What a Woman Desires Read online

  But as they entered her mother’s dark and dreary bedroom with the mirror above the mantel shrouded in black cloth and the curtains closed, the notion of losing her career and independence flowed like ice water through Monica’s veins. Claustrophobia threatened; panic clawed, but no matter how hard it may be to see her mother this way, see her she would.

  Her family needed her and she wouldn’t right the wrongs of the past by abandoning them as they had her.

  She and Jane lowered their mother to sit on the edge of the bed and Monica gently laid her hand upon her shoulder. “Tomorrow, we will give Papa the most beautiful farewell possible and say our final goodbyes. Maybe then your heart will be ready to accept what it already knows. I am so sorry, Mama.”

  Her mother stared at her before slowly nodding. “Thank you.”

  The silence pressed down and Monica gently touched her mother’s face and looked deep into her eyes. “Do you understand, Mama?”

  Her mother’s confused daze bore into Monica’s. She looked so lost. So small. The difference in the tall, stout, rigid stance of the woman who raised her was as shocking as it was sad. A solitary tear slipped down her cheek. “Are you home to stay, Monica?”

  Monica swallowed. “From now on, we’ll be together. Wherever Jane and I are, you will be too. I promise.”

  Chapter 8

  Thomas stared toward the chimneys of Marksville House and took another mouthful of coffee. Standing at the edge of the cottage garden his family leased on the estate, he curled his fingers over the top of the gate and imagined the happenings inside the house as the family stirred from their slumber.

  On the morning of the master’s funeral, the land Thomas loved so much stretched out ahead of him in all its beautifully green glory, the rising sun glinting and shining as though today was a new beginning.

  A new beginning of what? That was the question that had him tossing and turning most of the night.

  Thomas chewed the inside of his lower lip as he pondered the day ahead and how to ensure he kept a handle on his need to know more from Monica after her revelations the day before. Intellectually, he was adamant today would be about nothing but the burial of Mr. Danes and doing whatever he could to comfort the mistress, Monica, and Miss Jane. In his heart, he had no idea how he’d successfully execute his best intentions.

  He desperately wanted to know where Baxter languished. Was he in prison? Or roaming Bath’s streets as free as a bird? What if the bastard was preying and beating on other women right now?

  Cursing, he tossed the dregs of his coffee over the gate and marched back into the house, ducking through the open door and into the kitchen. His mother stood at the table dressed in mourning clothes, her gray hair neatly pinned in a bun at the back of her head, no doubt ready and waiting for her best black bonnet. Thomas smiled. He was proud to have such a fine-looking woman care for him, his sister, and father.

  He approached her and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “How’re you feeling?”

  She smiled, and when she looked at him, flashes of tears teetered on her lashes. “I’m fine. A little worried for Mrs. Danes and the girls, but otherwise just fine.”

  He brushed his thumb under one of her eyes and then the other. “They’ll be strong enough. They have half the village to support them, as well as each other and us. Where’s Pa?”

  “I’ve locked him in the bathroom until he’s trimmed that beard of his and smartened himself up. The way he was dressed when he came downstairs, you’d think he had the notion to clean out the pigs.”

  Thomas laughed and pressed a second kiss to her temple. He walked to the coat stand in the corner of the room and shrugged on his church jacket, its starched formality reminding him once more of the day’s gravity. “I’m going up to the house and see what needs to be done. Will you and Pa be all right making your way to the church? I assume Jeannie slept at the house last night?”

  His mother nodded as she laid a huge slab of sponge cake onto a length of cloth, no doubt to be wrapped and taken to the house. “She did. Mrs. Seton was in such a flurry after Miss Monica’s arrival, she forbade Jeannie from leaving the house until after poor Mr. Danes is laid to rest.” His mother swiped her cheek and smiled softly, her hands trembling as she worked. “I offered to make this sponge so she could concentrate on whatever the mistress wants done.”

