Brenda Hiatt (12 page)

Holly shook her head, and he was struck by the tragedy in her eyes. They reminded him of a painting he had been studying by one of the masters. “No, I have realized that her grace is right.” She glanced towards Camilla. “My coming was impulsive and foolish, and Hunt would be displeased if he knew of it.”

The duchess nodded her agreement. “I vow, though, you must be still fatigued, Holly. But then, travelling does not seem to tire you as it does me.”

“I shall be fine,” Holly assured them both. “My mother still has need of me, so I’d best return to her at once. I—I hope to see you at Christmas, if not before.”

After seeing her off in the carriage, Reg turned to his mother. “I still think I shall tell Hunt that she came. Despite what you say, he may find her concern cheering. This recent estrangement between them is only adding to his troubles, I’m certain.”

“Estrangement?” His mother’s eyes widened. “You have said nothing to me of this before, Reginald.”

Already he regretted mentioning it. The duchess still cherished faint hopes that he might one day inherit, he knew, for all that she had seemed to become genuinely fond of Holly over the past year. “Just a misunderstanding, I don’t doubt,” he said hastily.

“Still, I cannot think it advisable that you or your father mention her visit to Hunt. Think how it will make him feel to know that she left the very next day, without trying to see him, or sending a message.”

Reluctantly, Reg nodded. Holly had not wanted to leave though, he thought, remembering again the pain in her eyes.
Really, he must have her sit for a portrait sometime, so that he could capture it—not that he wanted her to remain unhappy, of course. He recalled how sprightly she had been last winter and spring, a vivid contrast to her mood of late. Then, he had thought she was just the thing for his sober brother. Grandmama had thought so, too.

“Mother, I believe I will return to Wickburn early this year,” he announced suddenly. “Little is going on at the Academy right now, and Grandmama may need my support through this crisis. In her last letter she sounded a trifle despondent.”

“Why certainly, my love, if you think it best,” replied the duchess. “Though why you would want to immure yourself in the country when there is still an abundance of company in Town…But then you always were a considerate boy.” She smiled fondly up at him. “When did you want to go?”

“Tomorrow, I think.” Perhaps between them, he and Grandmama could discover a way to patch things up between Hunt and Holly.

H
OLLY TRUDGED
back up the hill from the village, as emptyhanded as she had been on her return every day for the past month and more.

Rain or shine, every morning after breakfast she donned her cloak and bonnet and walked to the village, hoping that she might finally receive word of Hunt’s release. And every day the postmistress regretfully disappointed her.

Her only news came in the form of the London papers, which she had paid handsomely to have delivered to Tidebourne only a day after they appeared in London. But though she combed them eagerly for news of Hunt, she never found any. That was good, she supposed, for it meant that the Duke of Wickburn’s influence was sufficient to prevent the spread of scandal. Unfortunately, it left her in the dark, as well. And after Teasdale’s threats, she did not
even dare to write to the duchess or Reginald. Gloomily, she reentered the house.

“Oh, there you are, Holly,” Blanche greeted her as she hung her cloak on a peg by the door. “Maman has been asking for you this half-hour past. Something about one of the new maids—though why she thinks
you
would know when I do not is beyond my understanding!” She sniffed. “I cannot see why you find it necessary to walk to the village every day, anyway. Surely your high and mighty husband would send a messenger directly here were there any
good
news to relate.”

Holly headed for the stairs without replying to consult her mother. She suspected that Blanche took a twisted pleasure in her misfortune, and she would not give her the added satisfaction of seeing how her taunts stung. She reminded herself yet again that Blanche’s ill temper was founded in jealousy.

The only thing that preserved Holly’s sanity during these long days of waiting was her continuing campaign to improve Tidebourne estate. Already there was a noticeable difference in the house itself. With the regular schedule she had instituted for cleaning and repairs, Tidebourne now reflected the family’s importance in the district better than it had at any time in Holly’s memory.

And Holly’s efforts did not stop with the ordering of Tidebourne House, but extended into the village. She conferred with the rector of the parish to discover which families were most needy, and precisely what their needs were. Then she set about alleviating them. With Blanche’s grudging help, she prepared parcels and baskets of food, medicines and other necessities, just as the dowager had shown her how to do at Wickburn.

Regular contact with the poorest villagers made dwelling on her own troubles impossible, Holly found. As December entered in, she had the satisfaction of knowing that this year, at least, those families would have something to be
thankful for at Christmas. For the first time she began to understand the verse in Acts, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Certainly, her giving of time and resources was benefiting her greatly—keeping other thoughts at bay while enabling her to count her blessings.

