‘I assure you, I really am perfectly fine,’ said Tiffany.
‘Mi amor, you just took ten minutes to sit up.’
She dealt Santiago a cross look. ‘But I am able to sit up.’
He smiled at her, in that way that made her heart turn over. ‘Yes, you are.’
He had hardly left her side since they returned to London. The servants had been spun a tale about having to leave in some emergency involving Tiffany’s mother, and then a fall from a horse was thrown in to explain her injuries. Although what sort of fall left a lady with splinters in her breasts, nobody asked.
Now that Madhu had pronounced her out of danger and in need of nothing more than rest, she was becoming somewhat bored. Not to mention that Santiago’s constant concern was driving her slightly up the wall.
‘Look,’ she said, once she was comfortably settled with an excess of pillows. ‘We really do need to talk about what happened at the lighthouse.’ Her heart thumped uncomfortably, and it had nothing to do with her injury.
She and Santiago had said some terrible things to each other, and then since she’d been shot, neither of them had mentioned it.
Santiago nodded gravely. He was sitting, as he had for the last few days, in a chair right next to the bed, in the faded opulence of the duchess’s suite in Grosvenor Square. The bruise on his jaw was quite brightly coloured now, since he had refused Madhu’s treatment in favour of her treating Tiffany.
‘William informs me that we can more than afford the price de Groot’s widow is likely to offer for the business, and more besides. He has suggested a trust for the children.’
‘Yes, and that’s good,’ said Tiffany, and then she felt a bit wretched because Santiago had just been betrayed by an old friend and watched him die in a somewhat unpleasant manner, and what she had to say seemed trivial by comparison.
But before she got there, a tap on the door heralded Billy, swiftly arrived from Castle Aymers in tow with Robinson.
‘Guv,’ he said. ‘Er, Mrs Guv. I brung up the post for you.’
Tiffany knew she should have told him that was the butler’s job, but she understood Billy was purely concerned for them both.
‘Thank you, Billy. Would you take that plate down to the kitchen for me?’ Tiffany asked, knowing full well that all the biscuits on it would have vanished by the time it arrived.
Included in the pile of letters were the day’s papers, still trumpeting Wellington’s victory over Bonaparte, and a letter addressed to Tiffany that bore the sign of an hourglass on the outside. She opened it, to find a missive from Mistress Winterscale.
History records that you are well, but you have my best wishes anyway. I thought I should let you know that I located your lord father, and he is well, but he has spent the entire campaign in Brussels. He is apparently indispensable to Wellington in the matter of supplying fine wines and meats, but nobody can remember him going anywhere near a battlefield these last dozen years or more.
Tiffany pressed her hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh, because laughing hurt. Her great and heroic father, little more than a quartermaster! She wondered if anybody had told the Peerage.
I have also looked for a Henry Proudbody, who appears to be a sergeant in the infantry. He is intending to return home to his sister, but begs to inform she will need to make room as his wife is increasing.
‘Henry! You dark horse,’ she said out loud.
‘My love?’ said Santiago.
‘Henry. My childhood friend. He has a wife and they are expecting a child. And he is a sergeant. I suppose I should stop thinking of him as a child.’ She put down the letter and glanced at her husband, who seemed utterly bored by his own post. ‘You know, I suppose we have Henry to thank for our marriage. In a roundabout way.’
‘We do?’
‘Yes.’ Tiffany knew what they had to talk about, and she was trying to lead up to it gently. ‘Speaking of which—’ Another scratch at the door made her sigh. ‘Yes?’
It was Hayrick, the under butler who had travelled down from Castle Aymers. ‘The Countess of Chalkdown,’ he announced.
‘Who?’ said Tiffany, bewildered for a moment.
Santiago coughed. ‘Your mother?’ he said, as that lady swept in, almost unrecognisable from the last time Tiffany had seen her.
That woman had been a shuffling, terrified wreck. This lady was elegantly attired and coiffured, her chapped hands hidden by gloves, her chafed ankle by neat half-boots. She held herself with poise, and waited until Hayrick had closed the door before she rushed forward.
‘Tiffany! My love. How are you feeling? That Madhu is an excellent potion maker.’
‘She is. And I am feeling quite well. As I keep telling my husband,’ she added pointedly. Santiago shrugged unrepentantly.
‘I still cannot believe you are married. My baby girl!’
Tiffany looked down at the letter still in her lap. Your baby girl whom you abandoned.
Granted, she had been abandoned in the care of her brother and his wife, in their large and comfortable country house, with a small army of servants. It wasn’t quite being left at the church door.