  Thomas blew out a breath. “Will Mrs. Seton have any way of knowing what that will be? The mistress chops and changes her mind more often that I can keep up with nowadays.”

  His mother sighed. “Well, if there’s anyone who knows the mistress, it’s Mrs. Seton. She’ll do her utmost to ensure Mrs. Danes doesn’t get any more upset than can be expected under the circumstances.” She looked toward the open back door. “It’s a sad, sad day, but we’ll be here for the family as we’ve always been.”

  Thomas took his hat from the top of the stand and put it on. “The mistress will be just fine as long as she has her kin around her. She has them home now. Both of them.” Monica’s determination to be on her way back to Bath as soon as possible filled his mind once more and Thomas resolutely shoved his concern away. “It would make Pa’s passing easier having me and Jeannie here for you to lean on, wouldn’t it?”

  His mother turned and frowned. “Of course it would. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Cursing his careless musing aloud, Thomas cleared his throat. “I’m just saying. Monica being home will be good for the mistress.” His mother narrowed her eyes and he shifted uncomfortably. “What?”

  “Hmm.”

  The skepticism in his mother’s tone alerted Thomas to an incoming lecture or interrogation. Not trusting himself to provide suitable—or believable—answers to satisfy his mother’s intelligent and astute mind, he clapped his hands. “Right, well, I’d better make tracks.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll see you at the—”

  “I haven’t finished with you yet, Thomas Ashby.” The legs of a chair scraped across the stone floor behind him. “Take the weight off your feet for a few minutes.”

  Thomas halted with his back still turned and glowered. The tone of his mother’s voice broached no objection, and he was pretty certain of what was coming. He turned around. “What is it?”

  She tilted her head toward the vacant chair closest to him. “Sit.”

  He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder toward the inviting sight of the garden and beyond, before sighing and pulling out the chair. His backside had barely brushed its surface before his mother leaned her fists on the table opposite him and pinned him with her unwavering stare. “So . . . how is Miss Fancy Drawers?”

  He laughed even though unease lifted the hairs on the nape of his neck. “Miss Fancy Drawers?”

  She lifted an eyebrow as she waited.

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “If you mean Monica, she’s fine.”

  “Miss Monica to you . . . and what do you mean fine? How can she be fine when she’s been summoned from her fancy life in Bath to bury a father she couldn’t wait to get away from?” She sat down and shook her head. “I loved the bones of that girl, but when she up and left, breaking Mr. and Mrs. Danes’ hearts like that—”

  Thomas sniffed. “They weren’t heartbroken, Ma, and well you know it. It’s none of our business why Monica left.”

  “None of our business?” She raised her eyebrows. “Well, you’re certainly singing a different tune. It was only last week when Miss Jane told you her sister was coming back that you flew into a temper, cursing and grooming Jake to within an inch of the poor horse’s life.” She narrowed her eyes again. “So what’s changed?”

  Goddamn it. The woman is like a dog with a bone once she gets started. He shrugged. “Nothing’s changed.”

  She continued to stare until, second by painful second, comprehension lit in her dark brown eyes and she slowly smiled. “You’re absolutely right. Nothing has changed, has it?”

  He pushed to his fee
t. “I’ve got to go.”

  His mother lunged forward and gripped his wrist, her eyes as hard as two shining chestnuts. “Sit.”

  Swallowing the tirade of curse words scorching his tongue, Thomas held his ground and glared. “Leave it, Ma.”

  “You’re supposed to be there to help that girl. Nothing more, nothing less. She doesn’t need the welfare of your heart on her conscience on top of everything else she has to deal with.”

  Irritation coiled in Thomas’s gut and he scowled. Doesn’t she think I know that? Why else did it take every ounce of strength not to take Monica in my arms the minute I saw her? Christ Almighty, I’ve fought my feelings for the woman half my life.

