Bewitching the Baron (38 page)

“Miss Bright,” he said. “Before you leave, may I have a word with you?”

Nathaniel’s grip dug deeper into her arm. “You are hurting me,” she complained, just loud enough for him to hear.

His grip abruptly loosened. “Do not speak to him. He has nothing of importance to say.”

“No, wait,” she said, digging in her heels. “I think I should talk to him.”

“Speaking with him will change nothing. I doubt he even possesses the flexibility to see things from another’s viewpoint.”

She pulled free of Nathaniel’s hand and turned around. “Lord Warrington,” she said, nodding an acknowledgment to him, Oscar fidgeting on her shoulder. “I would like to speak with you as well.”

Lord Warrington inclined his head in acceptance. Valerian did not dare look at Nathaniel. She could feel his presence close behind her, and the tension that came off him like heat. He had obviously been speaking of her to his parents, and it had not gone well.

She took several steps towards Lord Warrington. “Please allow me to say what I feel I must. You, too, Nathaniel,” she added, as he moved to stand beside her.

Oscar flew to the top of the tall clock that stood against the wall, gripping the carved tracery there with his claws, bobbing and watching the scene. Valerian took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. She had never planned to address Nathaniel’s parents, but Fate, or God—or maybe just Oscar—had given her the opportunity, and she knew that this must be done.

“Let me begin by saying that I am aware that I am an unsuitable choice for Nathaniel’s wife, for reasons of family and fortune alone—”

“Your have royal blood in your veins,” Nathaniel interrupted. “Which is more than any of us can say.”

Valerian frowned at him, but it was Lady Warrington who chided him. “Let the girl speak, Nathaniel.”

“Thank you, Lady Warrington. As I was saying, I know I am unsuitable. Perhaps that alone would not be enough to prevent a marriage, but there is more at issue here. I have no wish to be the wedge that divides Nathaniel from his family.”

“You are not a wedge,” Nathaniel interrupted angrily. “It is their inability to see beyond a name that is the wedge.”

“Nathaniel, no,” Valerian said. “They see that we are from different worlds, as I have known all along. I met your friends, however briefly. I could not be happy amongst them. I could not be happy here, in London, even for part of the year. I could not even wear these clothes, beautiful as they are,” she said, touching her tight bodice. “They strangle me, confine me. I cannot be myself in them. I was not made to walk in marble halls on silken slippers.”

Nathaniel grasped her by the shoulders. “We will go back to Raven Hall. You are comfortable there, you can be yourself.”

“And if we had children, Nathaniel, what then? They would never know their grandparents, their aunt, their cousins. It would not be fair to them, and would not be fair to your family.”

“That is their choice, not mine.”

“I will not be the cause of such a division.”

He looked at her intently. “There is more to it, Valerian, there has to be. You are not telling me everything. You do not want to spend your life with me, is that the truth of it? Is it that you care nothing for me? That is the only reason I know of that could justify this stubbornness on your part.”

Her heart ached at the question, and it was difficult to meet his eyes. “I could not spend my life with you, not when there is another still in your heart.”

“What do you mean? What other?”

“Laetitia, Nathaniel.”

“Laetitia? I never loved her,” he said, genuinely puzzled. “How could you think that I did?”

“She is still in your heart. Every time you look at me, part of you sees her. I know it. I feel it. It may not be love that you felt for her, but she haunts you still.”

He opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it again. She watched as he shut his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, there was a deep sadness there. “You and my father, you are quite the pair. Perhaps I do seek in some manner to make amends for my past, but that is not all there is.” He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I care for you, Valerian. Very much.”

Care. Not love. That hurt much more than the admission about Laetitia. She felt the sting of tears and willed them back. “Let me go, Nathaniel. It is the kindest thing you could do for me. Seek the forgiveness of Laetitia’s father, and the forgiveness of your own heart. Rebuild the relationship with your parents.”

“You need me, Valerian. You have no home, you have no place to go.”

