my offer?”

  Clara appeared unable to answer without her father’s approbation. She sat like a sphinx, her hands twisting in her lap until the skin was white with tension.

  “She has accepted, Branson. No objection there. We’ve been over it and Clara is in agreement. She’s not likely to find another suitor. You’ve found your best match in each other, I should think, given the respective social marks against you. Wouldn’t you agree, Clara?”

  The tormented girl smiled and nodded. Branson was mildly disgusted with himself for taking advantage of Arthur’s disdain for his daughter—but not enough to prevent him from putting his plan into action. Clara Hamilton deserved what she had coming to her.

  Chapter Two

  “THEN IT is settled,” said Branson. “My advisor, Mr. Schofield, will bring Miss Hamilton in his carriage to Windemere Hall the third Sunday in September. I’ll make the arrangements with the local vicar to perform the ceremony. There is no need for you or my aunt to attend. We will call on you in December when we have returned from our wedding trip if that will suit you.”

  “Fine! That is fine.” Clara’s father had already lost interest in his only daughter’s wedding plans. Arthur had his eye on bigger game. “I propose we toast to your investment in the firm, Branson, and to a long and profitable partnership.”

  Branson crossed the room to Clara. He had it in mind to make a show of gallantry that would convince her of his devotion. He lifted her hand to his lips, a small pale hand that trembled like a bird in his. Branson’s hands were large and brown hands, roughened from toil and riding. He kissed the inside of her wrist lightly and then fixed his cousin with a puzzled stare.

  Her skin was warm and a light sheen beaded her brow. A delicate rosy pink crested the nape of her neck.

  “I hope you will not find it too tedious at Windemere,” he murmured. “There is little to choose from for society. We shall be quite alone.”

  “I don’t m-m-mind a quiet life, sir. You are k-k-kind to ask.”

  His betrothed lapsed into silence. The simplest of phrases scrambled on her tongue and halted at the back of her throat. When the girl tried to force them they came out in an embarrassing staccato burst.

  Clara turned to her father, clearly begging to be excused. Branson could see by the strain in her face that it would be a painfully laborious exchange for both speaker and listener.

  Arthur barked. “Oh, good God, if you can’t manage a simple ‘good-day’ without half choking to death you’d better go. Find your mother. Tell her the good news. And then make arrangements with Tilly to get your frocks in order. The new mistress of Windemere Hall cannot be a drudge. Sadly, my dear, you have not the sense of most young women your age to dress becomingly.”

  Arthur turned away, dismissively.

  Clara jumped awkwardly to her feet and in doing so, her elbow made contact with a beautiful porcelain vase sitting on a small end table.

  The vase rocked and toppled. Branson reached out his arm and caught it just before it smashed to the floor.

  He set it back on the table carefully and turned to Clara who was hovering at his shoulder. She looked about to faint. “Thank you,” she whispered. “The vase is a favourite of my father’s. He would be d-d-devastated to lose it and I have already disappointed him—”

  “What’s that now?” Arthur boomed from across the room where he was pouring drinks. “What are you two whispering about?”

  “I was enquiring about this lovely vase and my cousin was kind enough to answer.”

  “Fair warning, sir, don’t let her near anything precious or fragile at the Hall. She is as clumsy as can be. Her mother is the personification of grace; I can’t think what happened to Clara.”

  “Father!” Edgar protested.

  “What? I’ve never indulged in false flattery and I’m not going to start now.” Arthur handed Branson a tumbler of scotch. “Clara’s the odd duck in the family. Her mother is still considered a great beauty and Edgar is always in demand at dinners and salons for his wit. By contrast, my daughter has difficulty making even the smallest conversation. The gentlemen of our acquaintance quickly tired of trying to coax her out of her shell. Perhaps you’ll have better luck with her, eh, nephew?”

  Branson sipped his scotch and observed his cousin who looked truly miserable. “Perhaps.”

  “Oh come now, Clara! There’s no need for tears. I am only teasing. You may go now. Go, for pity’s sake, before you leave a puddle on the floor.”

  Branson watched her dash from the room like a jackrabbit. From her distress, one would think his cousin had been bullied into accepting his marriage proposal. Though how Arthur could have coerced her was a mystery. Perhaps Clara Hamilton was caught in the same net that he was, a net woven by those who made the rules.

  As the door closed behind her, Clara’s father rudely snorted. “For the sum I paid to send her to that quack, Hargreaves, I expected the ugly duckling to return a swan. The blessed girl stutters as much as ever. Her mother always paid it too much notice. I swear Clara does it to aggravate me.”

  “I don’t remember the affliction when we were children. How long has she been stammering?”

  “It came on at twelve or thirteen. No reason for it. Does it for show in my opinion. Clara was an introverted, nervous adolescent—jumpy, claimed to have nightmares—utter nonsense, of course. And I’m sorry to say my daughter is not beautiful; I expect the speech impediment is her way of getting male attention. I confess you are doing us a great service by taking her off our hands, Branson. She’s a good girl, make no mistake. You’ll have no problem with her. She knows her place and she’s eager to please. Her shyness will work in your favour. She’ll not nag you as a prettier woman might. You may do as you please and she’ll not object. Scared of her own shadow, she is.”