But on the other hand, she had been left with Elinor, who—Tiffany could see now—was probably the worst person in the world to bring up a witch. Amelia had to know Tiffany would never fit neatly into the mould Society required, and Elinor was so absolutely terrified of being seen as different—lesser—by her peers that she’d been repressing Tiffany her whole life.
Perhaps she could find some kind of retribution against her sister-in-law for that. Or perhaps merely being ignored by a duchess was the worst thing that could happen to Elinor, and it had the distinct advantage of being terribly easy.
Amelia sighed, the hopeful smile fading from her face. ‘I can see you’re still angry about that. And I don’t blame you. I would be, too.’ She hesitated, still standing just inside the room. ‘I have been talking things over with Esme, and she agrees: I owe you an explanation. It is not an excuse, but I hope it will help you to understand.’
Tiffany didn’t want to hear it. But she knew that was childish. And she was, as her mother had pointed out, a married woman now. And a duchess to boot. She had no time to be childish.
I’d still quite like to curse Elinor with spots, though.
‘Of course. Santiago, will you fetch a chair for—oh.’
Her mother glanced across the room and the chair by Tiffany’s writing table slid across the floor to her.
Santiago whistled. Tiffany rolled her eyes at him.
Amelia Worthington seated herself elegantly, with no sign of the overwrought creature she had been in the lighthouse. But then she took off her gloves, and Tiffany saw that her hands were still healing from multiple cracks and bruises, her nails torn and bitten. This close Tiffany could see the skin under her eyes had been powdered to hide the dark circles, and that beneath her elegant day dress she was just a little too thin.
‘I have thought about this,’ said Amelia, ‘and I think the best way is to start at the beginning.’ She glanced at Santiago.
‘Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of him,’ Tiffany said.
Amelia nodded, and took a deep breath. Then she began speaking.
‘My father was a religious zealot.’
This hadn’t been what she was expecting. Tiffany knew almost nothing of her maternal grandparents. A baron, whose wife had died quite young. The baron himself had never tried to contact Tiffany, and she had a vague recollection of hearing of his death some time ago. Her mother had one brother, who did not trouble Society.
‘Church wasn’t enough for him. He delivered his own sermons, lectures—rants really—for hours at a time. Told us that we were wicked, told us of the devil, witches, fornication: all the reasons we were going to hell. And I was so unnatural. I could move things with my mind; I was—’ Amelia hesitated, then continued, ‘I was in love with a woman.’
She glanced at Tiffany and Santiago, neither of whom gave her any reaction. After the last few months, Tiffany found that this didn’t shock her in the slightest.
‘It was a strange, febrile time. The French king had been executed; the queen was in prison. There were even rumours that the royal children would face the guillotine. We feared the revolution would come here. We were trying to make the most of our lives while we still had them. But when I ran from Esme, it was into the arms of a man twice my age. A widower. I tried to comfort him, and … well, one thing led to another.’
Tiffany deliberately didn’t look at Santiago at that point.
‘When we realised our actions had … ah, consequences, he agreed to marry me. But by then I think we both knew it was a mistake. He was still grieving his first wife, and I was in love with Esme. I was desperately trying to repress everything about me that I thought was unnatural. I thought perhaps a baby would redeem me, something pure and good. That love would redeem me.’
She learned forward and took Tiffany’s hand. Her eyes were bright. ‘And I did love you, Tiffany. From the moment I saw you. You were so perfect, so beautiful. But I was so frightened that I would hurt you.’
‘Why?’ said Tiffany. ‘If you loved me, why?’
Amelia let her go, and twisted her hands together. ‘If ever I was possessed by demons, it was then. All I could think was that I would cause you harm.’ She looked down at her lap. ‘Sometimes the furniture in the room would rattle when I became upset. What if something fell on you? What if the … the monster inside me took over? I didn’t know what it was. Esme had tried to tell me I was a witch, but all I knew was that witches were brides of Satan. I was convinced I was wicked and defiled. And that I would contaminate you, too.’
Tiffany reluctantly supposed that made sense. The vicar at Dyrehaven was not one for ranting about the Devil, and neither was the priest at the church they attended in Town. But how many times had Tiffany repeated the line, ‘Deliver us from evil’? If that was all one had been taught…
Amelia reached for her hand again, and by now there were tears in her eyes. ‘I became so terrified I had to leave. For your sake. Because I loved you.’
And Tiffany found herself saying, very quietly, ‘I understand.’
‘You— You do?’
Tiffany looked down at their hands. Hers was smooth and neatly kept, even after days of bed rest. Her mother’s was chapped and cracked, bruises showing at the wrists, the nails black.