“Is that a good reason to wed?”

“Do you truly care nothing for me?”

She felt a tear spill over and trickle down her cheek. She reached out and touched her fingertips to his lips. “It is because I do care that I ask this of you. Marrying me would be a mistake, and you would come to regret it.”

He released her shoulders and backed away from her, his head shaking from side to side. “You will not marry me, but would live happily as my mistress.” He laughed. “The world has gone crazy. Crazy! Am I the only sane one left?”

“Eee-diot,” Oscar said from atop the clock. “Ee-diot, eediot, ee-diot!”

Nathaniel stared at the bird, then laughed again. “You knew me the moment you first laid eyes on me, Oscar. That first day I rode into Greyfriars. I should have listened.” He turned to his family where they stood, silent. “You need not have entered the battle at all. My own queen has destroyed me.”

He turned back to Valerian, and gave her a formal, mocking bow. “Your Majesty, I surrender the field to you, and wish you joy of it!” He straightened, and met her eyes with a look she knew would follow her the rest of her days, filled with the anguish of betrayal and rejection. Then he was gone, striding out the front door and slamming it behind him before she could find anything to say.

A sob erupted from her throat, and then Lady Stanford was beside her, her arm around her, helping her into the drawing room and to a chair, murmuring the wordless sounds of a mother who holds a child in pain.

Chapter Thirty-one

December 24, 1737 Goodramgate, York

Dear Charmaine,

It is Christmas Eve, and I find myself longing for the comfort of family. It has been over half a year since I left Greyfriars, and I have been remiss in not writing to you sooner to tell you of my whereabouts and well-being. I hope you will forgive me my tardiness. It has not been an easy seven months, and perhaps I thought it would go more smoothly if I did not think of home.

As you know already, I let Baron Ravenall take me to London. What you do not know is that we parted ways some few weeks later. I will not dwell here on the difficulty of that event, knowing as I do your opinions on the matter. Suffice it to say that my heart has yet to recover.

Valerian paused in her writing, examining that understatement. Her heart felt as if it had been ripped in half, and it bled with every breath. Charmaine would not want to hear of that, though, and would have no sympathy. She dipped her quill in the ink, and resumed writing.

With the assistance of the baron’s sister, Lady Stanford, I took a coach to Yorkshire, and found my way to the village where I was born. I do not know what I hoped to find there—some sense of connection to my parents, perhaps, or at least the stirring of memories—but all seemed changed from when I was a child. Doubtless there were those who remembered my father and mother, and perhaps myself as well— villages do not quickly forget—but I did not linger to discover who or where they were.

It would perhaps be more honest to say that she did not dare linger, to be asked questions about what had become of her in all these years, and why she was back, unmarried, by all appearances wandering to no purpose. She did not have Aunt Theresa’s gift for a plausible story, and did not wish to start her new life with lies.

I pawned the sapphire necklace in London— again, with the help of Lady Stanford—and between that and the gold coins, I have no pressing need to find work. The notion of sitting idly by, watching life through the window of rented rooms, however, does not appeal. After leaving the village of my birth, I turned my steps to York.

I do believe you would like York, Charmaine. York Minster is as impressive as any cathedral in London, the narrow streets bustle with activity from dawn to dusk and yet I do not feel as overwhelmed as I did in London. I feel I can perhaps find a place for myself here, and hide myself in the anonymity of the crowds at the same time.

That was true enough, she supposed. She did like York, with its wall around the heart of the city, and its cozy shops that tempted her to part with her money. It felt more human than London, and it was easy to hire a mount and escape to the moors when the crowds became too much to bear.

There were many places I could have found work, paid or not (charitable institutions are forever in need of help), but in the end I could not resist the temptation of an apothecary. Mr. Jimson, the owner, had recently inherited from his father, and was (and is still) regrettably uninformed as to the proper preparation and use of the medicines in his supply. It took but little time to convince him he had need of my help, and I have all but taken over.