  He clenched his jaw. “Why are you talking about my heart? I haven’t got time to be worrying about romance and God knows what else. You do know how hard I work to keep us in food and shelter, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, and there aren’t many times you feel the need to remind me that you do either. Now, what has been said between you and Miss Monica since she’s been back? Is she engaged? Married? Is that what’s got you all of a dither? From what I’ve been told, she’s living a spinster life and as happy as a dove in a coot about it too.”

  He closed his eyes and crossed his arms. “She’s not engaged or married and, yes, she acts mighty happy about keeping it that way.” He opened his eyes and pinned his mother with enforced hostility. He had to erect some boundaries if he had any chance of putting a stop to her questioning. “Stop worrying about what I think or feel. If you need to worry about something, worry what will happen to us if she sells the house.”

  His mother flinched and Thomas inwardly kicked himself for the brutal delivery of his fears. He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. “I mean—”

  “She’s going to sell the house? Oh, my God.”

  The stricken look on his mother’s face brought him around the table as quick as lightning. He gripped her upper arms. “Ma, listen to me. There’s nothing to worry about on that score . . . at least not yet. Monica says she has no plans. For now, there’s little else to do but trust she’ll do right by us and everyone else when the time comes. She knows people rely on Marksville for their living.” He pulled her close. “I’ll do everything I can to convince her Biddestone is not the place she thinks it is.”

  His mother pulled back, her eyes full of anxiety. “What do you mean? The girl knows the village as well as you or I. If she wants to sell up, what can any of us do to stop her?” Her voice hitched. “Oh, Thomas, you have to do something. I can’t leave here, not now. Your father would die of heartbreak after all the work—”

  “That won’t happen.” The firmness in his voice echoed the conviction in his gut. He stared deep into her eyes, willing her belief. “You’ll have to trust me. I’ll speak to her and make her understand.” Passion for the land and house burned like fire in his chest. “She might not see in Marksville what we do, but she soon will.”

  “What will you do?”

  He glanced toward the open door. “This is her home, where she grew up, but her childhood was nothing like mine and Jeannie’s, and certainly nothing like yours and Pa’s.”

  “But she lived a privileged life and still turned her back on the place. I can’t see how you will convince her to stay if she feels that strongly.”

  He released her and stepped toward the door. “I’ll find a way to get through to her. It might take some time, but I’ll get there.”

  “She needs to give up this daftness in the city and come home where she belongs. Mrs. Danes needs her. Why would anyone who hasn’t had to face the workhouse or plough the fields not want to live in their very own castle?”

  Thomas swallowed against the dreaded truth that lodged like a stone in his throat and turned. “I don’t think she sees Marksville as a castle. I think she sees it as a prison.”

  Concern and bafflement shone in his mother’s teary gaze. “Then you must convince her otherwise. Whether or not they’re wasted, you have feelings for the girl. She trusts you. You have to keep her closer than you would an enemy. You have to show her how good her life could be here.” Her eyes widened. “What of Miss Jane and Mrs. Danes? Miss Monica wouldn’t rip them from their home and everything they hold dear, would she?”

  “I don’t know.” Thomas yanked on the cuffs of his jacket. “But one way or another, I’ll get to the root of whatever it is Monica is running from and take it from there. Like I said, she acts happy with her life in Bath, but something isn’t right. Her eyes . . .” He clenched his jaw. “She just doesn’t shine like she did before.”

  His mother’s smile was soft as she stepped forward and cupped her work-worn hand to his jaw. “She doesn’t shine? Oh, Thomas.”

  Cursing his inability to keep his mouth from running off, Thomas drew her hand from his face and stepped back. “I’ll see you at the church.” He winked, because a smile was a stretch too far when he had such gnawing trepidation in his gut. “I won’t let you or the family down. I love you too much for Monica to sweep back into the village and destroy everything we’ve worked so hard for.”

  “Just be careful. You’re my son and I love you far too much to stand by and let you get hurt trying to do the right thing.”

  “It won’t be me doing the right thing. It will be Monica.”