  Clara Hamilton was not far enough out of earshot of the drawing room to avoid hearing her father’s booming assessment of her faults. She was cut to the quick by his words but could not defend herself against them.

  Frightened of her own shadow—no, she was not. Frightened of the shadows that no one else could see?

  Yes. Those were the shadows Clara Hamilton worried about.

  §

  Somerset County – Late September 1867

  THE WHEELS of the carriage rattled down a rarely used forest path to Windemere Hall Chapel, a small parish situated on the estate. Fifty years ago, the chapel was a place of worship for the household and neighbouring gentry.

  “It’s all but abandoned now,” said Mr. Schofield. “Left to ruin. A squat stone and timber building. Rather cheerless place for a wedding, I’d say.”

  Clara appreciated that Mr. Schofield meant well by bringing her down to earth, but she wished he would find something more encouraging to talk about on her wedding day. She was nervous as it was, but she was also keenly anticipating seeing her betrothed again. Branson Hamilton and the sensation of his lips on her wrist had overtaken her thoughts.

  Her husband-to-be was not classically handsome as her brother’s friends were, but he possessed a powerful animal magnetism. Edgar said Branson had no end of female admirers who would be delighted to be in Clara’s shoes. Branson Hamilton was an impressive specimen of masculinity; over six feet tall, well-formed in his physique and known for his brilliance in business and science. He had thick blonde ha
ir and piercing sapphire eyes that darkened to indigo at times. She had watched his eyes change colour over the course of his conversation with her father. He interested her. Her cousin did not behave as other men did. He was not unmannerly ... but his manners were not predictable.

  Clara had given her betrothed plenty of thought in the past week. She might be jumpy as her father claimed, but she was not delusional. Branson could marry any woman he wanted. His inheritance and business acumen had made him a desirable catch. Why had he settled for her? This was not false modesty; Clara knew her failings. Even now, her stomach was in knots thinking about the wedding vow she was expected to recite, praying that she’d manage the words without the infernal stammer.

  She smoothed her gloved hands over her wedding dress, in a sort of daze at the purchase of something so beautiful and extravagant for her alone. Cream lace and glacé silk. Her mother had also ordered a silk walking dress, a day dress of striped alpaca, and one evening dress. Portia Hamilton declared she would not need more as no one would see her buried in the Somerset countryside. However, a riding habit was ordered to make up the deficit. The wedding clothes had been packed in the trunk and sent ahead to Windemere Hall.

  Clara wore a purple velvet mantle and boots of white kid leather over which she had donned galoshes to protect them from the mud. Keeping clear of the mud had become her overriding concern. She desired to present a not-too-discouraging picture to her betrothed upon arrival.

  The road they travelled was terrible. Her escort, Mr. Schofield, hung on to the carriage straps in silence as the road became rougher still, narrowing through the thick wood that marked the beginning of the estate.

  “It won’t be long now.”

  The land was held by September rains, autumnal chills and a bracing westerly wind. Clara was unaccustomed to country cold; the damp penetrated the folds of the mantle. She shivered and buried her hands in her muff but not even the chill of the weather could lessen her excitement as they neared their destination. It had been seven years since she was last at Windemere Hall.

  “What is he like—my cousin?” Clara asked softly. “I know so little about him.”

  Mr. Schofield lifted his brow. “The young man is civil enough when he’s in good humour. He’s well-regarded in the county, less so in London.”

  “I am delighted he has made up his quarrel with my father.”

  “Branson Hamilton is prepared to let bygones be bygones and that is the main thing. If not for this alliance, your father would be in very hot water indeed. It’s a matter of having access to liquid capital and Branson has plenty of that. Say what you will, the fellow knows how to make money.”

  Clara ventured another question, one slightly more sensitive. “Why is Mr. Hamilton doing this? He could put up shares in my father’s business without committing to wedlock.”

  “I expect he admires you, dear girl.” Mr. Schofield attempted a smile. “Young Branson is of an age to be married and the union will salvage your father’s firm. Branson is as desirous to keep the family name out of the mud as your father is.”

  Schofield peered at her curiously. “The more interesting question is why are you marrying Mr. Hamilton? It was a sudden decision.”

  “I want to be of service to my family more than anything, sir. My father is a great man and he’s been worried sick over this business. I have added to his burden.” Clara squeezed each word from her paralytic brain, managing to do so without stuttering. “Though I do find it odd I am returning to Windemere Hall as Mr. Hamilton’s bride. There was such animosity between us.”

  “When one considers that Branson had no part in the conflict between Arthur and his brother, Leonard, it is not so odd. Families have been arranging marriages with one another for centuries in order to protect wealth.”

  “My father’s view is that Branson Reilly wrested the Hamilton wealth from its rightful owners and he was the reason for the conflict between the brothers.”

