Bound by Honor

Chapter 10

Her mother always had treated Josie as if she were part of the family,

though not in the presence of her father. The best either of them could do

for the cook’s child in his household was to make her Letitia’s maid.

Letitia clenched her fists in helplessness. Life repeated itself with

frightening accuracy. Did she really want to live like her mother, reminded

at every turn that the only usefulness of her existence had been her

dowry? She’d seen enough to accept such a fate meekly instead of

evading it at any cost.

Suddenly, her mind made a reverse somersault and returned to that

ominous word.

Evade. Escape .

Letitia sat up in bed, wide awake now. The solution stared her in the face.

She got up and, agitated, began pacing the room while considering her

options. By the wee hours of the morning, announced by the silvery

chimes of the clock on the mantel, she had a scheme in place.

It might take her some time to prepare its execution, but the genius of her

plan lay in its simplicity—she would support herself as a painter. Just like

Miss Moser or Mrs. Kauffman. Of course, settling in London was out of the

question. Too many potential clients knew her, and she could not hide

there from either her husband or her father. No, when ready, she would go

to America, settle in Boston or Philadelphia, and paint portraits, or anything

else she could sell, for that matter. Josepha would run their house.

Her head began to throb from excitement and lack of sleep. Tired at last,

Letitia climbed in bed and pulled up the covers. She would give more

thought to the details tomorrow. For now, she needed to sleep. It would be

a fine thing indeed to show up in the morning with circles under her eyes

and let everybody think she had spent the night pining after her unfaithful

husband.

Moments later, when her head sank into the soft pillow and dreams began

to blur with reality, the sounds of doors being opened and closed echoed

faintly in her ears before sleep took over.

The warmth of the sun caressing Letitia’s outstretched arm and a

symphony of buzzing and chirping pouring in through the open windows

meant that morning had come long ago.

Letitia cracked open one eye, squinting at the brightness of the light

before casting around a cautious glance. The place looked unfamiliar. For

a split second, she did not know where she was. This was not the room at

Wycombe Oaks, with the air of dejection and its northern prospect never

graced by a single sunray. And then memory returned. This was her new

home at Bromsholme.

She was a married woman. She had become Lady Letitia Hanbury.

Everything else came back in a flash.

Wide awake now, she swept a curious gaze around the spacious room. It

must have been recently renovated. Fresh paint in light powder blue

contrasted pleasantly with the creamy woodwork. The fireplace mantel had

two caryatids supporting its top. The vase in the firebox’s cavity, with a

flower arrangement fanning out like a peacock’s tail, was protected by a

heavy fender.

Letitia swung her feet to the floor. They sank into the soft, lush pile of a

colorful Oriental carpet. The floor beyond its edges must have been

replaced not long ago. An elegant Hepplewhite chest of drawers graced

one wall, and a dressing table with a skirt of dark-gold moiré silk filled the

space between the windows. Two armchairs and a small table claimed

another corner of the room. A chaise longue stood near the fireplace.

There was no washstand, and she winced at this inconvenience until the

inconspicuous door in the side wall reminded her of the blessing of her

own water closet. She had been wrong not only about her husband’s

advanced age; his home was not what she had expected either.

But she was right about his character. In conceit and disrespect for his

wife, he excelled even her father. Maybe he did not want the plantations,

but it was probably because he did not want the trouble, in spite of that

lofty statement he had made yesterday. Her father had just spent three

years in Jamaica making sure none of the upheaval from Saint-Domingue

reached his property.

She got up and padded over to the inconspicuous door. Josepha would

be here any moment to shake her out of slumber. Judging by the sunlight,

the day was well advanced.

Given the lateness of the hour, Sir Percival was probably gone, prowling

fields in the company of his steward and dressed worse than his steward,

in that terrible coat of his. That was just as well. She needed some time to

regain a modicum of balance in her life.

The plan she had hatched at night seemed to gain different dimensions in

full daylight. If it was ever to come to fruition, she had to organize her

immediate future into some semblance of a normal existence. Getting

familiar with the house was the first thing to do.

But when half an hour later she came down to the breakfast room, she

almost faltered in the doorway. Sir Percival sat at the table, one leg

crossed casually over the other, reading a newspaper, a cup and an

unfinished plate by his side. Judging by his dress, he must have already

prowled the fields with his steward—riding breeches showcased muscular

legs above the familiar-looking scuffed riding boots.

At the sound of the door opening, Sir Percival raised his head. He got to

his feet as soon as she entered the room, and waited patiently for Slater to

seat her at the table, then waved him away.

Letitia smiled at the butler before he left the room.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Sir Percival said. “Did you find your chamber to

your liking?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, noticing his polite and entirely unconcerned

expression. “Did you spend your night the way you planned?”

“Indeed I did,” he answered. “What may I get you?”

Just like that? No guilt over the duplicity of his behavior? No, of course

not.

“Hot chocolate,” she said.

She’d succeeded in surprising him. Sir Percival got up, but instead of

going to the sideboard, he opened the door and gave dispositions to a

footman.

“Will you eat anything?” he asked once the chocolate was ordered.

“No.” The idea of eating and chatting with him held no appeal. “I am not

hungry.”

“Very well.”

He returned to his chair and picked up the folded paper. Their

conversation for the day was over, then. The duty of acknowledging her

existence done, he would return to his reading and pay her no more

attention.