Bound By Their Secret Passion

Chapter Five

The next several days for Lorene went by as if in a dream.

At least she had not been alone. Tess and Glenville stayed with her at Tinmore Hall and Genna and Rossdale called almost every day. Their presence further disgruntled the servants, but Lorene had long ago given up being accepted by them. Most were old retainers who had served Tinmore most of their lives. She knew nothing of the history of their service to him, but they’d perceived her as an interloper. When Tinmore had been alive, they’d barely been civil, but now their animosity was palpable. Only Filkins, Tinmore’s secretary, exerted himself to be helpful to her, writing to the solicitors who were executors of Tinmore’s will, notifying Tinmore’s heir. The secretary even made tentative arrangements for Tinmore’s burial, although the funeral had to meet the executor’s approval. More than that, the funeral had to be delayed until all the jurors had paraded through the house to examine Tinmore’s body and the place he fell. The jurors were good and lawful men recruited from neighbouring properties and, though they must not have been pleased to have their Christmastide so interrupted, they all seemed to take their task seriously.

* * *

By New Year’s Eve, all jurors had seen what was required of them. The inquest was scheduled for January the thirteenth, a week after Twelfth Night, so as not to interfere with any of the festivities of those involved. There were no festivities at Tinmore Hall.

* * *

On January the eighth, Lord Tinmore’s solicitors arrived from London and gathered all interested parties to a drawing room to read the will.

Lorene’s sisters and their husbands accompanied her.

Rossdale muttered under his breath as they walked into room, ‘He had better have done well by you.’

‘I do not expect much,’ Lorene cautioned. ‘Contrary to what everyone believes, I did not marry him to make myself a wealthy widow.’

All she wanted was enough to purchase a little cottage somewhere and to live quietly. A place where scandal would never touch her again. That had been all she asked of Tinmore. Enough for her to live comfortably in some quiet village somewhere and never, ever, be under the thumb of a husband again.

‘Well, I think Tinmore owes you a great deal,’ Genna huffed.

‘He already gave us a great deal,’ she responded.

They’d had beautiful places to live, plenty of food, social connections and the prettiest gowns money could buy, but now she needed no more than a little cottage where she could plant flowers in a garden and not be waited on hand and foot by a brigade of servants. One or two maids to help in the house and a man to do the heavy things would be lovely, but, even so, she could do with less.

They took their seats. This drawing room was the same room where the coroner and Squire Hedges had interviewed her and Dell. There were two men, the solicitor and his partner, both attended by Mr Filkins, who’d made certain the proper people had been invited. The room was filled with the servants who had been in Tinmore’s employ the longest, Dixon, Wicky, the housekeeper, Lorene’s lady’s maid, and a smattering of others, including the estate manager and others important to the running of the estate. Lord Tinmore’s heir was not present, having declined to make the trip.

‘Shall we begin,’ the solicitor intoned, unfurling the document.

The room fell silent and he began to read.

Lorene fancied she could hear Tinmore’s voice in the words and it disturbed her mostly because she had no feelings about it. She could not say she missed him. She could not even say she’d been fond of him.

The most she could say was she was glad she no longer had to listen to his voice.

She glanced around the room at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls. In them, though, she saw Tinmore’s features. His brow here. A nose there. His eyes. His disapproving mouth.

She forced her gaze to the window. The snow had melted and the landscape bore the bleakness of winter and none of its beauty.

The solicitor’s voice broke through. ‘...And to my widow, née Lorene Summerfield, the town house on Brook Street in Mayfair and an income of twelve thousand pounds a year...’

Genna gasped.

Lorene shook her head. Surely she had misheard.

The solicitor went on to specify certain carriages and horses that were to be hers, as well as some pieces of furniture and the gilt pianoforte that had been one of Tinmore’s more extravagant gifts.

She murmured, ‘It cannot be so.’

