JoAnn Wendt (40 page)

“May I offer Your Grace the same good advice?”

They stared at each other, adversaries who hate and who are a hairbreadth from attack, but adversaries who sense the wisdom of a standoff.

Latching the fastenings of his cloak in a slow, deliberate manner, the duke strutted to the door like a peacock. He turned with an unpleasant laugh.

“As to the boy, I suspected he was
not my
son at first sight. There is a common, mongrel air to the bastard.”

The duke strutted out. Within moments, harness tracings jingled and snapped. The uneven clopping of six horses echoed into the night as the duke’s carriage trundled off.

Sweating with the release of tension, McNeil went to Annette. She came limply into his arms. He held her close. They didn’t speak. The house lay hushed and silent. A breeze blew in the open window, bringing the faint hint of plum blossoms and riffling the lace that trimmed her gown.

He was overwhelmed. Stunned by her generosity and loyalty. Did she love him so much, then, this foolish little woman? She’d sacrificed everything, her marriage, her social standing. His arms closed around her tightly, protectively. Her gallantry left him speechless, left him ashamed.

At last he murmured into her hair, “You know that Trent is my son, don’t you?”

“And Flavia’s.”

“How? How did you figure it out?”

Unwillingly, she met his eyes.

“The bits and pieces began to come together tonight, after you left me at the ball,” she told him softly. “The clues had been there. Two years’ worth of clues, but I failed to see them until tonight. Tonight I saw what I’d been too blind to see. The dock girl you slept with. The girl you searched for in London. She was Flavia, wasn’t she. Trent looks just like her.”

He nodded. “I didn’t know she was Flavia. Not until the night of the baby’s birthday ball at Tewkbury Hall.”

A long unhappy sigh came from her. She clung to him. Gradually, she tried to brighten. The old brassy sparkle flickered.

“Well, McNeil, shall I spend the night?” She gave an unhappy, self-deprecating shrug. “My reputation is lost, anyway.”

He kissed her forehead, then put her at arm’s length, keenly aware as he did so that he already missed the warmth of her willing body.

“No, my love. No, Annette. Go back to the ball before Lord Dunwood misses you. All is
not
lost. I doubt the duke will hurry to spread the news. He is more clever than that. He will keep the news to himself, hoping to use it against you and Dunwood at a later time. When it better serves his purpose. With luck, that time may never come.”

Her eyes grew large with hope.

“But Eunice?”

Garth smiled sadly. “The story is Eunice’s humiliation, too. I would guess she’ll not say ‘boo to anyone.”

Annette laughed hopefully. With a quick breath, she turned and rustled to the door, only pausing to whisper, “Did you mean it, McNeil? When you called me ‘love’?”

He was taken aback. He’d not remembered saying it. He strolled to the sideboard, fumbled for the brandy decanter, but his hand slid away. He turned and looked at her.

“At this moment there is only one other woman I love more than you,” he admitted. “And
she is
dead.”

Annette’s dark eyes jumped in joy.

“Oh, Garth,” she breathed. “Oh, darling Garth, good night.”

“Good night, Lady Dunwood,” he said. And for once he said it without sarcasm.

* * * *

As the rumble of her landau faded into the spring night, he returned to the brandy decanter and poured out a healthy portion. But when he tried to bring the glass to his mouth, the glass shook. He set it down with a clunk, disgusted. So this sort of evening had gotten to him, did it? He’d not known he had “nerves.” They’d never reared up at sea, not in storms, not even in pirate attacks.

Abandoning the drink, he went out for a walk. As he walked, he sorted everything through. It was finished, he realized in relief. Trent was his. He and Trent would begin life anew. He wished Flavia could know.

He strolled on in the quiet night, fruit trees showering him with pink and white blossoms at each gust of spring wind. He thought of Annette. God, she’d been loyal. It made him feel like a dog, treating her like a convenient tart all of these years. He was ashamed; he was thirty-three and not yet grown up. God!

He thought of Eunice. Vaguely, he wondered where she’d gone to, then admitted to himself that he did not care. He supposed he would forfeit the two thousand pounds dowry money he’d loaned to Lord Wetherby. He shrugged. Small price to be rid of Eunice. The two thousand pounds would go far in smoothing her ruffled feathers.

