chapter 10
Jack drifted on the morphine-induced haze, yet the knifing pain in his leg following the doctor stitching the surgical site, and then encasing most of his foot and leg to above the knee in a plaster of paris splint, wouldn’t let him settle all the way into sleep. He stared at the gray behind his eyelids and waited for Mrs. Broadhurst to return.
Just as he was nodding off, the door clicked open.
The scratch of a chair told him the other occupant had stood.
“Mary, would you be so good as to fetch a spot of tea and a bun or bread and jam.” Mrs. Broadhurst’s voice flowed across the room and settled over him like a warm blanket pulling him deeper into the nothingness that proceeded sleep.
“Yes, ma’am,” said his minder, and the door clicked again.
“I assume you wanted to talk. Is there somewhere we can be private?” asked the man in the room.
Interest perked Jack’s senses. He wanted to learn everything he could about Mrs. Broadhurst.
“We’re private enough here,” she said. “I only have a few minutes before I have to go.”
“But what about him?” the man objected.
“The doctor gives him an injection and he usually sleeps for a few hours afterward.”
Jack’s eyelids seemed fastened shut, and he sunk deeper into the mattress as if he no longer had any muscles.
Mrs. Broadhurst laid her hand on his forehead, and it seemed to release him. He had been waiting for her touch and now the world was right again.
When her hand crossed his brow, he strained to feel the silky softness of her palms. The smoothness came from the lack of labor. Her hands bore no calluses, or rather only a small one on her middle finger from holding a pen. Her nails were never broken and always buffed. She was too fine for the likes of him, but he had begun to need her touch.
“Did things go badly with Whitton? Is that why he left?” asked the man in a low whisper.
Mrs. Broadhurst leaned over and smoothed the blankets. Jack tried to open his eyes but succeeded in only a tiny crack where he could see little through the blur of his lashes. The drug had damn near made him insensible, but he supposed he welcomed the heavy curtain it made between him and the pain.
“Robert, how much money does Mr. Broadhurst send you annually?”
“Really, Caro—”
“I deserve to know what will be lost if Mr. Broadhurst divorces me.”
Hope blossomed in Jack’s chest. It was an odd thing, but with his rational mind muted by the morphine, he wanted to believe she would be available—not that she’d ever consider marriage to the likes of him, but perhaps a friendship.
“He’s not going to divorce you, Caroline,” exclaimed the man, Robert—he must be her brother or he would not be calling her by her given name.
She turned away. Jack could only see the purplish brown material of the gown she wore. It was the kind of thing she wore to the mill office, not the flashy, fussy kind of clothes she wore around her guests. Her everyday dresses were of Broadhurst-milled material, same as the women of the village, but she was always set apart by more than the better cut and trim. Her regal bearing and refinement were present in every movement she made. Even the first time he’d seen her, he noticed her quiet dignity. Yet, she’d been little more than a child with a husband more than thrice her age.
“He may,” Mrs. Broadhurst replied.
“If you do as he wishes, he won’t.”
“How much? I know the original sum paid to Papa was around twenty thousand pounds.”
Jack wondered if he had gasped. He felt as if he should have. It was an outrageous sum, more money than would pass through his family’s hands in their entire lifetime. Probably two or three times as much as the entire eighteen members of his family and their current and future spouses would ever see even if they counted every penny ever made.
“Three thousand pounds per annum,” answered the man.
Jack felt as if the hope had been crushed under the heel of a jackboot. He would never have so much to offer.
“Why do you think that is?” asked Caroline. “With the five-thousand-pound dowries paid for our sisters, Mr. Broadhurst has paid a king’s ransom for me. What is that, seventy-five, eighty thousand to date?”
Eighty-two thousand, calculated Jack. Good God, how much money did Broadhurst have?
“Not a king’s ransom. Richard the Lionhearted’s ransom was one hundred and fifty marks, but of course a mark is less than a pound. So perhaps it is close to a king’s—”
“Robert,” Caroline cut through her brother’s dithering. “Don’t you find it odd he would pay so much for me? Mr. Broadhurst is a man who never makes a bad business decision.”