One cold grey morning, when Christmas was less than two weeks distant, Holly pulled her cloak tight against the wind as she approached the village post office. She wasn’t sure why she kept coming. Blanche was right. Any good news would likely be sent by special messenger. Holly was surprised, therefore, when the postmistress greeted her enthusiastically.

“Miss Pax—er—my lady!” she exclaimed, waving a letter gleefully. “This came for you only twenty minutes ago. I was going to have Joshua carry it up to the house within the hour if you didn’t come. I do hope it is what you have been waiting for!”

The postmistress was clearly curious, but Holly had not the least intention of allowing word of Hunt’s disgrace to spread beyond her immediate family. Already she regretted telling Blanche.

“Thank you, Mrs. Williams,” she said simply, taking the letter. “I hope so, too.” A single glance showed her that it was addressed in the duchess’s hand rather than her husband’s. She tucked it into the pocket of her cloak, as it was far too windy to read it outdoors, and spent the short walk back steeling herself against possible bad news.

Blanche was in the parlour when she returned and asked sarcastically, as she always did, whether Holly had received a letter.

“In fact I have,” she replied, sitting down to break the seal. She had intended to read it in the privacy of her room, but no matter. Whatever the news was, she would have to share it with the family soon enough.

“Oh, praise the good Lord!” exclaimed Holly a moment later, the thin sheet of paper between her fingers trembling
with her relief. “Hunt has been cleared. He is free at this very moment, in fact.”

“Is it from your husband, then?” asked Blanche waspishly, her small blue eyes glittering with curiosity. “Does he say why he never wrote before?”

Holly winced but bit back a retort. “No, ’tis from the duchess,” she answered reluctantly, dreading her sister’s smirk. “I expect I shall hear from Hunt within the week.” Holly kept her voice neutral, willing herself to believe her own words.

Blanche merely sniffed. “I will believe that when I see it. The marquess would hardly have been prevented from writing to you had he
wished
it, even shut up in the King’s Bench.”

“So you have said numerous times,” replied Holly stiffly.

Their mother bustled into the parlour just then. “I can see by your face, my love, that something momentous has occurred,” she said before Holly could speak. “Have you had word from Lord Vandover?”

“Not
from
him, but of him.” Her mother’s enthusiasm, such a contrast to Blanche, made her smile. “He has been cleared of all charges.”

“But Holly, that is marvellous!” Her mother hurried over to embrace her. “Will you be going to him now? Ring for Mary that she may help your maid to pack.”

“Not so fast, Maman! I will think you wish to be rid of me.” Holly clung to her smile. “The duchess said nothing of my coming to them just yet. Perhaps the duke wishes to have his son to himself over the holidays.”

“But you are his
wife!
” Her mother was plainly aghast. “I should think you would want to fly instantly to his side, to help him forget the horrors of prison life. What a reunion it will be, no? So romantic!”

Holly felt the familiar ache in her throat. Once she, too, had been Gallically romantical—and not so very long ago, either. Only a year ago, in fact, though it felt like aeons.

“Hunt has had to endure few of the
physical
hardships of prison, at least,” she finally said, and her words sounded cold, even to herself. “The duchess assured me when I went to London that he has been staying in what amounts to a well-appointed inn room, only nominally attached to King’s Bench.”

“But think you how galling it must have been for a man of his station to be deprived of his freedom for so long—not to mention the scandal involved,” Mrs. Paxton insisted, echoing the very thoughts that had haunted Holly since learning of his arrest. “The woman he loves should have been the first to greet him on his return to the outside world.”

“So melodramatic, Maman,” said Holly faintly. “I—I had best go to consult Cook about the fish. She has promised to prepare your favourite turbot tonight.” Turning away quickly before her mother could see the tears stinging her eyes, she hurried from the room.

The woman he loves.
If only she were that!

Despite her disappointment that the news had come from Camilla rather than Hunt, Holly was spurred to renewed thought, and then action. Hunt was free, which meant that Teasdale had completed his arrangements for his own escape. But Holly was determined that he should not go unscathed after all he had cost her.

While she still did not quite dare to write to London, she thought of another way to possibly thwart him. Going to her chamber, she penned three identical letters, then walked to the village to post them to the authorities in Plymouth, Portsmouth and Bristol. If Teasdale hadn’t left the country yet, there was a good chance he never would!

The remainder of the day passed slowly for Holly, though she tried to occupy herself with weaving greenery into wreaths for the church. In years past, these weeks before Christmas had been a special time for her and Noel. Last year it had been a time of joyful anticipation, leading up to
the most wonderful day of her life. Now, despite the wonderful news of Hunt’s release and her hopes of bringing Teasdale to justice, she felt strangely depressed.