He returned home and drank the brandy with a steady hand. Its cleansing fire burned a trail down his throat. He poured a bit more, then sank into a wingback chair, surveying the room. His first step, he thought with childish pleasure, would be to remove Eunice’s damned sickly green window hangings. He wanted the bright blue silk ones back. Annette’s draperies. Not Eunice’s.

He was still slouched low in his chair, bemused and mulling over the extraordinary evening, when a tap sounded at the open door. It was Mab. Her flannel nightdress peeped out of a dark wrapper. Her hair, even in its braided state, managed to look stringy.

“Yes, Mab?”

She hung in the doorway.

“I heared that name somewheres. That Tewksbury name. But I can’t remember where I heard it.”

McNeil sighed tiredly.

“Forget it, Mab. Forget everything you saw and heard tonight.”

She persisted.

“It bedevils my sleep, Cap’n. Tewksbury. It sticks in m’brain like a sliver in a thumb.”

“Then pull it out,” he said irritably. “You will do well to forget the name. In fact, I insist.”

At the rancor in his voice, her head reared up in the old pridey way. She opened her mouth to say something snippy, but McNeil rose from his chair. He was in no mood for servant trouble, on top of everything else.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered and went flying.

Two nights later, he was roused from deep and dreamless sleep. It was Mab again. Her intense, face hovered over his bed.

“I remember, sir,” Mab whispered excitedly.

“What the devil are you talking about?” He growled like a bear roused from hibernation, then came suddenly awake. “Trent! He’s not sick, is he?”

“No.” Mab shook her head, grinning.

“Then get out of here,” he growled. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.” He rolled over, punching his pillow and settling into it. The day had been damned trying: a frigid interview with Lady Wetherby, who was staying at the Governor’s Palace with Eunice and Mouse. A tongue-lashing from the governor, who’d been told only enough by Lady Wetherby to lead the governor to believe Garth had taken liberties with Eunice. The dissolution of the betrothal. Annette leaving for Baltimore with Lord Dunwood . . .

To his deepening annoyance, Mab shook his shoulder.

He rolled over. “What! So help me, Mab, you’re asking for a whipping.”

She ignored him, grinning.

“That Tewksbury name, sir. I remember!” she crowed victoriously. “I know where I heard it!”

Chapter 19

“For thee, Jane.”

Flavia’s smile trembled as she accepted the small, utterly perfect bouquet of flowers. They were lilies of the valley. Still moist with morning dew, the tiny white bells shivered upon stems of dark green, exuding a heady fragrance. She brought the bouquet to her face, inhaling sadly. Her wedding bouquet.

Tears welled up. She blinked them away.

“Thank you, Dennis. They’re lovely.”

He stood studying her with an earnestness that threatened to become anxiety. She tried to give him an assuring smile, but only half-managed it. Still, the smile seemed to cheer him. His eyes lit with love.

He looked fine; ready for the altar, Flavia admitted. He was wearing his best; a brown suit of wool serge, new white stockings, a new ruffled linen shirt that was Betsy’s wedding gift to him, and his only pair of shoes, which he’d carefully repaired and polished almost to a state of newness. It touched her that he’d combed his hair carefully over the balding spot on the crown of his head.

“Thee hast not reconsidered, Jane?”

His voice was tight with dread, and his Adam’s apple shot up and down.

“No,” she said quickly, not daring to pause and think.

“I want only thy happiness, Jane.”

She tried to meet his eyes.

“I shall try to be a good wife to you, Dennis.”

“Jane,” he whispered passionately. “Beloved Jane.”

To hide the tears of despair that rushed to her eyes, she lifted her mouth to be kissed. He flushed. It was their first intimacy. Touching her cheek with carpentry-roughened hands, he timidly brought his mouth to hers. His lips were dry and hot, trembling with passions he was too gentlemanly to unloose before the wedding vows. “Jane,” he whispered. “Dearest love.” He allowed himself a moment’s kiss, then drew back in propriety. The marriage ceremony must come first.

“I’ll fetch the chaise,” he said, moving out of the door to get the chaise and horse that William Tate was lending them for the day.

Alone, Flavia turned slowly and sadly surveyed her surroundings. When next she stepped into this little schoolhouse, she would be Dennis’s wife. Her eyes moved to the cozy area Dennis had made for her in one corner of the kitchen. His only real bedstead was there. When he’d bought her indenture from Mrs. Byng—paying the greedy woman twice what it was worth—he’d also gone to the wharf in Chestertown and bought old, wind-worn sails. He’d sewed rings to the sails, then slipped the rings on poles and fastened the poles to wall and rafter. She’d been able to draw the curtains closed whenever she wished, gaining a somewhat private bed area.