“He has benefited immeasurably by his association with our family. The mill has prospered, we have all seen to it.”
“Don’t be silly. If he had invested that sum in another mill or two, or even on the Exchange, he would have made a great deal more.” The chair creaked as Mrs. Broadhurst sat down beside the bed. “Other families such as ours had daughters they might have been willing to part with for far less, and it is not as if I am any great beauty—”
Jack raised his hand to protest. She was beautiful.
“—or our stature is so high within the realm. No, this is more like blackmail,” she continued.
“Don’t be absurd, Caro.”
Why hadn’t they noticed his hand?
“What did Papa share with you about my settlement?”
“There is a packet of papers in the safe at home that I am to consult if need be, but I am sure it is just a standard marriage contract. If I had known what was afoot, I would have consulted them before I came. But Papa could drive a shrewd bargain when he needed.”
“Which is why Mr. Broadhurst got me instead of Sarah or Amelia,” Caroline said bitterly. “But he looked . . . beaten when I suggested I’d find a way to send him to prison.”
“Why would you do that?” Lord Nesham blurted.
Jack wanted to rise and stand between Caroline and her brother’s ire, but they seemed oblivious to his presence—not so different than in the normal world. Nobs never recognized his sort in any kind of meaningful way.
“I was angry.” Caroline’s voice was calm and soothing. “I just thought if he divorced me, after all this time, I would strike back. It was a thoughtless thing spoken in heat, but I think he believed me, which was odd.”
Jack tried again to wave his hand. He knew why Broadhurst feared prison. Most of the villagers suspected. No one had any proof, and he was the man they depended on for their livelihoods. People just didn’t speak out against a man with so much power over them. Not when the authorities could be tucked in his pocket. A man who could pay that kind of money for a wife could buy whatever justice he wanted.
Caroline should take the divorce and run.
The back of Jack’s hand rubbed against the covers. No wonder Caroline and her brother weren’t seeing his motion.
He tried harder, succeeded in opening his eyes for just a second and pushed his hand out against Caroline’s knee. His voice feeling rusty as an old pump, he managed to croak out, “Killed his last wife.”
But he was too drained to even register her response or if he was coherent. The drug and the effort to speak overpowered his will to stay awake against the sedating effect of the morphine. The gray nothingness sucked him down.
Caroline couldn’t move for fear she would crack. Silence shuttered the room. It wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. Jack had to be dreaming.
“What did he say?” demanded Robert.
“Jack,” she whispered, hoping he would startle awake and look as if he’d been deep in a nightmare. His hand against her leg let her know he’d been awake, had intended for her to hear, but she refused to believe it. If Mr. Broadhurst had murdered his previous wife, if her father had known, if anyone had known, he’d be in prison or dead now. She wrapped her cold fingers around Jack’s warm palm. He was very still, except for his deep breathing, and he didn’t clasp her back.
Robert’s brow furrowed and he leaned toward her. “He said—”
“He’s under the influence of morphine,” Caroline interrupted. The last thing she wanted was for the words to be repeated. She lifted Jack’s limp hand. “Look, he is asleep.”
Why would he have said such a thing? She pushed Jack’s hand under the covers. She hadn’t shattered, but only Jack’s weakened state kept her from shaking him violently.
“Caro,” whispered Robert. “It would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
Like a knife running down her spine, Caroline wanted nothing to do with Jack’s pronouncement. “No. Not for Papa to have allowed me to marry him, and not for what I know of my husband. He would never kill anyone.”
But a tiny doubt niggled at her. Broadhurst could be ruthless.
“Caro, if there is even a chance it might be true, I cannot allow you to stay here.”
“You can do without the three thousand pounds per annum?” she asked.
Robert put his hand over his face. “I’ll break the entail to Nesham Hall and sell it. I’ll find a way. I have a responsibility to you, even if Papa—”
“What of the scandal?”
