What Happened at Midnight(21)

One confidence was good. It might lead to another, after all, the one that he truly desired. But that didn’t explain the warmth that filled him at the thought of her trust, the smile that he felt come onto his face.

“He’s an ass,” John said simply. “That much I can tell. But I’m sure you have specifics.”

“He has not let his wife be in company for six years. Not to go to church; not to visit the shops. The last time her brother came to see her, Sir Walter threw him off the property and threatened to shoot him if he returned.”

“What is his reasoning?”

Mary shook her head. “Does it matter? His reasoning is flawed. He says he wants to keep her safe. I think he’s afraid that she will be as unfaithful as he has been.”

It matched what little he’d seen of the man. Mary’s voice was scornful, but when he looked down, her hand was a little unsteady on his sleeve.

He set his own hand over hers, holding it in place. “And what has Sir Walter done to you?” His voice went low. And angry—how angry he felt in that moment.

“He withholds my salary,” Mary said. “I have no money—literally not a penny. I’m not allowed to speak to anyone. I live in fear that he’ll discover that I’m climbing out my window to talk with you at night. If he sends me away, I will have nothing, absolutely nothing. He made my world this small.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, indicating. “And I made myself fit into that space.”

He pressed her fingers into his arm. “I could strike him.”

“Don’t be too angry with him. I did it to myself,” she said. “I let him make me small. I believed him at first, when he said he knew what was best for my welfare. I gave up everything, because—”

She was shaking. His hand on hers was no longer enough; he reached and put his arm around her, pulling her close. She had always fit against him so well; she did so again, her body molding to his. The skin of her arms had broken out in gooseflesh, even on this warm night. So he held her and said nothing, held her until she grew warm.

“I let him,” she whispered in his ear, “because I thought I deserved it for what I had done.”

Here was the other half of the confession—the one he had waited for so patiently. So why didn’t he feel any triumph?

“Nobody deserves that,” he responded.

“I thought I did.” She took a deep breath. “You see, when I left Southampton, I went to Basingstoke. I had only a little money, and so much I needed to do. I asked the maids at the inn if there was a doctor who might help me with a private problem for the least amount of money. The maid I talked to suggested Dr. Clemmons. I should have known what I was asking for.”

John felt curiously calm, despite the words she was saying. As if all his emotion was just beyond his reach. “What did you need a doctor for?”

She looked into his lapels. “To falsify a certificate of death.”

His sense of calm grew. It was always thus when he became angry. He’d been right. She had been lying to him. Her father wasn’t dead; the money was still there. He should have been delighted to know there was something to recover, but all he felt was that ugly sense of betrayal.

His hands were still on her, gripping just a little too tightly. “You told me that your father was dead. That you’d watched him buried with your own eyes.”

“The fact of his death was not false.”

He took a breath of relief.

She looked up at him. “The day on the certificate and the cause, though, were lies. My father died in Southampton two days prior. I had to find a doctor willing to certify a lie, and Dr. Clemmons was that man.”

“Two days prior in Southampton? But that’s when we were last together. Why did you not tell us then that your father had passed away?”

“Because he killed himself.” Her voice shook. “He killed himself, and I found his body, and all I could think at the time was that if I somehow managed to get him a proper burial on hallowed ground, if I kept everyone from finding out—that maybe, maybe everything would not be ruined.”

“Oh, Mary,” he breathed. All his anger turned to cold ash. He didn’t let go of her, though. He couldn’t.

“And so I went to Dr. Clemmons. The only problem was that I didn’t have enough money to convince him to perjure himself on my behalf.”

Her breath was coming faster. And she was holding on to him, too, her grip even stronger than his.

“Did he help you?”

“He offered.” She put her forehead against his chest. “He offered to help, despite my lack of money. All I had to do was help him in return. It was such a little thing he asked for. It wouldn’t even risk pregnancy, he said.”

Oh, God. Had he been angry at her? He couldn’t even remember it, not in the rush of emotions that followed. Fury at the doctor, whoever Clemmons was. Anger at himself, for letting her go out into the world alone. But mostly, he felt sorrow that she’d discovered how vicious the world could be—and that he hadn’t been there to make it right.

He’d wondered how she had learned to think of her body as currency. Now he knew.

Mary drew another ragged breath. “He had pushed me to my knees and was undoing his buttons when I told him that I would tell the magistrate. I would spill the whole sordid story: I’d tell about my father’s suicide, and how he’d tried to take advantage of a distraught young lady. So I struck a new bargain—he could keep his reputation and not risk punishment, and in exchange, I’d have that certificate issued as I asked.”