Poor Mr. Jimson. He could not tell the difference between belladonna and chamomile if he had a cup of each poured down his throat. He was also unmarried: That was yet another detail she would not share with Charmaine. Her cousin would think it a splendid opportunity for Valerian to settle down.

I do spend time with the sick, at the orphanage and the charity hospital, but I am discreet with my attentions. I have inexplicably grown stronger in my healing. I do not know why. Perhaps coming so close to death in the millpond unleashed some hidden reservoir of ability. I do not become as tired as I used to, and have found that I can do much to help without making a fainting spectacle of myself afterwards. The nursing sisters publicly put improvements in their patients down to the grace of God, although I believe that privately they attribute it at least in part to their own care. Either way, I am more than content to let others take the credit.

Valerian looked up from the letter, gazing out the window above the little table where she wrote. It had started to snow, flakes like goose down sinking through the black night.

“Look Oscar, snow.”

“Biscuit!”

She broke up the last of the shortbread a regular patron of the apothecary had given her for Christmas, and she fed it to him. “What is Oscar?” she asked. “Oscar is a greedy guts.” She smiled, and thought of little Clary. She did not doubt that the girl was having a merry Christmas, with Lady Stanford for a mother, and her brother Lucas who even at age six was thoughtful of her.

She picked up the quill, nibbled at the frayed end of the feather, then dipped the nib once again.

I come now to the part of this letter that gives me the most trouble. I have thought for a long time on this, and still do not know if I am right to tell you.

The matter is thus: I have inadvertently discovered the identity of your father. He knows nothing of you, not even that Theresa ever carried a child. I am sorry to say this so bluntly. I know no other way.

I will not say here who he is. I believe him to be a good man, but I leave it for you to decide what you do or do not wish to know. No one but myself knows of this, and if it is your desire, I shall never again speak of it.

With sincerest wishes for the continued health and happiness of both you and Howard,

Your cousin,

Valerian.

“That will have to do,” she said to Oscar. She blotted the paper, folded it, and sealed it with maroon wax and the old signet ring she had found for sale in a trinket shop, depicting a bird that looked much like Oscar in a bad mood.

She left the letter on the table and went to put another scoop of coal on the fire, then poured herself a mug of the cider she had left to warm. She sat in the big chair she had bought used, the velvet worn away over the arms, and tucked her feet up beneath her.

She stared into the flames and sipped her cider, the streets outside silent in the snow. As they did every evening, her thoughts went to Nathaniel, and she wondered for the thousandth time where he was and if he thought of her.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered. “Wherever you are.”

She had only the rustle of Oscar’s feathers in answer.

Nathaniel stood looking out the window at the soggy night, ignoring the cold that seeped through the glass, ignoring as well the sounds of his family’s revelry that reached him from elsewhere in the house. He had lost the ability to don a polite mask when his mind and heart were elsewhere.

Where was she tonight? Did she think of him? Perhaps she had already found another to take his place.

That first month, he had refused to think of her and had cut himself off from his family when he learned they had helped her to leave. When Margaret would not tell him where Valerian had gone, he had for one terrible moment felt pure hatred for his sister. It was then that he had left, returning to his old haunts to lick his wounds and seek solace in the familiarity of old habits and acquaintances.

Only there was no solace to be found. The entertainments that had once filled his days proved themselves tiresome and juvenile, and even worse, incapable of performing the lowly service of distraction.

And it was then, when he was sick unto death of himself and his life, that he had let her back into his thoughts. For the first time, he examined with a clear mind what she had said to him. And for the first time, he thought he understood it.

“I have found her, God damn her,” Paul said, stomping into the room behind him.

His pulse beat wildly for a moment, hope rising within him, and then logic took a cold swipe at his assumptions. He turned away from the window and looked at Paul, whose nose and cheeks were red with the damp chill of outdoors. “By ‘her’ I assume you to mean Gwendolyn Miller?”