‘I repressed my gift, too. And I was raised by someone who,’ she chose her words carefully, ‘had little interest in understanding or appreciating me.’ She glanced at Santiago. ‘And I was afraid of loving the wrong person. But not because I was a witch.’
Because she had only seen one way to be, and it was Elinor’s uncompromising conventionality. She had been told—she had been shown—that marriage was something that must be endured, something inevitable, something that came with endless rules and obligations. Something that confined a woman to the single role of ‘wife’ and gave her no other identity.
But that wasn’t what Santiago had given her.
‘But he accepts that you are a witch?’ said her mother.
Tiffany glanced at Santiago, who had been listening silently all this time. Also not a quality I expected in a husband, Tiffany thought drily.
‘I do,’ he said, sincerely. ‘I think Tiffany is magnificent.’
She smiled at him, just a little. And he smiled back.
‘But how did you meet de Groot?’ Santiago asked.
Amelia sat back in her chair. ‘When I left, I went to the Continent. I travelled widely, with no real aim. And I thought of you every day. I tried to write to you, but I didn’t know what to say. Eventually I met women who were like me. They made me realise that I had to embrace my gift, not repress it. That if I carried on in such a manner, it would destroy me.’ She looked away. ‘Esme had told me the same, but I was too indoctrinated in my father’s ways to believe her. How different life might have been if I had!’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be here,’ said Tiffany, and Amelia’s gaze flew back to her.
‘And I could never regret you, my love.’ She took Tiffany’s hand again. ‘I made a small living travelling with carnivals and fairs, doing party tricks to entertain people.’ She smiled. ‘There was always someone looking to see how it was done. For invisible thread or some kind of accomplice.’ She nodded at the basin and pitcher on the dresser, and they rose gently into the air before settling back down again. ‘I was with one of these fairs when I met de Groot. You see, I had a trick. Has Esme told you about poppets yet?’
Tiffany shook her head.
‘They are small dolls, used to represent a person. I would never use mine to control or influence a person, but I could use a small doll to influence a larger one.’
‘Like you did with the squid?’ Santiago said.
Amelia sighed. ‘Exactly like I did with the squid,’ she said heavily. ‘I didn’t know that’s what he wanted, or why—not to begin with. Not until I was already locked in that tower.’ She reached down, apparently without thinking, and rubbed at her ankle.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Tiffany.
‘Why? You didn’t do it.’ She squeezed Tiffany’s hand. ‘You saved me.’
‘Well, we had some help.’ She smiled at Santiago, and he smiled back.
‘I want to try to make some reparation for the things I did,’ said Amelia. ‘I thought—perhaps something for the widows and orphans of sailors? A refuge, perhaps. Somewhere they might learn useful skills with which to support themselves.’
‘An excellent idea,’ said Santiago warmly. ‘If you require funds for this, I have far too many.’
Amelia laughed, and Tiffany realised it was the same way she laughed. This woman was more like her than any of the family she’d actually known.
‘And perhaps something for soldiers?’ said Tiffany. ‘Henry Proudbody will need more than a footman’s income if he is to support a family, and so will his sister. I thought to offer them employment at Castle Aymers, perhaps?’ she added, to Santiago.
‘Whatever you want,’ he said.
Tiffany chatted with her mother about the people of Churlish Green, whom she had known for such a short time, and found herself relaxing. She had never expected this. To even meet her mother was something she had long ago given up on, but to find that they had a lot in common and could just … get along, that seemed like a miracle.
After a while, Santiago excused himself to deal with some of his correspondence, and Tiffany rolled her eyes at her mother.
‘I love him,’ she said, ‘but he has been here all day, every day since we got home. It is exhausting.’
Amelia smiled. ‘That is because he loves you,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen a man more smitten.’
Tiffany pleated the coverlet with her fingers. ‘I did say some terrible things to him, just before we found you,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t look to me like he cares.’
No, it didn’t. And that cheered Tiffany hugely.
After her mother had gone, she called for her new maid and bathed, dressing in a fresh chemise and wrapper. Stays were not permitted at this point of her recovery, which was an inconvenience and kept her from dressing properly, but it was a pure relief to be out of bed and sitting in a chair. She wrote a letter to Amy Proudbody and enclosed a note for Henry, whenever he came home, and was just addressing it when Santiago came back in.
He hesitated by the door for a moment, twisting his hands.
‘I thought you might appreciate some time alone with your mother,’ he said eventually.
Tiffany felt warmth bloom in her. ‘I did,’ she said.
But now they had to talk. About the assumptions she had made, and he had made. Since she’d been injured, he hadn’t left her side, but there were still things that needed to be said. Things she couldn’t just leave lying there between them.
