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My wife.
He’d missed her more than he ought after such a short acquaintance. How had she fared in his absence? And more on point, were her thoughts as consumed with him as his were of her?
Exhaling a deep breath, Ian toed off his boots before stripping his garments with swift efficiency. Padding to the bathing chamber, he poured water into the basin then washed off the worst of the travel grime.
He smiled to himself. He hoped Vangie was an early riser, for Lucinda assuredly was. She’d be demanding his attention straightaway once she learned of his return. His smile faltered, and a scowl took its place.
She had better have removed herself to the dower house as he’d directed. He’d no intention of residing under the same roof with that termagant now that Charlotte wasn’t in residence. He’d have preferred to have been present for the transition, especially to ease the adjustment for Vangie. Instead he’d hied off in needless pursuit of his sister. Shaking his head in self-reproach, he splashed his hair and his unshaven face with the tepid water.
Charlotte was blissfully happy. She obviously adored the man she’d married, and Monroe was completely agog over her as well. As a wedding present, Ian, despite being thoroughly piqued with her, had offered the newlyweds a generous purse and sent them on a well-deserved wedding journey.
Well-deserved because he had never given Charlotte credit for any degree of intelligence—or thought her the least bit capable of standing up to her mother. That lamentable business with Pickering? All a wretched ruse Charlotte concocted to keep Lucinda off Monroe’s scent. She’d been successful, if he didn’t count his own forced marriage.
Charlotte hadn’t done poorly for herself, by half, Ian concluded, toweling his dripping hair. He quickly wiped his face then finished drying off. Lucinda wouldn’t be pleased he’d returned empty-handed. He’d deal with that difficulty on the morrow, after becoming reacquainted with his bride.
Slipping between the cool sheets, he lay back with his elbows bent, hands beneath his damp head. He’d send a message to the dower house in the morning, requesting an appointment with Lucinda in the afternoon. Staring at the canopied bed, his eyes drifted closed, his thoughts shifting to Vangie.
Morning couldn’t come soon enough.
Vangie tore to the chamber pot, casting up the contents of her stomach for the third time in the past week. She tottered to the makeshift washstand and rinsed the foul taste from her mouth before running a damp cloth over her face. Hunched over the cracked basin, she drew in a deep breath. Another wave of queasiness assailed her.
Her stomach was empty, hollow to her backbone. The bland breakfast of watery porridge, tea, and dry toast she’d eaten moments ago now resided in the slop bucket. Dinner wasn’t much better. It usually consisted of a weak soup, a hunk of dry bread, and if she was lucky, a slice of cheese or a piece of fruit.
How much longer could she tolerate this unappetizing food? It often tasted peculiar, not unlike some of the medicinal herbs Puri Daj used to treat respiratory afflictions. No doubt Lucinda fed her half-spoiled leftovers which accounted for Vangie’s roiling stomach. She’d little appetite and as the days passed, ate less and less of the unappealing fare.
She wandered to the dilapidated armchair she’d tugged near the window and releasing a weary sigh, flopped into it.
Jasper and Mrs. Tanssen had been absolute dears. They’d smuggled candles, books, including Vangie’s Bible, her paints and crocheting, as well as more tempting, palatable foods into her whenever they could. It wasn’t often enough. According to Jasper, the dowager inspected every tray and bucket and made the servants turn out their pockets before entering the tower.
The first night, Mrs. Tanssen had sneaked into the tower, and when the door creaked open, Vangie, huddled in a corner under a filthy blanket, had been terrified. Recognizing the housekeeper illuminated in the doorway, she’d gasped, “Mrs. Tanssen? What are you doing here? How did you enter?”
Holding a candle in one hand, Mrs. Tanssen dangled a key in the other. “I provided that she-dog the key to this turret.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “But I don’t feel the least bit obligated to tell her I have a master key. I can open every door in the manor.”
She dropped the key inside her pocket and bent to retrieve something outside the door. “Here, my lady. It’s only a blanket, a candle, and a bit of bread. I couldn’t hide anymore beneath my skirts this trip.”
Vangie hugged her. “Thank you.”
“I’d best be going. I have several more things stashed in a closet at the bottom of the stairs. I want to bring them to you while Jasper keeps watch outside the dowager’s chamber.”
Two days later, Jasper had crept into the tower. “The dowager is like a rabid watchdog. She monitors our every move.” He withdrew a book from his pocket along with some biscuits wrapped in a cloth. “We have outwitted her though. One of us distracts her, and the other high-tails it here.”
The sweet-faced maid who brought Vangie her food, often stayed to visit, even though she was under strict orders not to. With her sandy-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, Ailsa reminded Vangie of an unrefined version of Yvette. She was the same age as her cousin, too, ten and seven.
“I don’t want you getting punished for defying the dowager, Ailsa,” Vangie told her.
“Her ladyship can blow biscuits out her bony arse,” Ailsa snorted. “You’re the lady of the manor now, not that witch.”
Despite herself, Vangie’s lips had twitched. Though her face was angelic, Ailsa’s speech was anything but. She had no qualms about speaking her mind and doing so quite crudely.
Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and across her lap, Vangie gazed at the early morning scene beyond the window. Not even eight of the clock yet, she guessed.
She was lonely, cold, hungry, and desperate for Ian to return. Each day that passed without his appearance, sent her further into the doldrums. A multitude of misgivings worked their wiles, whispering discouragement and filling her with hopelessness.
His continued absence gave credence to his stepmother’s claim he’d ordered her locked away. The thought wrenched her heart. Despair squeezed her wounded spirit like an unrelenting vice. A tear trickled from her eye. She brusquely rubbed it away. No more tears.
She surveyed the travesty of a room the dowager had incarcerated her in. The window panes tossed thin shadows across the dusty floor. The cruelty behind her ladyship’s actions was beyond Vangie’s understanding. What drove someone to be so altogether vindictive?
The room’s disarray and disrepair proved it was never used, except by a pair of bats that made their way inside each night. Vangie had sneezed for a quarter hour straight the first day, such was the dust. Her bed originally consisted of a few moth-eaten blankets tossed on a lumpy, mildew-laden straw pallet on the floor.
