Page 82 of The Mad Baron's Bride
“What do you mean?” Jack sat forward, his voice catching.
“I saw some women like this in the madhouse,” Leda said. “Sometimes it is damage, or illness. Sometimes they are simply born that way. What happened?”
“When she was very small…” Jack cleared his throat and blinked his eyes. He looked at Mrs. Leech like a drowning man who had just seen a boat appear on the horizon.
The cook shook her head and wiped her eyes. “You orter tell her, sir. They all should know.”
Jack swallowed. “One day, when I was away, and Muriel was staying with Anne-Marie’s parents, Anne-Marie gave the servants the day off. Then she took Nanette and went somewhere. I don’t know where; we’ve never learned. But she came back the next morning and said nothing to Mrs. Leech, only went and locked herself in a room.
“Nanette came down with a fever the next day, and a terrible, racking cough. It might have been scarlet fever, or whooping cough—we don’t know. Mrs. Leech nursed her through it, and she survived, but the illness damaged her hearing and possibly her vocal cords, we think.” He swallowed again. His eyes looked desperate, sad.
“Anne-Marie had nothing to do with the baby, not when she was ill, and not after. She locked herself in her room and sank into despair. I couldn’t reach her. She wouldn’t see Muriel. Her parents could do nothing—no one could. A week or so later…” He cleared his throat. “She jumped.”
“Fell,” Muriel said, sitting up, her eyes flaring, fingers clenched around her doll.
“Fell,” Jack amended. He met Leda’s gaze. “I’ve always assumed she tried to run away with her lover, and he turned her down. That is why I thought it was someone near here.”
“But perhaps not someone you know,” Leda murmured. “Nora, my dear, will you hand me that book on the dressing table? Next to the mermaid’s purse.”
“My mother’s diary,” Muriel said in hushed, reverent tones.
“I found it in the mattress. It’s been under my nose all this time. When was Nanette born?”
“June 1794. She’ll be six this year.”
She was small for a six year old, but illness or neglect could slow an infant’s growth; she’d seen that in the madhouse, too, of the women who came with babes in or outside their belly. Leda skimmed through the dates in the journal with its scant but vividentries. Her heart clenched as she read through the fall of the year before Nanette’s birth, Anne-Marie’s wild joy palpable. She was a woman desperately, thoroughly in love. Then the spring, and news of the baby, and the infinite, equally wild despair.
Leda looked up at Jack, her eyes brimming with tears. “May I tell you what I’ve found? I think Mrs. Leech is right. You all should know.”
Jack sat at the edge of the chair like a man ready to start a race. White lines bracketed his eyes. “Tell us.”
“Anne-Marie was in love with a man named Bohamos. Desperately, wildly, completely in love. She fell for him when she was a young girl and watched him for years from afar. When his family came through one fall, she approached him. He loved her back.”
Jack glanced at the older girl. “Ellinore.”
Nora sat on the bed, back straight, knees curved gracefully beside her. She blinked quickly. “Bohamos. He was not from around here?”
“He is one of the Roma, part of the family that travels through this tract of Norfolk in the fall and winter. They have done so for decades, maybe centuries.”
“Of course my grandparents would not let her be with a gypsy,” Ellinore said.
“That is not what they call themselves,” Leda reminded her. “He was betrothed to a Roma woman and meant to marry her. He could not break that oath. When Anne-Marie learned he had married, a year or two later, she—” Leda paused. “She fell into a deep melancholy. Very deep. I think you saved her life when you offered to marry her, Jack.”
“I wish I could believe that were the case,” Jack said quietly. “But I don’t think the melancholy ever left her.”
“It wasn’t you.” Leda leaned forward, wishing she had the right to touch him. But the servants were still watching,pretending to tidy as they listened to the story, and the girls were riveted, Nanette closely watching Leda’s face.
“And me?” Muriel asked. She looked sad, lost, and determined to know. Her expression, her very face, was the image of Jack’s.
“I think there is no doubt who your father is, Muriel,” Leda said gently. “Who else could have given you red hair?”
Muriel gave her father a look full of caution and longing intertwined. A wistful hope nipped at Leda’s heart. With this reassurance, perhaps Muriel would feel softer toward Jack. And perhaps he would be able to reach her with his love. The girl needed it so badly.
“But Nanette,” Ellinore said quietly, tugging on one of her littlest sister’s curls.
“When the travelers came through one fall, Anne-Marie went to Bohamos. She pleaded to join them. Be a second wife. His mistress. Anything to be with him. He still loved her, she believed, but he would not take her with him. It was against his custom. And he had children with his wife. I guess Anne-Marie went to him that day she left, trying to use his child as persuasion, but he broke with her instead. She had to give up the hope that she could ever be with him.”
“And if she could not have him, then she felt her life was over.” Jack’s voice trailed away. “She was that unhappy with me?”
