Midnight Star

  “Now, miss, you mustn’t do anything rash. If this gentleman visits again, which you believe likely, I will know about it. Perhaps it is best that you simply wait them out.”

  Chauncey nodded glumly, and allowed Mary to dress her in another of Aunt Augusta’s new gowns. It was a pale green silk cut fashionably low over her bosom. Too low, Chauncey thought as she stared in the mirror. No horse, she thought, ever looked like this. No, she looked more like a lovely piece of candy begging to be nibbled.

  “Braids, Mary. Yes, I think a very severe style is in order for this evening.”

  Mary grinned at her young mistress, but the resulting creation only made Chauncey appear all the more appetizing, in Mary’s silent view. The thick band of braids fashioned high on her head made her slender neck look all the longer and more graceful. Mary sighed. It was too late to change it now.

  “You take care, miss,” she cautioned. “As long as you’re playing the piano, you should be safe enough!”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Chauncey said dryly.

  Unfortunately, it appeared that Aunt Augusta and Owen agreed with Mary. Did Owen believe that her new hairstyle was meant to entice him? Probably, she thought cynically, along with her bosom falling out of her gown.

  “How utterly charming you look this evening, my dear Elizabeth,” her aunt said. “So sophisticated with your hair like that. Don’t you agree, Owen?”

  “Oh, certainly, Mother, certainly.”

  “A beautiful new Penworthy,” Uncle Alfred said.

  Aunt Augusta tittered. Tittered! Chauncey felt her ears begin to tingle. She turned glittering eyes toward her uncle and said with forced calm, “I fear you forget that I am not a Penworthy, Uncle Alfred. I am a FitzHugh, a Jameson FitzHugh.”

  “But not for much longer, I vow,” Aunt Augusta said archly.

  Chauncey did not miss the warning glance she sent toward Owen.

  Aunt Augusta must have realized that the conversation had taken too forward a turn, and quickly retrenched. “You know, Elizabeth, your uncle and I have been thinking that your bedchamber is a bit confining. With your marvelous taste, my dear, we have decided that you should have the Green Room and decorate it to your liking.”

  My marvelous taste? Chauncey wanted to laugh aloud. If Aunt Augusta was judging her taste by the dinner in front of her, her ability to spin falsehoods was indeed phenomenal. Stewed ham hocks in wine sauce, and boiled collards! Cook had gazed at Chauncey as if she had lost her mind. The Green Room. Chauncey blinked. It was a large, airy bedchamber that connected by an adjoining door to Owen’s room. The siege had intensified. For a moment Chauncey felt raw fear well within her. She could expect no protection from her aunt or uncle. She would have to go to Uncle Paul on the morrow. He would have to help her.

  She smiled blandly. “I shall think about it, Aunt Augusta.”

  When Aunt Augusta and Uncle Alfred bid the young couple a hearty good night, just as Chauncey knew they would, she saw that Owen would make his declaration. He was sweating, beads of perspiration standing out on his broad forehead.

  “Would you like me to play for you, Owen?” she asked, watching him rub his palms on his breeches.

  She did not wait for him to reply, but moved purposefully to the piano and seated herself. She began to play a Mozart sonata, a very long one, she thought viciously.

  Owen overcame his trepidation and interrupted her during the second movement. “Elizabeth, my dear,” he muttered close to her ear. She jumped at the feel of his hot breath against her cheek, and her hands came down on a discordant array of keys.

  “I must speak to you. Please, Elizabeth, I find that I can hold back what I feel for you no longer!”

  Chauncey turned slowly on the piano stool and stared up at him for a long moment. “How fluently you say your lines, Owen,” she said.

  He looked taken aback, but only for a moment. “I doubt I could ever be as fluent as you, my dear. Come, Elizabeth, and sit with me.”

  She rose and followed him to the high-backed sofa. But she didn’t sit down. “What is it you wish to say to me?” she asked without preamble.

  Owen laughed confidently. “You are so forthright, Elizabeth. As you wish.” He shrugged, then sent her a blinding smile. “I want you to marry me.”

  Chauncey looked him squarely in the eye. “Why, Owen?”