  Thomas left the house and made for the backyard. He stood at the edge of the paddock and whistled. Jake immediately lifted his head from the grass he was busy devouring and trotted toward his master. Opening the gate, Thomas grasped Jake’s bridle and led him toward the shed to tack up.

  Come hell or high water, by the end of the day, Monica would understand her only real choice was to do right by the people of Biddestone, or live with the consequences of her abandonment for the rest of her life. She had no idea what it felt like to live hand to mouth, to not have anyone but a stranger to rely on for food and shelter.

  She’d told him about Baxter and she’d told him of her friends. If her success and their lessons hadn’t taught her how hard good fortune was to come by, and hold on to when it did, then it would be down to Thomas to make her see the light. A job he hoped would bring him more pleasure than pain, but judging by the heaviness in his heart, the task will undoubtedly bring much more of the latter.

  As her father’s casket was lowered into the ground, Monica lifted her chin and stared ahead. The soft murmurs and stifled sobs of the mourners quivered around her, squeezing mercilessly at her heart, but she would not cry. Intensely aware of Thomas a distance away from her, Monica glanced in his direction. His arm was around her mother’s shoulders, towering above her in height and stature as she drifted between outbursts of confusion and grief.

  Through hard work, loyalty, and ambition, he’d forged his place as a vital vertebra in the Danes family spine. With her father gone, he was now the singular man of the house. When she’d left Marksville to make her permanent home in Bath, Thomas’s father was beginning to suffer with arthritis and Thomas was taking on more and more responsibility. His clear ease with her mother and her silent, segregated trust in him proved that in five years, Thomas had established a stronger, more vital position in the household than his father had ever managed before him.

  Pride swelled her heart and Monica exhaled a long breath as the worry of making Thomas’s life worse, rather than better, taunted her thoughts once more. His tenacity was just another virtue she admired in him. Her body longed to move closer to him and Monica stiffened. No. She could not lean on him when she felt so unable to give him what he wanted. His permanent employment.

  She looked at him again and her heart hitched. His blue-green eyes bored into hers. For the last half hour she’d endured the stares and silent, but clear judgment of the villagers and the nervous glances and murmurs of the estate’s tenants. Unspoken questions and demands filtered through the air like a cloud of knives waiting to fall and cut her. There was little doubt in her mind that many mourners were at her father’s graveside purely for any small indic
ation that their homes and jobs were safe.

  Monica snatched her gaze from Thomas’s and stared ahead as dirt was thrown upon her father’s casket. Again, her lack of tears was as frightening as it was telling. Jane had said she was certain no one else knew Monica was potentially the sole inheritor of the estate, but the looks of fear or disdain on the tenants’ faces said differently. They knew. They knew their fates lie entirely in her hands. Monica tilted her chin. She didn’t doubt where their loyalties rightly lay . . . and that they would feel more trust if the estate had been left to Jane.

  Pressure that felt too like her father’s last laugh pressed down on Monica’s shoulders and she fought back with all her might. Turning from the grave, she cleared her throat and gently touched Mrs. Seton’s elbow, leading her away from the graveside. “The food is ready for anyone who wishes to come back to the house?”

  The housekeeper nodded, her eyes and cheeks dry, her mouth drawn into a line. “Yes, miss. I thought it best I make some sandwiches and the like in case Mrs. Danes changed her mind about visitors.”

  Monica frowned and glanced at the clusters of people trying and failing not to look in her direction. “Changed her mind? But I thought Mama wanted food prepared so would we offer a meal to the mourners. It’s the best way to thank them for their condolences, surely?”

  “Indeed, miss.” The housekeeper nodded. “But this morning, your mama altered her decision to extend an invitation to the tenants at least three times.”

  Monica briefly closed her eyes before opening them again. She offered Mrs. Seton a small smile of gratitude. “Well, I thank you for your patience. I promise with Papa gone, Jane and I will do our best to make your life a little easier, and try to bring any kitchen decisions to you ourselves. Would that help?”