Page 65 of Ondine

Released at last from her uncle’s study, Ondine fled up the fine oak stairway to her set of rooms, closing the doors behind her and sliding the bolt.

For long moments she stood there, her back supported by wood, while she gasped for breath.

It was done! She was here; she had passed through that first confrontation with life and limb still intact.

Gasping once again and aching from weakness, she fled across the wide sitting room to the next set of doors. She came to her bedchamber and lay down upon her mattress, tears stinging her eyes.

Here, too, nothing had changed. Her rooms remained as she had left them.

The cover on the bed was still the lovely damask spread her father had bought from the Spanish traders.

The light silk gauze that framed the Flemish posts came from the distant Japans, and the water ewer and bowl upon her white-and-gold dresser had been bought by her father years ago from the Venetians.

She bit down hard on her lip to keep from sobbing. She’d learned what seemed a lifetime ago not to feel, not to mourn. But coming home impressed upon her heart her father’s absence. This house was his, and those who had deceived and killed him ruled it, tarnishing all that they touched.

“Oh, Father!” she whispered aloud.

Then she forced herself to breathe deeply, for she did not wish to cry out; her uncle might well have enlisted spies among the household to listen at her door!

She caught her breath, trying to dispel the panic that settled over her along with an overwhelming sense of doom. Here she sought a needle in a haystack—and had given herself scant time for the search. Only thirty days . . .

Blood suffused her face and she rolled onto her stomach, burying her burning cheeks into her pillows. A physician! To see that she remained pure and chaste for marriage—with the vilest of snakes!

“Oh, dear Lord, help me!” she whispered aloud, for she had much to fear.

Nay, there was nothing to fear. Long before the wedding drew near, she would have discovered what “documentation” they had forged of her treason, or else she would have run once again. She must smile and give demure assent to any such requirement that they voiced.

There was a far greater terror to be faced! William did not trust her; he had sworn he would find out where she had been...

She rose and paced the room nervously. Coming to the great floor-length windows that opened onto her balcony, she threw them open and stepped out to the small oval protrusion.

She looked out upon the lawn, covered now in its crystal blanket of snow.

Even the great oaks that dipped on either side of the balcony were touched with ice and looked as if they carried stars of heaven on their branches. So beautiful . . .

Chatham. What would Chatham look like now?

An ice palace, too, encompassed in winter?

Hung with crepe in mourning, perhaps. By now poor Mathilda would have joined those haunts she heard in her mind; her body would lie in the crypt; masons would be working upon her memorial.

Clinton’s heart would be heavy still; but he was a man to look sorrow in the face and move on.

Justin would be practical, smooth, and gentle, easing things toward normality once again. And Warwick . . .

Where would Warwick be? Surely he had ranted and raved when he discovered her gone! He brooked no disobedience to his orders. Ah, how tender he had been that night, how caring . . .

Autocrat! He’d sought their divorce already.

There was naught to cling to in his tenderness, for, with blunt and brutal words, he’d assured her once that the lust of the flesh had nothing to do with emotion.

Perhaps—having found that he could not cast her across the distance of an ocean, since she was not available to be cast!

—he had already traveled back to London, ready to hound the king for his freedom.

His blood was no longer tainted by ghosts; he might choose an heiress from anywhere he wished.

She closed her eyes tightly, annoyingly near tears again.

She must have a firm grip upon herself! She must hate him, despise him, and then forget him, casting her mind entirely to her own cause.

Ah, but he was part of all that frightened her now, for she knew not what avenue William might pursue in his quest for her past.

Great tremors began to rack her, and she gripped the balcony rail despite the ice upon it. If William were to discover her already wed, he would surely find the means to kill her himself.

She turned from the balcony and came back to lie upon her bed, unaccountably weary.

But rest gave her no solace, for she did not sleep.

She ran her hand over the spread and felt the softness of the mattress.

When she dared to close her eyes, she saw not darkness, but Warwick.

Her husband was lean and corded, his shoulders naked in the moonlight, his eyes a glitter of gold, intent with purpose, as he stalked her, a man in quest of his wife . . .