She’d not even known he owned a town house on Brook Street. While in London they’d stayed at the town house on Curzon Street, which she knew to be entailed.

The solicitor continued with a long list of other bequests to persons present and others who would need to be informed. When all the bequests had been spoken, he rolled up the will again and indicated that they were free to leave.

The servants and others milled around briefly talking among themselves. They seemed pleased, as well they should, because Tinmore had generously provided for them.

Finally they filed out of the room and Lorene walked up to the solicitor. ‘Did I hear you correctly?’

He unrolled the will and reread the words pertaining to her.

She still could not believe it. ‘How much income?’

‘Twelve thousand.’ The man rolled up the document again. ‘Quite the generous man, was he not?’

Lorene nodded and turned away.

She’d wanted to be comfortable, but now she would not be comfortable after all.

She’d be wealthy.

Rossdale and Glenville also approached the solicitors and she withdrew to let them gather all the petty details of how and when she was to receive this fortune and the deed to the town house she did not want.

Tess took her arm and sat her back down on the sofa between Genna and herself.

‘This is marvellous.’ Genna took her hand. ‘You will want for nothing!’

Tess looked at her with concern. ‘Why are you so shocked? Surely you expected a decent inheritance?’

‘I—I did not,’ she said.

‘Humph!’ Genna made a face. ‘He probably did it so the beau monde would call him generous.’

Tess shot Genna a quelling glance. ‘No matter the reason, he was very generous.’ Tess looked thoughtful. ‘Although I suppose it is less than if he’d given you dower.’

Dower would have given her a third of the value of Tinmore’s property for her lifetime, but she’d signed away her rights to dower when she married Tinmore in exchange for his providing for her siblings.

‘I did not expect this.’ Lorene pressed her fingers to her temple.

Tess took her other hand and squeezed it. ‘Now you can come to town and live in a lovely town house and always be near me.’ Tess and her husband spent most of the year in London.

But living in Mayfair was an appalling thought for Lorene. To be in town, among the beau monde, as Genna called them, the very people who whispered behind her back and remarked how she was just like her mother, who was scandal personified. She could hear them now, boasting how they knew all along she was after Tinmore’s fortune.

Genna hugged her. ‘This must be a huge relief to you. Now you will have no worries at all. You may do as you please. Everyone knows that widows are the most fortunate of women. You can make your own decisions. Control your own money. No husband will dictate to you.’

Tess gave her younger sister a horrified look. ‘Genna! How can you say such a thing when you are so newly married?’

Genna laughed. ‘I was not talking of me. Goodness knows, Ross is the best husband a woman could desire.’ A dreamy look crossed her face, but fled again, replaced by a pragmatic one. ‘I was speaking of other men.’

‘Not Marc,’ protested Tess.

‘Of course not!’ Genna appeared affronted. ‘Your husband is nearly as wonderful as mine.’

Tess smiled and absently touched her abdomen. ‘Yes, Marc is wonderful.’

Lorene regarded them and her heart swelled with fondness. That deep core of contentment inside her would never leave her. Her sisters and brother had found what she had most wanted for them and what she once dreamed of for herself.

Love and marriage.

And Lorene was convinced that her decision to marry Tinmore had led to their happy outcomes, even if none of it had happened as she’d thought. She gazed from Tess to Genna and was glad she’d made the sacrifice to give up her own dreams of such happiness.

Dell’s handsome face flashed through her mind, though she scolded herself for it. These feelings for him were simply ones she’d used to counter Tinmore’s nagging displeasure or thoughtless disregard of her. Dell was the antithesis of her husband, the perfect gentleman, always doing what was right and good. But their connection was not a romantic one.

She must stop mooning over him. What if she’d somehow shown her secret regard for Dell and that was why Tinmore had accused them of being lovers?

She’d not seen Dell since the day after Tinmore died. How was he faring? She knew he stayed away deliberately lest people think they really had been lovers and, worse, lest they think he pushed Tinmore to his death because of it. Look how coming to her aid had hurt him.

