My Darling Caroline (28 page)
He stared at her starkly, unblinking, and at first, unfazed. Then, as her fierce, whispered words hit the target, intense pain sliced through his eyes, and he lowered them to the fire once more, slowly turning his body to fully face the hearth. He tightened his jaw forcibly, quite obviously shaken and deeply moved, blinking hard and quickly several times to contain the powerful emotions seizing him.
Jane refused to retreat or look away as she listened to his harsh, fast breathing over the pounding of her heart. Never in her life had she wanted to stress a point as she did now.
“I know about your mother, Weymerth,” she gravely, cautiously revealed. “I know everything.”
It took him a minute to fully grasp all she was implying, and then she knew he understood because his entire body stilled before her.
“Does Caroline?” he returned in a deep, throaty rasp.
She hugged herself tightly for confidence. “No, and I will never tell her. Not only would Caroline be as shocked as I was to learn the truth, but as things stand now, that truth would destroy her.” Almost inaudibly, she bravely admonished, “Taking secrets to the marriage bed can have devastating consequences, Lord Weymerth. You know this now. But I think, so far, your lie has been the most grievous one of all.”
She waited for a response, but he said nothing, did nothing. He just stared into the glowing flames, as if mesmerized by the flickering patterns of congealing blue and yellow light and the comforts of their enveloping warmth. He’d heard her, understood the implications in her words, but except for a hard swallow and shallow breathing, he appeared otherwise unchanged by what she’d said.
So finally, decisively, she stepped away and walked back to the chair to retrieve her gloves. She’d done everything in her power, and the man couldn’t be forced to surrender to a wife he felt had betrayed him, regardless of how logically misguided that feeling was. It was no longer in her control. His future with Caroline was now in his hands.
“You have three days,” she gently warned. “If you want her back, I think you know what you’re going to have to do.” She waited. Then without witnessing so much as a word in reply or a turn of his head, she dropped her chin in a gesture of defeat and moved silently to the door.
“Thank you for your time. I’ll show myself out.”
With that final, gracious statement, he relented. Through the stilted silence she distinctly heard the faintest curse.
Sharply she turned at his muffled words, and just as quickly his demeanor changed completely. He stood upright, posture stiff and formal, hands clasped behind him, never looking away from the fire.
Quietly he said, “I’d appreciate your help, Jane.”
Never had five words spoken so smoothly hit her so thoroughly with a rush of relief.
“What can I do?”
“I’ll need tomorrow,” he softly, thoughtfully replied, “but can you get her to the greenhouse alone on Thursday?”
She grasped her gloves tightly and bit her lip to keep from smiling. She understood his intentions. “What time?”
“Three?”
“Most certainly.” She paused, unsure. “Shall I tell her anything?”
“Tell her nothing,” he grumbled quickly. Then he softened and looked to the floor. “Tell her whatever you must to get her there, but nothing else.”
She could no longer help herself as her face broke out into a broad grin of raw pleasure. “I’ll have Caroline at the green house at three on Thursday.”
He exhaled loudly, then reached up with both hands to roughly rake his fingers through his hair. “Since I’ve been married to your sister, I’ve learned two things.” He turned to face her. “The first is never to underestimate the cleverness of any of Baron Sytheford’s daughters.”
“And the second?” she prodded, eyes twinkling.
He snorted and shook his head, one corner of his mouth turned up in light amusement. “That females, not the meek, shall inherit the earth. I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
She laughed and nodded. “Good day to you, Lord Weymerth.”
“Good day, madam.”
C
ursing was not in her nature, and neither were such descriptive words part of her standard vocabulary. But of late, Caroline found herself contemplating a variety of fitting, colorful expressions she could use to describe her arrogant ass of a husband.
The afternoon had been cool and overcast, though not unpleasant for February. But during the last hour the sky had darkened to a dull, smoky gray, and the air had become almost unnaturally still.
The calm before the storm.
Caroline refused to go into the house, but traversing the grounds around the south wall was necessary to reach the greenhouse. With dignity, and wishing to God she could just become invisible for an hour, she gave her hand to one of her footmen, who didn’t appear to even recognize her, stepped from the coach, and began her mile-long trek through the woods.
Caroline suspected that her husband had learned she was still in England from one of her sisters, but it didn’t really matter, and she would probably never know for sure. What mattered was that, according to Jane, Brent was in London for the day, and in his absence he’d requested she return to retrieve old paperwork the idiot man had found in the greenhouse and wouldn’t even bother sending her. Evidently time had not softened his heart.
Choking down the first sting of tears she’d felt in weeks, she dropped her chin and strode purposefully to the forest.
No longer could she allow herself to feel sorrow or anger. She needed to keep her spirits high, stay strong, as she was pregnant with his child and leaving tomorrow to another part of the world.