Dennis and the three boarding students who were preparing for seminary slept on cots in the unfinished attic.

He’d also bought a cracked mirror for her, mending it as best he could and encasing it in a maple stand. She moved to the mirror and checked her appearance. Except for the regret in her eyes, she looked like a bride. Betsy had seen to that, buying Flavia a wedding gown of silk taffeta. The color was royal blue, and the rich hue enhanced the deep blue of her eyes and stirred fiery highlights in her loose, brushed hair. To Mr. Gresham’s irritation, Betsy had given her a royal blue wool serge cloak as well. Dennis’s delicate bouquet completed her ensemble.

She sat down to wait in the new wingback chair that was Mr. Tate’s nuptial gift to Dennis. Her eyes roamed sadly over the sparsely furnished kitchen to the schoolroom area. Working nightly, Dennis had completed ten student desks and a larger one for himself. His prized books now stood in wall shelves that had been worked with all the pride of a master carpenter. Dennis did everything with great care, not content to do a slap-dash job on anything. She knew he would treat their marriage with the same loving care, and she knew she ought to be happy because of it. But she wasn’t.

Garth . . . oh Garth . . . Robert . . . her sweet lost baby son . . .  She had carried Garth’s child in her womb with joy.... How joyfully would she carry Dennis’s babies?

Tears rose. She dashed them away. She was determined to thrust grief from her mind for this one day. For Dennis’s sake. Dennis was a good man. He deserved to bring a willing, happy bride to his bed this night. Not a reluctant, weeping bride who yearned for another man.

She sprang to her feet, pacing, determined to concentrate on Dennis’s many kindnesses and good qualities. He’d shared everything with her: his material goods, his every thought, his hopes for the future. Only twice had he shut her out, and that was when he was visited by men who’d appeared to be business agents. On those two occasions Dennis crisply sent her into Chestertown on errands she knew to be unnecessary. He never revealed the nature of the men’s business, but she’d sensed it had something to do with her indenture. She’d noticed thereafter that Dennis cooled when anyone mentioned the name McNeil. Had Raven tried to buy her indenture?

The rhythmic creaking of a chaise jolted her. Taking a deep breath and clutching her bouquet, she forced a smile to her lips and went out to Dennis. The boarding students were running alongside the chaise. They’d tied sprigs of wild flowers to the whip stand. When she’d taken her place on the seat beside Dennis and the students were shouting their good wishes, Dennis turned to her. His gray eyes searched hers.

“Ready, Jane?”

She swallowed. She knew he asked more than if she was ready to ride to Quaker’s Neck Landing to be married in the small Quaker meetinghouse. In his humbleness of spirit he was offering her one last chance to refuse him. She placed her cold hand upon his warm one.

“I’m ready, Dennis. Truly. I am honored to become your wife.”

His smile began slowly, but when it had begun it was like the sun rising. To her surprise, he gulped two great breaths of relief. Clucking to the horse, he gently shook the reins and the chaise jerked forward. The seminary students whooped and cheered them off.

Dennis drove on in joyful silence, his happiness too large for words. They bumped along Quaker’s Neck Road, well inland from the Chester River. The sky was the thin blue sky of spring. White cloud puffs raced overhead, and the air smelled of freshly plowed earth. Dennis was elated. She could see it in his eyes. As for herself . . . she dropped her gaze to her wedding bouquet. No.
I won’t think of Garth . . .
At the paupers’ graveyard, south of Chestertown, Dennis called, “Whoa.” It was a stop they’d planned. Flavia’s heart sank at the sight of the desolate, abandoned burying place for paupers. Neddy belonged in a churchyard. But as a murderer, he’d been refused church burial. On the day his crow-pecked body was allowed to be taken down from the gallows, Dennis had gone to town to see that Neddy had been decently buried.

Dennis got down and tied the reins to a scruffy pine tree, then helped Flavia to alight. Together they climbed the hill to the mound of raw, sun-baked earth. Dennis removed his hat, and Flavia stooped to pluck weeds that had already sprung up. On impulse she untied the bridal bouquet she carried. Gently she spread half of the fragrant flowers upon Neddy’s grave. The soil was sun-warmed and the delicate perfumed bells wilted almost instantly. Eyes misting, she let Dennis lead her back to the chaise.