‘Lady Tinmore.’ The solicitor was gesturing for her to approach.

She rose and walked over to where Rossdale and Glenville were still standing with him.

‘Mr Filkins tells us the funeral and burial can take place as soon as two days hence,’ the solicitor told her. ‘That is, if you approve of such a simple ceremony. We could, of course, plan to wait until we can plan something grander.’

Wait? She could not bear to wait.

‘No, let us proceed with a simple funeral in two days,’ she said. ‘I am certain that is what he would wish.’ Not precisely. Tinmore would probably relish a great deal of pomp and fuss.

‘As you desire.’ The solicitor inclined his head. ‘You will, of course, not be expected to attend.’

Wives and other female mourners were not welcome at funerals and burials. They might break down in tears, which would be most unseemly. Lorene, though, feared her lack of tears would be what offended.

She turned to Mr Filkins. ‘Thank you for arranging this.’

He nodded solemnly.

She seemed to remember the will had provided well for him. ‘Will you retire, then, Mr Filkins?’

‘Who would hire me?’ He attempted a smile. ‘I have a cousin in Yorkshire. Mayhap I will settle there.’

She put a hand on his arm. ‘You must let me know if you do. I will write to you.’

He looked embarrassed and pleased at the same time.

She released him. ‘Do not think I am insensible to your assistance and—and your support, Mr Filkins. I will always cherish it.’

Now his face did turn red. She smiled and let him escape.

Tess walked up to her. ‘Do you have need of me, Lorene? Because I am suddenly quite fatigued.’

‘No. No need of you.’ Tess’s health and that of her baby were of utmost importance. ‘Rest for as long as you like.’

Glenville peered worriedly at his wife. ‘Are you unwell?’

Tess smiled and touched her abdomen. ‘We are quite well. But I am in great need of a nap.’

He gestured to the solicitor. ‘I was going to accompany Mr Filkins and the solicitors to call upon the vicar, to make final arrangements for the funeral.’

‘Go,’ said Tess. ‘I assure you I simply need a nap.’

Rossdale stood nearly at Lorene’s elbow, listening to this exchange.

She turned to him. ‘You and Genna need not stay, either, Rossdale. I am grateful that you were here for the reading of the will, but I suspect nothing more will require your presence today.’

Rossdale gave her a direct look. ‘Are you certain?’

She nodded. ‘I will relish some quiet time.’

He continued to peer into her face. ‘Because we will stay if you need company.’

‘No, at the moment I desire solitude more than company.’

She thanked the solicitors and walked with the entire entourage to the hall, saying goodbye to Genna and Rossdale, and letting the others know she would see them all at dinner. Glenville, Filkins and the solicitors called for their topcoats and hats. The vicarage was only a short distance away and, after some discussion, they decided to walk there rather than order the carriage.

Lorene walked up the stairs with Tess and saw her to her bedchamber. ‘Are you certain you are all right?’ she asked.

Tess took her hand. ‘Very certain. You could do with a rest, too, you know. We have some more days to get through.’

Tess meant the funeral. And the inquest.

Lorene gave her sister a kiss on the cheek. ‘Perhaps I will.’

But when Tess disappeared into her room, Lorene wrapped her arms around herself for a moment and leaned against the wall. The thought of retiring to her bedchamber or to her sitting room or to any room in this house was unbearable. Left alone with her thoughts? It was the last thing she wanted.

But she also did not want company. She loved that her sisters and their husbands were so attentive, but, to a certain extent she had to hide her emotions from them. The only one who knew how she felt inside about Tinmore’s death was Dell. The others might guess or even presume, but they did not hear it from her lips. She’d told Dell, though. She’d told him that her overwhelming feeling about her husband’s tragic death was...relief.

Thinking of it now filled her with shame. What sort of wife felt like this? Not even sad for him?

These were precisely the thoughts she sought to escape.