Thank God pregnancy made her irritable instead of sorrowful.
Already she loved her baby, and that surprised her a little. She’d never really wanted children, but now, with this one growing inside of her, a creation from her own heart, just the thought of Brent’s ridiculous demands made her fume. Only God himself would be able to tear this child from her arms after his birth. Her estranged husband would have to slit her throat if he wanted his son without her involvement in his life, and sadly, knowing how the man felt about her now, she was almost afraid he’d consider it.
It annoyed her, too, that at the rate she was growing, she’d look like a whale in six months’ time. Naturally being a small woman didn’t help to hide her belly, but she was already showing, and she couldn’t, even if she’d conceived on her wedding night, be more than thirteen weeks along, which meant she was probably carrying a litter.
That would serve the arrogant idiot right. Let him have a male puppy for an heir. Then maybe the great Earl of Weymerth would grace her with sole guardianship after the thing had the audacity to piddle on his shoes.
Nearly giggling from the thought, she spied the greenhouse through the trees. Sighing, she walked to the door, opening it silently. Although it wasn’t quite three, it was fairly dark inside because of the gray afternoon, and she gave her eyes several seconds to adjust, inhaling deeply the fragrance of live green plants and flowers. Nothing remained of the French killer except the vivid memory of that horrifying day, and that would eventually fade to a distant recollection. Even now, alone in the dimness, she felt no lingering fear. Her greenhouse was her haven.
The first thing she noticed was how nothing had changed. Someone had been watering her plants while she’d been away, and that someone had to be her husband, because he now stood in the far corner, his back to her, his body outlined in shadows.
She stifled a gasp as her heart began pounding fast and hard with uncertainty.
“I—I thought you’d be gone,” she blurted shakily, dryly, hoping she sounded less startled than she was.
Abruptly he turned. “Gone? I’ve only just arrived, Lady Caroline, and I’m transfixed already by your talent. Your woodbines and periwinkles are growing quite well with the density of soil you’ve chosen.” He creased his dark brows, reaching over the back of the table to lightly touch a leaf. “And are you attempting to cross the runners here? Difficult job, really. These scarlets are remarkably healthy for this temperature.”
Suddenly she was awash with numbness. She could positively feel her cheeks pale as she became paralyzed with shock and unable to breathe.
“I’d very much like to see your notes on your hydrangea variations as well. These don’t appear to be at all sterile,” he pleasantly added, apparently unconcerned with her silence and oblivious to her astonishment. He looked back to her face then, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “I was looking for a light to better view your work when you walked in. So far, I’m quite impressed. You evidently have as great an aptitude for growing vines as you do for breeding roses.”
At that point she had to grab the desk to her left to keep from falling. She hadn’t seen him in nearly five years, had never been this close to the man. But in the gray stillness of late afternoon,
in her greenhouse
, she stood ten yards away from Sir Albert Markham.
The room brightened as he lit one of the small lamps sitting atop the back table.
“Much better,” he said agreeably. “Now let’s have a look.”
He turned to face her again, and immediately she recognized her initial mistake. From the back he was her husband—tall, formidable, same coloring save for his hair, which was slightly darker. But from the front, he was obviously years older and didn’t resemble Brent as much as…
Revelation struck her like a searing streak of lightning. Albert Markham’s features were masculine, but his face was a mirror image of her daughter’s.
Caroline started shaking.
He looked like Rosalyn.
“Lady Caroline?”
He looked
exactly
like Rosalyn.
Suddenly, and almost too late, she realized she was going to faint. As quickly as she reached for the desk to catch herself before her knees buckled, the man was beside her.
“Good heavens, dear lady, you’ve gone gray,” he expressed with immediate concern, placing his arm around her waist without second thought and helping her to one of the benches.
“I—I’m carrying,” she mumbled, gulping for air, slowly lowering her body to the hard wooden surface.
His voice and alert expression quickly conveyed surprise. “Oh, my. Brent didn’t inform me of that good news.” He sat heavily beside her. “Well, just…relax. Catch your breath.”
She didn’t want to relax—she wanted to drown herself in a lake. Sir Albert was in her greenhouse, sitting next to her, holding her hand in a fatherly gesture,
speaking
to her, and in all the years she’d dreamed of having an intellectual conversation with this one man, the first words out of her mouth did nothing but remind him she was female.
She was so incredulous she’d been slapped with stupidity.
“I apologize, sir,” she whispered, trying to regain some control, some dignity.
“Don’t apologize to me, my dear,” he reprimanded good-naturedly, patting her hand. “My nephew said you’d be surprised, and with that he should have informed me of your delicate condition.”
“He doesn’t—” She caught herself, her eyes shooting back to his face.
My nephew said you’d be surprised…
And then she knew. His eyes—expressive, dark, hazel—piercing hers with clarity and intelligence. Rosalyn’s eyes. Brent’s eyes…
“The Lady Maude was your sister,” she whispered.