The next morning, Holly and her mother were just finishing breakfast, a meal Blanche generally took in her bedchamber, when Mary bustled into the dining-room.

“Oh, Miss Holly, here you are!” Unlike Blanche, the old servant frequently forgot Holly’s title, especially when she was excited. “This was just delivered by special post, so I thought you would want it at once.”

“Thank you, Mary.” With shaking hands, she broke the seal—Lord Vandover’s seal. The address was in the strong, flowing handwriting she remembered so well. Her heart began to pound in hard, slow strokes. Holly would have much preferred to open the letter in private, but by now her mother was clamouring to know its contents.

“Read it, my love, do! He wishes you to come to him instantly, no? Quickly,
chérie,
quickly—what does he say?”

Trembling, she unfolded the single sheet.

“Madam,” it read,

By now the duchess will have informed you of my release and acquittal. The dowager duchess wishes to gather the family about her at Wickburn to mark my liberation along with the holiday season. As her health has deteriorated in recent months, I shall not deny her request. You will join me there, as my wife, for the duration of the Christmas Season. I shall expect you there on Friday.

Vandover

Holly felt the colour leave her face as she read the terse, formal missive. She was reading it through for the third time, trying to glean some shred of tenderness from the words, when her mother’s voice recalled her.

“Well, what does he say? Does he want you to go to him in Town? Does he wish to have a glorious reunion to celebrate his freedom?”

Holly looked up, trying to keep the bleakness in her heart from reflecting in her eyes. She forced her lips into a semblance of a smile. “He…he wishes me to come to Wickburn—for Christmas.”

A
S THE CRESTED CARRIAGE
made its way northwards through Yorkshire, Holly supposed she should be thankful that the clouds had not yet fulfilled their threat of more snow. These northern roads were sometimes impassable by Yuletide, she knew. Despite her misgivings about the reception that awaited her at Wickburn, she had no desire to be stranded at some inn or farmhouse along the way.

Evening was falling, along with a few ghostly flakes, when the carriage drove through the open gates of Wickburn. At the sight of the sprawling mansion atop the knoll, Holly’s spirits rose. She could not help but associate Wickburn with happiness. Memories surged round her as they rolled up the long, winding drive.

She recalled last year’s Christmas preparations, in tandem with those for her wedding; her wedding day—and night; those first wonderful weeks of marriage. And then last summer, the perceptible healing of the rift between Hunt and herself, cut short far too soon. Surely here, of all places, she and Hunt could finally mend the cracks in their relationship and truly become one. Especially at Christmas, the season of hope and forgiveness.

“We’re here, my lady, we’re here!” chattered Mabel excitedly, as she had at least a dozen times over the past half-hour. “My mum will be so happy I could come home for Christmas!”

Holly’s heart lifted with an answering enthusiasm. “Your brothers and sisters will be pleased to see you, as well,” she
said to her abigail, who had become a friend during the long weeks in Derbyshire. “And the servants, too, of course,” she added, with a wink that made Mabel blush. She had recently confided to Holly that she and Harry Tibbs, one of the upper footmen, had an understanding.

The carriage drew to a halt, the front door was thrown open and light streamed from within. With a final, deep breath, Holly stepped down from the coach to approach the imposing portal. Deeds, the butler, greeted her warmly before preceding her to the formal front drawing-room. Holly wondered if he could hear the staccato beating of her heart.

“Lady Vandover,” he intoned, throwing open the double doors to the drawing-room.

A merry fire crackled on the hearth, and dozens of candles blazed in their sconces. For a moment, to Holly’s dazzled eyes, the room appeared crowded, but then the faces turned towards her resolved themselves into the five she had expected to see. The duke and duchess had been sharing the small crocodile sofa farthest from the fire, while Reginald and Hunt sat on either side of the dowager duchess on the larger sofa near the hearth.

Holly’s eyes went first to the dowager. It had dismayed her to learn that her beloved friend was ill, and now she was looking for signs that the dowager had aged since last summer. Certainly her personality was as strong as ever; though the gentlemen rose at Holly’s entrance, it was the dowager who spoke first.

“I am so happy you have arrived ahead of the snow, dear lass,” she said, her Irish lilt pronounced. “I was just reminding the others of how the road can deteriorate so quickly at this time of year, though Hunt assured me that they were still perfectly clear when he passed over them an hour since.” She slanted a fond smile up at her eldest grandson.