She glanced at the walls surrounding her and suddenly wished they would disappear. Even the air in the house felt oppressive. She wanted to breathe fresh air. She wanted to be free of walls. She wanted to feel the way she had walking to Summerfield House on Christmas Day.

She hurried to her bedchamber and pulled out her warmest cloak, the one she’d worn that day. She kicked off her slippers, put on her half-boots, gloves and a warm hat and she was ready to escape.

Lorene hurried down a back stairway and slipped out a side door rarely used by anyone. She crossed the park in front of the house in the opposite direction from the way Glenville, Filkins and the solicitors went to the vicarage. She had no destination in mind except to walk far enough to be off Tinmore’s land where she still felt his spirit scolding and belittling her. When she’d walked to Summerfield House on Christmas Day, she’d been free of him. She walked in that direction now.

The day was grey and dismal, like her spirits, and her mind spun into knots of confusion. How could Tinmore have given her such wealth when she could not even bring herself to mourn him? What should she do with that money? With that Mayfair town house? She did not want to think of such things!

The further she walked, the more her mind cleared itself. She was left with only the sensation of inhaling cold air into her lungs and feeling the wind sting her cheeks. The earth beneath her was frozen hard and that cold seeped through her boots. The wind whistled in her ears and rustled the bushes and trees.

It felt glorious!

She quickened her step and wished she could be like the deer that bounded across the fields. She wished she had the courage to run so free.

Why not?

She gathered her skirts in her hands and took flight, dashing across the field with nothing and no one to stop her.

* * *

Dell had been restless the whole day, knowing from Ross that Tinmore’s will would be read this day. Would Tinmore have done well by her?

If not, she needn’t want for anything. He’d help her himself if it came to that. Most likely, though, he need not concern himself over it. Ross or Glenville would step in for Lorene if it were necessary.

Any help he gave would arouse suspicions. Make it seem there was a connection between them, when there was not. True, he was related to the Summerfields, but the connection was through a distant ancestor. Possibly he was no blood relation at all. It was said the Summerfield sisters were not fathered by Sir Hollis, but by their mother’s different lovers.

Their appearance certainly fuelled that rumour. The three ladies were about as unlike as sisters could be. Genna was tall and blonde. Tess, shorter and chestnut-haired. Lorene’s hair was the shade of fine mahogany, although it glistened with auburns and golds when the sun hit it just right. She was the shortest of the three even though the oldest. Their eye colours were different as well. Only Lorene had those dark brown eyes that seemed perpetually warm and inviting.

He liked Lorene. He could admit that much, could he not? But that did not matter, did it? He did not want to feel any connection with her. He did not want anyone to matter to him. His family had mattered and their loss was too painful to bear.

Grief threatened to engulf him once again.

He strode out of the house and down to the stables. A good ride would set him to rights.

Within a few minutes his horse was saddled and he was galloping over fields and up the hills that made the undulating Lincolnshire landscape so pleasing to the eye. He gave his mare a rest at the crest of a hill. Both he and the animal sucked in the brisk winter air and savoured it.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied a figure in the distance. He turned and knew immediately it was Lorene, even though he was atop the hill and she below, running as if the devil himself was chasing her. What a lovely sight. The hood of her cloak had fallen back and her hat was held on to her neck only by its ribbons. Her hair had come loose of its pins and flew wild and free behind her.

He shook himself. Why was she running? Was she in trouble?

He signalled his horse to action and they galloped down the hill as fast as they were able. No matter his promise to avoid her—if she needed him, he would be there for her.

He reached the valley ahead of her, still a distance away. She stopped immediately when he came into her view and waited while he slowed his horse.

He rode to her and dismounted. ‘Lorene’ was all he could manage.

‘Dell.’ Her voice was equally as hushed.

‘How—how do you fare? Are you in need of assistance? You were running.’ What was this unease he felt being near her? She—no one—could matter that much.