“I don’t need the earldom. Your safety is more important than that.”
“It’s not true, Robert. Just the ramblings of an injured man. Never think it is true.” Even if it were possible, she’d spent fifteen years as Mr. Broadhurst’s wife, and Robert had only been the head of the family for the last eighteen months.
She couldn’t allow her brother to sell the family estate. The fortified house with its many additions had been in their family since the sixteenth century. It was home in a way this house could never be. If Robert had to sell it, there was nowhere left for her to return if this marriage ended. And she had her pride. If her contribution had saved the family home, she didn’t want to forgo that now. Besides it wasn’t true. Mr. Broadhurst was a businessman, not a murderer.
“I’ll just continue on as before. I would very much like a little one of my own.” She tried to smile, but her face felt made of stone. Her heart was a stone too, heavy and painful in her chest. “I will be glad of it, really. I’m sorry I questioned anything.”
The maid returned with Caroline’s belated breakfast, effectively ending the conversation. But a woman made of stone couldn’t eat.
At midday during the dinner break, several of his coworkers stopped by, along with his oldest sisters bringing apple tarts. He supposed they had been cooking when the earlier wave of visitors arrived. Still groggy from the injection of morphine the doctor had given him before unwrapping and frowning over his misshapen leg, Jack tried to choke down a few bites. At least the doctor’s visit and his stitching the surgery scar together had chased away Lucy.
Mrs. Broadhurst had been there, but maddeningly far away. She hadn’t made eye contact with him, and she left with the doctor.
The door swung open, and Jack hoped for Mrs. Broadhurst, but instead Mr. Broadhurst filled the doorway. “What is the meaning of this?”
The conversation died in mid-sentence.
Finally one of his sisters said, “Beg pardon, sir. We were visiting Jack.”
“He doesn’t need visitors.” Mr. Broadhurst eyed the nightshirt Jack wore.
For once Jack agreed. “They were just leaving,” he said. “Thank you all for coming.”
One of the men cast an uncertain look toward Jack. He shook his head. It was one thing for him to incur Mr. Broadhurst’s wrath, but the others were too dependent on their jobs at the mill. Still, Jack felt overmatched and puny compared to the old man.
No one moved. Broadhurst blocked the doorway.
“We’ll just be leaving, then.” One of the men shifted from one foot to the other as he eyed the doorway.
Jack’s sister extended the plate. “Would you care for an apple tart, sir?”
It seemed to break Broadhurst free of his glare. He moved to the side. “Go on, then.”
Everyone filed past, their chins tucked and their gazes down, as if to look at Broadhurst might invoke his wrath.
In a low, threatening voice, Broadhurst said, “No more visitors.” He turned and yelled at a footman. “Do you hear me? No more millworkers are to be allowed in the house.”
The only visitor Jack really wanted was Mrs. Broadhurst, but he couldn’t resist saying, “Thank you, sir. They were keeping me from my rest.”
Not that he could do much more than lie there and try not to think of the pain, but he was incredibly exhausted, and a catnap here and there was better than nothing.
Mr. Broadhurst crossed the room and stood above him. His silence didn’t bode well, and the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck lifted, but he resisted being the one to break the silence.
“Don’t get used to this.”
“I didn’t want to come here in the first place.” Jack clenched the covers. “Sir.”
Broadhurst slowly turned his head, all the while keeping his eye on Jack, until it became a sideways look that sent chills down Jack’s spine. “I expect a fair number of those who suffer an injury like yours don’t live long.”
“I’m told a few die of putrefaction,” said Jack. “But I’m not showing signs of it.”
“Yet,” murmured Broadhurst.
“I plan to leave your house as soon as I’m able.”
“See that you do,” said Broadhurst as he exited the room.
Jack sucked in a deep breath. If the man had any idea of the way he thought of Mrs. Broadhurst, he’d be gone faster than he could shake a stick. And there’d be no telling if it was by fair means or foul.