But she didn’t know how to start. How to tell him she’d been so afraid, so frightened that she’d made a terrible mistake in trusting him, and squandered her one chance at independence. She’d let her old fears in, that he would trap her, treat her as a possession, and that all the love between them was a sham. Especially when she knew her feelings for him were so painfully real. The thought that she could love him so much and he might not care had obliterated the reality.
It was Santiago who spoke first. ‘You said—back when we, uh … you said you still wished for independence and I realised…’ He came fully into the room, and pulled his chair over to hers. He sat, and looked nervous for a moment. ‘Tiffany. I have to be a duke and also a tradesman. I don’t want to give one up for the other, and there are going to be times when one takes precedence. And I want to be your husband, but not spend every minute with you.’
She raised her eyebrows, and he looked a little embarrassed.
‘Apart from when you have been recently shot in the chest and I am very concerned for your health,’ he said meaningfully. He shoved his hand through his hair, which Robinson still hadn’t persuaded him to cut. ‘What I am trying to say is that I understand your concern. That sometimes you need to be a duchess and sometimes a witch.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s some of it.’
‘Some?’ He leaned forward eagerly. ‘Tell me. I want to understand.’
And that was it, right there. He wanted to understand. He wasn’t assuming he knew or not caring that he didn’t.
She had been a fool to doubt him.
Tiffany smiled. ‘I think you already do understand,’ she said. ‘I—I am not a thing to be owned, and shown off like a bauble.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Although you are very beautiful and spectacularly powerful, and I am incredibly proud to have you as my wife.’
She laughed, and winced. ‘Keep that up and I’ll be violating half of Madhu’s orders,’ she said. ‘Look. I thought I didn’t want to marry because I thought it would trap me. And with you … I think I had thought it was all going too well and there must be a catch, and then you said that about belonging to you and I just…’
Santiago opened his mouth, and she held up a hand to stop him.
‘It’s like in the Peerage. Mama is listed as the wife of the Earl of Chalkdown, and I don’t even have a name. I didn’t want to be a … a footnote. But I know I won’t be, with you.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you notice how Mistress Winterscale had heard of you?’
Tiffany blinked. ‘Had she?’
‘Oh yes. She seemed very impressed. You will do great things, Tiffany. And I will be the proudest husband in the world when you do.’
She took his hand then, and he squeezed hers.
‘And,’ he said hesitantly. His face took on a hangdog look. ‘The thing I said. To you. In retaliation. I didn’t mean it. I was hurt and upset and I thought—’
‘You thought what?’
He sighed. ‘I thought I didn’t deserve you. Why should a woman like you marry a man like me, who doesn’t even know that you don’t wear green to an evening event? I am a ragamuffin street rat, and you…’
He looked her over, sitting there in her wrapper with no stays on, and it was if he saw her in her finest ballgown, wreathed in glamour.
‘You are everything.’
‘I think you are wonderful, too,’ she said softly, and smiled as colour came into his cheeks.
‘But when I thought I would lose you,’ he began, and leaned even closer, their knees touching. ‘When I thought I would lose you, Tiffany, I couldn’t bear it. I realised I would do anything to keep you with me. Anything. I love you. With everything I am. I love you. And I always will. This I swear to you.’
Tiffany looked into his beloved face. He was so very handsome, but more than that he was so very dear to her.
She reached up with her free hand and brushed that errant curl from his face. ‘I felt the same when I thought you might die,’ she said. ‘That’s why I wanted to marry you. I realised I … I didn’t want to be without you. That I love you, too.’
He leaned forward and softly kissed her lips.
‘And,’ she murmured against his mouth, ‘you will recall that I demanded to marry you after I knew you would live?’
Santiago’s face creased with chagrin. ‘Forgive me for misremembering,’ he said. ‘I had just been shot.’
‘I will forgive you,’ she said, ‘because I now know something about being shot myself. I don’t like it. I will not be trying it again.’
He smiled at that, and kissed her again, and then he lifted her into his lap and kissed her some more, before reluctantly withdrawing.
‘Madhu did say you were not to over-exert yourself,’ he said.
‘Madhu isn’t here.’
‘She might put a curse on me,’ Santiago said, nuzzling at her neck as if he couldn’t help himself.
‘Then I will take it off. Because I am a witch, too.’
‘Yes, you are. My duchess witch.’ He kissed her mouth again.
‘Perhaps,’ said Tiffany, who didn’t want him to stop at all, ‘there are things we could do that wouldn’t be an over exertion?’
He groaned, but then he grinned and stood up with her in his arms. ‘I do love a challenge,’ he said.