Startled, Holly followed her glance, realizing only then that she had been delaying the moment when she must meet
her husband’s eyes. His features and golden brown hair looked much the same as she remembered, nor was his stance any less proud than it had ever been. But there was a shadowed, haunted expression in his clear blue eyes that made him seem a different man.

“You arrived just today?” Holly heard herself asking. It was not what she had planned as her first words to her husband, and the accusation implicit in her question made her wish immediately that she could recall it.

Hunt merely nodded, but the dowager spoke before his lack of response could become obvious. “Aye, he travelled hither with Wickburn and Camilla. She was most anxious, I believe, to be off of the roads before nightfall.”

“Yes, I do detest travelling after dark, especially in wintertime,” the duchess agreed. “We pressed hard, and made the journey in only four days’ time.”

Reginald then stepped up to embrace her, looking for all the world like a carrot in his orange coat and breeches, topped by his shock of hair of nearly the same colour. “Welcome home, sister,” he drawled.

This seemed to galvanize the others, for the duke and duchess now came forward to welcome her to Wickburn and to congratulate her and each other over Hunt’s acquittal. Though he managed a couplet for the occasion, Holly thought even the duke’s jubilance rather forced, and wondered at it. She was acutely aware of Hunt standing alone, by the mantel.

Plainly he had not forgiven her—he seemed as distant now as he had ever been. And he had elected to travel with Camilla rather than herself. Her hopes for a reconciliation began to wither within her. Just as she felt she could bear his silence no longer, the dowager came to her rescue.

“I daresay poor Holly is fagged to death after travelling since the crack of dawn. Hunt, why do you not take her up to her room to freshen up before dinner? I’m sure you will
both be glad of a few moments to be private, after two months apart,” she said with a suggestive wink.

Hunt finally stepped forward to bow formally over Holly’s hand. “Your servant, madam.” She was chilled by the frost in his tone. He showed not the faintest glimmer of answering humour at his grandmother’s teasing.

Nodding to the rest of the family with a stiff smile, Holly took her husband’s proffered arm and accompanied him from the room. They walked the length of the great hall in silence, passing over its black and white marble to the elegantly curving great staircase. Instead of the thrill of admiration the vaulted arches and painted dome above had always before inspired, Holly now found the empty, echoing spaces above her oppressive.

“I’m happy to see you again, Hunt,” she finally said as they mounted the first steps. Her words seemed to run away into faint whispers in the enormous hall.

His eyes met hers briefly. “I thank you for the sentiment. I am happy to be home.” But he did not look happy at all.

Concern warred with the diffidence Holly felt at being alone with this man who seemed a complete stranger. Had his brief stay in prison scarred him so deeply? Or had she done this to him, with her long silence? Now, perhaps, she could begin to undo that damage—but first there were things she needed to know.

“Maman sends her congratulations on your acquittal,” she continued. “Did…did they discover the identity of the real traitor?” Even now she dared not mention Teasdale’s name.

He gave a quick shake of his head. “I was released owing to insufficient evidence, that is all.” The look he shot her added as clearly as words—
No thanks to you.

Holly could scarcely deny it, as it was her letter from Noel which had sent him to prison. She was determined, however, to confess at least a part of what she had done, to ask
for his forgiveness. But her husband now seemed so cold and unapproachable that she scarcely knew how to begin. “Hunt, I—”

But he cut her off. “As I already wrote you, my grandmother is not well. Reginald has informed me, in fact, that the doctor gives her only weeks to live.” Holly gasped faintly, but he went on as though he hadn’t heard. “It is her wish that the family be gathered about her for what will most likely be her last Christmas. You will oblige me by endeavouring to behave as though everything is well between us, for her sake. With that in mind, we will occupy our usual chambers. I wished to forewarn you.”

For a moment, Holly thought she detected a hint of a question in his eyes, but before she could be sure, it was gone, replaced by the shuttered look he had worn since her arrival.

“Of course,” she said quickly, the questions she had planned to ask abruptly erased by the shock of hearing the doctor’s prognosis. A few weeks! Holly would never have guessed she was so sick as all that.

Hunt opened the door to her suite. The garden-like sitting-room was as she remembered it, and the lilac-and-white bedchamber beyond. Involuntarily, her eye went to the dressing-room door that led to her husband’s rooms.

“Feel free to lock that door if you prefer,” he said, “though I can assure you that it will not be necessary. I shall leave you now to dress for dinner. The others are hungry, as Grandmama insisted that we wait the meal for you.”

Torn now between grief for the dowager, who had become so dear a friend, and for her marriage, which was dying just as surely, Holly allowed him to leave without another word. Tears of reaction and despair filled her eyes. Mabel bustled in at that moment, forcing Holly to dry her eyes and turn her mind to other matters.