  “Why?” he repeated softly, his eyes caressing her face. “I love you, of course. I told you countless times in the past days that I have long admired you.”

  “Yes, that is what you have said. What I should like to know, Owen, is why you are asking me to marry you now, at this time.”

  “You have just turned twenty-one. It is time that you were wed.”

  “So, when my birthday dawned, you decided that you loved me.”

  “Not precisely, but close enough.”

  She thought for a brief moment that he would have liked to add “damn you!” But of course he did not. “Owen,” she said finally, still hopeful that he would slip and tell her something, “do you not recall that I am penniless? Hardly worthy wife material, I should say. Don’t you agree?”

  “There are more important things than money,” he said.

  “Not to your family, Owen,” she said.

  “You are wrong, Elizabeth, quite wrong! My mother and father think you are wonderful, and they do not mind that you do not have a dowry, I promise you.”

  He wasn’t going to tell her a damned thing, Chauncey realized in disgust. He had been well-coached. “Owen,” she said, “I have no intention of wedding anyone. I suggest you forget your newly acquired feelings for me.”

  “I cannot!” he said, his voice sharp now. He made a move to capture her hands, but Chauncey quickly whisked behind a chair. “It is not kind of you to . . . toy with my feelings.”

  “Owen,” she said with great patience, “I do not wish to toy with anyone’s feelings. I wish only to be left alone.” She lowered her eyes a moment, and added, “Indeed, your parents’ kindness to me has made me realize that I cannot continue to live on their bounty. I intend to find myself some sort of position.”

  “Position! That is ridiculous! My mother would never hear of such a thing. No, Elizabeth, for your protection, you must marry me.”

  “I remember, Owen, that you offered me your protection, without marriage.”

  “It was but a . . . jest, my dear. Aye, a jest.” “Good night, Owen,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “No, wait!”

  Chauncey raised her skirts and ran from the salon. No, dear Owen, she thought as she ran up the stairs, I have no intention of being mauled by you!

  “Elizabeth!”

  He was chasing her! Chauncey made her room barely in time. She slammed the door and clicked the lock. She leaned against the door, painfully aware of her heaving breasts and pounding heart.

  The doorknob rattled suddenly. “Elizabeth, let me in! I only want to speak to you. Come, unlock the door.”

  Where was Mary? Would her Aunt Augusta have the door broken down so Owen could compromise her? Try for a little deviousness, Chauncey, she told herself. You should have learned something about it from Aunt Augusta. “Owen, dear,” she said softly. “I have a terrible headache. And you have surprised me mightily. I . . . I think my nerves are disordered. Can we speak of”—she couldn’t bring herself to say “marriage”—“your feelings and mine on the morrow?”

  There was utter silence for several moments. She thought she heard footsteps, and pressed her ear to the door. She heard her Aunt Augusta’s voice, but could not make out her words. Then Owen said, “Of course, Elizabeth. You think my feelings for you are sudden, when in fact they are of long standing. We will speak tomorrow morning. Sleep well, my love.”

  Chauncey drew a deep breath. So Aunt Augusta had given her a night’s respite. This is like something out of a melodrama, she thought suddenly, pained laughter bubbling up in her throat. And Owen’s acting is every bit as bad as poor Romeo’s was! She no longer wan
ted to laugh, she was too frightened. She stood for several more moments, then walked purposefully to her armoire. She pulled out her large valise and began to pack her belongings. She stared a moment at the new gowns, then tossed them on the floor of the armoire.

  When her valise was packed, she walked to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. The night was thick and uninviting, a heavy fog encasing even the tall trees in the park. This is all such nonsense, she thought, regaining her perspective. They cannot hold me prisoner, after all.

  Chauncey awoke the next morning at a sharp knock on her door. She blinked away sleep and called out, “Who is it?”

  “Mary, miss.”

  She heaved a sigh of relief and quickly rose to unlock the door. “I had thought it might be Owen,” she said.

  “Your valise, miss,” Mary said, eyeing the bulging bag.

  “Yes,” Chauncey said. “I am leaving this morning, Mary. I am going to see my Uncle Paul. He will help me, he must.”

  At Mary’s questioning look, Chauncey quickly told her what had happened the night before.