  “Your father is forgetting his part in the affair.” Schofield craned his neck to face her. “The rift was forged when Leonard married Ida Reilly over your father’s objections. Arthur is a proud man. He insisted his brother was dragging the Hamilton name into the gutter by marrying so far beneath him. Arthur would not yield, not even to attend his only brother’s wedding.”

  Clara’s face flooded with heat, mortified by this revelation of her father’s snobbery. “Was that the reason my uncle left Windemere Hall to his stepson and not to Edgar? Edgar had done nothing wrong and he was my uncle’s blood relation. Windemere Hall was his by right of birth.”

  “Leonard Hamilton disagreed. I cannot comment further as I am bound by client-attorney privilege. However, I can say this: your uncle was deeply grieved by the business. He remarked to me when I drew up the will that the sins of the father were being visited upon the son.”

  Clara started at this ominous remark. “Perhaps Uncle Leonard was referring to my father’s disdain for Branson’s adoption. Father has rather hard opinions on that score.”

  “It was long ago, water under the bridge; I daresay Arthur Hamilton has forgotten all about it. He must have done if he agreed to this wedding.”

  “Perhaps with the death of his brother, my father came to regret his earlier resentment.”

  “I am sure that is the correct answer. An unfortunate misunderstanding that I am sure both parties regret. Much can change in seven years.”

  “I hope Windemere has not changed. The last time I saw it, I was there with my father and mother and Edgar for a shooting party. Branson had come down from Oxford. He had a young lady with him, a very pretty girl, quite young and vivacious. I remember she wore a red silk afternoon dress. I was quite taken with her. I was under the impression she was my cousin’s fiancée.”

  Clara caught a flicker of uneasiness in Mr. Schofield’s face. “What is it, sir? What have I said?”

  “Does your brother remember this girl?”

  “If he does, he hasn’t mentioned it to me.”

  “I see. Well, your memory is playing tricks on you, my dear. I have been with the family for thirty years and Branson Hamilton has never brought a young lady to Windemere.”

  Clara felt heat flood her face for a second time. From the coldness of Schofield’s reply, she had obviously breached a line of confidentiality and offended him.

  “Forgive me, sir. I was only twelve at the time and dazzling young ladies were my idols. Perhaps the lady was a friend of my mother’s and her visit coincided with Branson’s. It is possible I became confused. She had a lovely red velvet jacket and a black bonnet trimmed in red and white. I remember it vividly.”

  Mr. Schofield blinked at her like a lizard. “Allow me to speak plainly. You have had emotional difficulties recently. There are rumours circulating London of a breakdown. Oh come now, there is no need to shake your head. A nervous collapse at a society ball is what I heard. A public display of hysterics.” Mr. Schofield leaned in sympathetically. “Are you quite sure you are fully recovered, Miss Hamilton?”

  It was clear the lawyer did not think so.

  Mortified, Clara turned her gaze to the soft grey fog outside the carriage window. “I am q-q-quite w-w-well, sir. Thank you for you concern.”

  “Of course you are. No harm done. Perfectly excusable given the stress you have been under, the damage to your father’s reputation not the least of it. A bad situation. Very bad.”

  “Father spent a great deal of money on my recovery.” She felt compelled to defend Arthur against an unspoken accusation. “He was forced to take steps.”

  “Ah, steps. Well, I can assure you that it was not a doctor bills that led to your father’s present difficulties. Arthur took on too much expense, too quickly. He has always lived above his means. When one starts dipping into the firm’s capital, the slide into bankruptcy is inexorable. If the shareholders get wind of it, it will not go well for your father. There is talk of prison, my dear. Embezzlement is a serious offence.”

  “But this m
-m-marriage should put things right. Mr. S-S-Schofield—surely it will not come to that!”

  “It most decidedly will come to that without young Hamilton’s injection of capital. Your family will be ruined. So now you know. It is critical you do everything in your power to put a leash on your faulty memory, and refrain from telling tales of young women in red dresses—!”

  The carriage jolted to a stop, abruptly flinging Clara into the seat opposite.

  “Miss Hamilton! Good heavens, what now? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine, only somewhat bruised. What has happened? Why have we stopped?”

  Mr. Schofield struggled to regain his seat and leaned out of the window. “What ho, man! Thomas, did we hit something? We’re all over akimbo in here!”

  “Beg pardon, sir, a blessed tree has come down across the road. The horses were like to kill themselves before I saw it in this fog. There is no way around it, sir.”

  “Can it be moved?” Schofield hollered.

  “Aye, sir, it can be sawed in two and moved but there will be a wait while I attend to it.”

  Schofield swore at the necessity of slowly freezing in the carriage while the work was underway. “Trees ought not to come down,” he complained loudly. “Take care in future to inspect the road for debris before committing us to the route, Thomas. No, no, don’t bother with that, man! We haven’t time to waste sawing logs. Turn the carriage around. We’ll have to take another road. I believe there is an east entrance through the park. Mr. Hamilton will be impatient for our arrival.”

  Clara ventured out of the carriage to inspect the obstruction. The tree trunk was not too large to climb over. She gathered up the skirts of her wedding dress.