“Oh!” she groaned softly and twisted in shame, for she could not forget him. She could not forget how he held her when he had come to her, could not but yearn and imagine that he would find her here, sleep beside her on this bed, hold her naked and quivering and yet secure to his heart . . .

With an exclamation of fury she was on her feet.

She would think of him no more! Rather she should plan now, for her search in this haystack for the precious golden needle!

Tonight when everyone slept, she would search her uncle’s office.

Dismally she thought that nothing would be there; William was too sly to be so obvious.

There was a tap upon her door; she hurried to her sitting room to answer it.

Jem stood there, with two lads behind him, bringing her her trunks of newly purchased finery. She smiled and bid him enter, glad once again for the pleasure she had given him.

“Into the bedroom with them, lads,” Jem instructed, and the boys obeyed.

Ondine did not know the two, which gave her a moment’s unease, for she was forced to realize that her uncle had changed most of the household staff.

Indeed, it seemed somewhat strange, in view of all, that Jem remained in his position.

They deposited the trunks, and Jem instructed them to return to work in the kitchen.

When they were gone, he took Ondine’s hands. “Dear, dear girl! If you need me, I am here! Think, milady! You mustn’t marry Raoul! Not while there is life and breath—”

Ondine shushed him quickly, looking about to warn him that the very walls might have ears. “I’ll not marry him, Jem, have no fear. Yet I implore you to take care in your distance from me, for if ought should go wrong, I would not have you pay.”

His aged and crinkled face carried the deepest dignity. “I’d pay with my life, lady.”

“Nay, nay! Make no sacrifices, for your life cannot aid me! Trust in me, Jem. that I shall take care.”

He nodded slowly and miserably.

“Shall I send your maid to help with your trunks?”

Her eyes widened with a sudden pleasure as she thought of Liza, the sweet young girl, her lady’s maid, she had left behind.

“Liza!” she cried. “Oh, aye, for dearly I’d love to see her!” Jem shook his head dolefully.

“Liza is to remain in the kitchen. William has ordered another for your personal care. Berta.”

“Berta?” Ondine frowned. She knew no Berta.

“She is new, lady.” Jem hesitated. “Your uncle’s lackey, that she is, spying on the rest of us!”

Ondine exhaled a long breath, then nodded in resignation. She had known that William would watch her like a hawk. She lifted her shoulders listlessly. “Send her, then, Jem. I might as well spend this time in setting my private space to order!”

Berta arrived with uncanny speed once Jem had closed the door behind himself.

She was a tall woman, Ondine’s own height, but much heavier, though not prone to fat.

Rather, Ondine thought with a certain dry amusement, she was built like a knight!

She had broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a blunt square face with wee piggish eyes that were neither dark nor light, but some vague shade of taupe.

She entered the room with her arms crossed over her ample breasts and stared at Ondine with all but a sneer and snicker.

“Milady, I’ve been asigned to serve you,” she said pleasantly.

And Ondine came near to laughter. You’ve come for anything but to serve! she thought. Yet she smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you, Berta. I’m sure we shall get along famously. Would you see to my trunks, please, then?”

Berta nodded and lumbered past her. Ondine decided that though Berta might be a rugged foe in a test of arms, she would never be fleet of foot!

She wandered back to the balcony, glad of the fresh cold air as she listened to the sounds of Berta unpacking. Cumbersome she might be, but efficient, for the woman finished quickly and returned to Ondine.

“His Lordship has said that dinner will be at eight, and that you are to join them at precisely that time. It grows late. Shall I order your bath?”

“I don’t believe that I shall bathe before dinner.”

Still Berta remained.

“His Lordsh—your uncle has suggested that you shall bathe each night at dark.”

“Suggested?” Ondine queried heatedly, trying to control her temper.

Berta had either the good sense or the grace to lower her eyes and speak with a modicum of care and kindness. “Raoul wishes, er, that you should be fresh at all times, milady.”

“Raoul! Raoul!” she snapped without thought.

“My cousin feels that contact with water more than once a month will render him dying of a lung malady, yet he orders me—never mind!” She spun around, shaking with fury, trying to remind herself that she loved to bathe, so little hardship would come to her.

Berta cleared her throat. “It has also been . . . suggested, milady, that if you refuse, you be given assistance.”