  “Lawks!” Mary said. “Well, miss, after I’ve seen you dressed, I’ll go pack my own things. And don’t you worry, miss, we’ll manage, you’ll see.”

  I don’t know how, Chauncey thought, but she didn’t have the energy to quibble. “Thank you, Mary,” she said.

  Chauncey didn’t see Owen immediately, not until he said heartily from behind her, “Good morning, Elizabeth.”

  She jumped, feeling gooseflesh rise on her arms. “I am going to breakfast, Owen,” she said, and made to walk past him.

  “Not until we have reached an . . . agreement, my love,” Owen said, and closed his fingers around her wrist.

  Chauncey stared down at his fingers.

  “Tell me, promise me, that you’ll marry me, Elizabeth.”

  His fingers tightened painfully. “Let me go, Owen.”

  “My parents have procured a special license, my love,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “A minister, a Mr. Hampton, is already here to wed us. Say yes, Elizabeth.”

  “What?” she asked in a mocking voice. “We are to be wed before breakfast?”

  “You will not toy with me further, Elizabeth,” he snarled, and tightened his grip on her wrist.

  Breathe deeply, Chauncey, she told herself. Be calm. “Owen,” she said after a moment, “I will not wed you, not before breakfast, not ever. Indeed, I would not wed you if it meant I had to . . . sell my body! Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice dropping low, “oh yes you will, cousin.” He slammed her against the wall, his hand clutching at the material at her throat. He jerked down, ripping her gown to her waist. She felt his mouth against her ear. “Oh yes, Elizabeth. I’ll take you now. Then you’ll have me.”

  She had imagined such a scene in her mind, but the reality of it left her momentarily stunned. Owen was kissing her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She felt his hands grasping at her breasts. He was standing with his side turned to her, and she realized that he thought she would try to kick him.

  Owen was dragging her toward his room.

  Chauncey went utterly limp. She heard him draw in his breath in surprise, but he remembered what she had done to him the other time. “Oh, Owen,” she sighed, and raised her mouth.

  He clasped her hard against him, and his tongue was lunging against her closed lips. She opened her mouth. When his tongue thrust in, she bit him as hard as she could.

  Owen yelled in pain. He fell back, clutching his hand over his mouth, and she could see blood between his fingers.

  Chauncey grabbed her skirts and ran toward the stairs. She was hurtling down just as the knocker sounded at the front door. Owen was closing behind her, yelling crude curses at her. She realized vaguely that no one was about, none of the servants, not her aunt or uncle, not anyone.

  She shouted at the top of her lungs, “Come in!”

  The front door eased open, and a small man with bushy side whiskers thrust his head through the door. Chauncey shouted, “Yes, come in! Help me!”

  Frank Gillette stared in astonishment at the young lady who was rushing down the stairs toward him. Her hair was disheveled, her gown torn to her waist. Behind her was a furious-looking young man who looked fit to kill.

  Good God, he thought blankly, he had interrupted a rape. “What,” he asked firmly, “is going on here?”

  Suddenly the foyer seemed to erupt with people. Mrs. Penworthy and her rather unprepossessing spouse flew from the salon to his left. A man whom Gillette believed to be the butler came from the dining room to his right, his black coattails flapping.

  “I repeat,” Gillette said sternly, holding out his hand to the girl, “what the devil is the meaning of this?”

  “What are you doing here?” Aunt Augusta yelled, her face pale with consternation. “You were not supposed to come again until tomorrow!”

  Chauncey felt her terror begin to fade. This was the man with the smell of the city. “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Elizabeth, go to your room! I will come to you directly!”

  Chauncey stared at her aunt and moved closer to the stranger.

  “I am Frank Gillette,” he said in a steadying voice. “Are you, by any chance, Miss Elizabeth Jameson FitzHugh?”

  She nodded.

  “I am delighted to find you in good health.”

  “I am always in good health, sir.”

  “Elizabeth, I will not tell you again,” Aunt Augusta said, her jaw clenched. “Go to your room. Owen, see your cousin upstairs.”

  “Aunt,” Chauncey said, stiffening beside her rescuer, “I have no intention of going anywhere with any of you. I am leaving this house.”