“Wear the rose-and-white silk, my lady,” Mabel suggested, pulling it from the press, where she had already hung
Holly’s gowns. It was one of her most attractive, if a bit fine for a family dinner. The eager gleam in Mabel’s eyes told Holly that her abigail thought she should look her best tonight. Perhaps she was right.

“Very well, Mabel. Help me out of this one.”

Once Mabel had fastened her into the gown and repinned her hair, she dismissed the girl. She needed a few moments to collect her thoughts before she went down. As she had so many times before, she attempted to imagine what it must have been like for a man like her husband to face prison and public censure, even for something he knew was the result of a mistake. Except that it
wasn’t
a mistake. His arrest had been deliberately arranged by Teasdale, though it was apparently she that Hunt held responsible.

Nor could she come right out and deny guilt in the matter, until she knew what had become of Teasdale. She needed to know whether the threat he held over Hunt—and over Noel—was still valid. The clock tolled the hour, and Holly realized that she had tarried long enough. The family had waited dinner on her as it was, as Hunt had made a point of telling her.

The others were already assembled in the dining-room. If any of them thought it odd that Hunt had not waited for her, they concealed it admirably, she thought. At her entrance, the duchess took her place at one end of the long table, regal in a green silk gown that made the most of her flame red hair and white skin. The duke moved to sit opposite her, with the other four spread along the length of the table at such a distance from one another as to make conversation difficult.

“I trust you are feeling more the thing, Holly, dear,” said the duchess as Holly took her seat across from Hunt. Reginald was her dinner partner, if someone five feet away could be considered as such, with the dowager across from him.

“Yes, thank you, your grace. But then, as you know, I have never found travel especially fatiguing.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hunt turn his head sharply at her words, though he said nothing.

“Can’t think why anyone would,” commented the dowager loudly from her place down the table. Though she went along with her daughter-in-law’s insistence on formal family dining, she refused, as always, to limit her conversation to the person beside her. “How can sitting all day in a carriage exhaust anyone?”

The duchess primmed up her lips. “Some of us are more delicate than others. The motion of a carriage for hours on end never fails to make me feel poorly. ’Tis why I prefer to make frequent stops during a journey—though, this time I wished to reach Wickburn more quickly than usual.” She flicked an almost apprehensive glance at Holly.

“I understand, of course,” said Holly quickly. Shaving a day from her usual trip had probably been at Hunt’s insistence. Of course, he could have come separately just as well, stopping to collect her in Derbyshire. But he had not. “My sister, Blanche, feels much the same about travelling,” she added, to conceal her pain.

In fact, she
had
felt a bit ill for the first hour of today’s journey, but it had passed—and she certainly would not admit now to what seemed a simple fit of nerves. The dowager’s approval meant far more to her than the duchess’s, especially now. She examined the dowager surreptitiously but could see no outward evidence that she was as ill as Hunt had said. Could the doctor have been mistaken?

“Would you care to hear about the painting I am working on?” Reginald asked her just then, breaking a lengthening silence. “I have improved on the usual methods of depicting a landscape, if I do say so myself.”

Holly smiled gratefully at him. “I look forward to seeing it. Is it of a scene on the estate?”

They fell to discussing art as the soup was served and the company began to eat. Though she kept her face turned towards her brother-in-law, Holly’s every nerve was focused on the man across from her, who had not spoken since her entrance. During the early days of their marriage, when they had been placed across from each other at table, they had spoken with their eyes if not their mouths. But tonight she could not even bring herself to look at him, to face the hostility in those eyes that had once held such affection.

“I do hope the snow holds off through tomorrow so that Anne and her family will not have difficulties on the road,” said the duchess after a moment. “Christmas is not the same without children in the house.”

Everyone agreed with this sentiment. “Anne is another female who travels well,” commented the dowager, deliberately needling the duchess. “She gets it from me, I’ll be bound.”

Really, one would never guess the dowager was ill, thought Holly. What a contrast to Camilla.

“Yes, Lady Anne is quite robust,” returned the duchess, making it almost an insult. “She and Holly have much in common.”

Holly bit her lip, glancing involuntarily at her husband. Always before, even during their long estrangement, he had come to her defence when his stepmother aimed those little barbs at her. But not tonight.

The dowager made a sound suspiciously like a snort before turning to her son. “Wickburn, why do you not propose a toast? I should say the occasion certainly calls for it.”

The duke cleared his throat and raised his glass, his eyes twinkling. As always, he appeared primarily amused at the exchange between his wife and mother. Holly doubted he had even noticed that veiled insult.