  “Mr. Gillette,” Aunt Augusta said, her voice supplicating, even pleading, “my niece is not herself. I pray you will ignore her disordered outburst and come with me into the salon. We will call the doctor for her immediately.”

  Money, Mr. Gillette thought, not overly surprised at what had obviously been transpiring—what it does to perfectly sane people! He was a fool, he realized belatedly, to have confided his purpose to this woman. “Madam,” he said calmly to Aunt Augusta, “I am come to see Miss FitzHugh. Now, if all of you will excuse us, we will take our leave.”

  “You are going nowhere, Elizabeth!” Aunt Augusta shouted, so frustrated she was trembling. “If you dare to leave this house, miss, you will starve in the street! We will provide you no more of our generous bounty!”

  “But then again, Aunt Augusta,” Chauncey said, drawing herself up straight, “I won’t have to worry about being ravished by Owen, will I?”

  “Liar! She is lying, Mr. Gillette! Pay her no heed!”

  “Mr. Gillette, may I fetch my valise—’tis already packed—and my maid?”

  “Certainly, my dear. If I am correct, I believe I saw a young woman who could be your maid waiting on the corner, with her bag. I will await you here.” He touched her shoulder. “Miss FitzHugh,” he said very softly, “you will not starve, I promise you that.

  “Mrs. Penworthy,” he continued to Aunt Augusta, “I will call the watch if the young lady isn’t allowed to leave with me.”

  “No,” Uncle Alfred said sternly, wiping his hand across his sweating forehead, “there will be no need for that. Augusta, you and Owen will go into the salon. It is over.” He added almost as an afterthought, “I never really believed that Elizabeth could be coerced. She is too strong-willed.” He turned away with those words, only to be brought up short by Cranke, who said in a faltering voice, “But, sir, what am I to do with the minister? He is drinking his third cup of coffee.”

  “Good God, man, set him to polishing the silver! I don’t care!”

  4

  “A legacy! I have a legacy? I . . . I don’t believe it,” Chauncey whispered, her eyes wide on Mr. Gillette’s face. They were seated opposite each other in Chauncey’s small sitting room in the Bradford Hotel. “Oh, I had figured out that all their machi
nations must have something to do with money, but I had no real expectations, you understand. You have said, Mr. Gillette, that you in no way represent my father. Then where does this legacy to me come from?”

  “I believe you now recovered enough from your ordeal,” he said, smiling at her. “Here is the whole story, Miss FitzHugh. Your godfather, Sir Jasper Dunkirk—do you remember him?”

  “Why, of course I do, though it has been at least ten years since I’ve seen him.”

  “I am, rather was, Sir Jasper’s solicitor. For the past nine years, he has resided in India. In fact, he made a great deal of money there. But, unfortunately, he lost both his wife and his son in one of the native uprisings. As a result, he made your father his heir, for there was no other family, either there or here in England. Sir Jasper died of a fever some months after your father. He had, evidently, read your father’s obituary in a newspaper, for I received instructions from him shortly before his death. I suppose he knew of your family ties, for his instructions were quite clear. I was not to contact you about your inheritance until you turned twenty-one. You see, he wanted no relatives or guardians to have control of your wealth. I paid a visit to Heath House on your twenty-first birthday. I showed a lamentable lack of judgment, however. I told your aunt of my mission, then blithely accepted her word that you were ill and could see no one for a while. I was a fool, and I beg you to accept my profound apologies.”

  Chauncey gave him a twisted smile. “Had they not been so very ungracious to me before, I might not have seen through their ruse. You see, they became so utterly devoted to my welfare that I would have had to be a perfect ninny not to see through them.” But at first I didn’t want to believe badly of them. “And Owen. They wanted me to marry him, of course.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Gillette agreed. “As your husband, he would have had complete control over your inheritance.”

  “Mr. Gillette, will my inheritance make me independent? It doesn’t have to be too much, of course, just enough to keep me and my maid in simple lodgings.”

  To her surprise, Mr. Gillette leaned forward in his chair and laughed heartily. For a moment Chauncey gazed at his nearly bald head, contrasting the pitiful few dark hairs that were combed carefully over the top of his plentiful side whiskers. “I have said something amusing, sir?”