He seemed to grasp that she was concluding this now, for he blinked once, then leaned back to eye her speculatively. “Brent didn’t tell you about us, about Maude and me.”
Caroline’s lips thinned, her face flushed. “My husband, sir, has more secrets in his tiny, insignificant mind than the entire British War Department has had on file since its inception.” She huffed with pure, disgusted outrage, lowering her gaze to the floor to murmur, “I’ll kill him.”
Sir Albert laughed, deeply and wholeheartedly, squeezing her hand affectionately.
“Don’t be so hard on him, Lady Caroline. He’s had a rather difficult life, and you must be the light of it or I wouldn’t be here at all.”
That both confused and warmed her. As she grew more composed and sure of herself in this great man’s presence, the uncanny coincidences began to explode in her mind, and within seconds she was filled with questions. Before she could open her mouth to begin the inquisition, he started to answer them for her.
“This was my greenhouse,” he disclosed softly, glancing around in remembrance.
That one fairly knocked the wind out of her. She’d been working in Albert Markham’s greenhouse for months without that knowledge. Brent wouldn’t just die at her hands, he would die painfully.
“I haven’t been inside it for nearly thirty years, though,” he continued, releasing her hand and sitting back casually, “not since my falling out with Maude.”
“I—Forgive me, sir.” She turned her body to face him fully. “I’m not sure I understand any of this, why you’re here, why I’ve been sent here today, why my husband never mentioned you were his uncle.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “Truthfully, I’m quite stunned.”
“You’re stunned?” he exclaimed, smiling. “I was shocked to see Brent walk into my office at Oxford yesterday to speak to me for only the second time in as many decades. And imagine my amazement when he informed me his wife was the woman who had sent me years of extensive studies on the very same rose I’ve pulled my hair out trying to create.”
“But I sent you a letter and copies of computations and growth conditions more than a year ago, and you weren’t interested in my findings,” she quickly rebutted.
He sighed loudly and waved his palm in annoyance. “Brent explained as much. I’m sorry, Lady Caroline, but my secretary answers all my correspondence through the university. He’s an annoying individual but efficient, so I keep him in my employ. Unfortunately, because of his efficiency, I never received your first letter and I certainly never had the opportunity to look over your findings. If I had, I would have been intrigued and more than eager to discuss them.”
“I see…” she murmured, dejected.
His voice and expression softened. “I know about your work, Lady Caroline, and quite frankly, I find it exceptional. You’ve made some remarkable discoveries, and your talent and knowledge are unsurpassed, from what I’ve observed today. Your garden is healthy and managed for this time of year, your breeding techniques are logical and convincing, and your crossings, some standard, some unusual, are challenging as well as productive. I also found myself utterly overwhelmed by the conclusive compilation of notes you sent last November. I’ve been a tutor for more than twenty years and never have I known a student more organized and, as it appears, more focused than you. I say this not because you are a woman or my nephew’s wife, but because you are probably the most gifted botanist I’ve come across in years.”
Caroline beamed, dazed and, as the sincerity of his words seeped in, thoroughly touched. Clutching the folds of her pelisse in her hands, she attempted to remain composed. Sir Albert Markham was here, sitting beside her and telling her he thought she was gifted. This chance meeting was turning out to be more splendid and exciting than any botanical discovery. If she never worked as a scientist another day in her life, she would know that she had done something unique, respected among her peers, that her accomplishments were credible.
Please, God
, she prayed silently,
please don’t let me start crying.
“Did my husband tell you I’ve been studying your work for years?”
He smiled again, leaning toward her. “Your husband is so proud of you I was certain he was nothing but a lovesick puppy embellishing fair success,” he mischievously confided. “That was, of course, until I realized he married the same woman who had sent me a bundle of notes she’d gathered regarding the now-famous lavender rose. The same woman who was one of the few to stand outside my classroom and listen to me lecture. Had I been allowed any liberties, madam, I would have gladly invited you and the other interested ladies to join us for our discussions inside the classroom, but alas, in our culture this is not permitted, and I must adhere to university rules.”
She blinked. “You would have done that?”
He chuckled. “My sister, if nothing else, forced me to look at life and women differently in my early years, but I should probably start at the beginning. If Brent hasn’t told you anything, you’re probably puzzled.”
“Puzzled doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling at the moment,” she disclosed. “Flabbergasted would be more accurate.”
He laughed again softly and leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring once again toward the other side of the room. So like her husband in stance, bearing, voice, and briefly she wondered why she had never recognized the similarities. Probably because she’d never been this close to him, hadn’t seen him in years, but more likely, because it was all so coincidental. Too coincidental.
“My sister was only eleven months younger than I,” he began quietly, “but much more aggressive, more mischievous as a child. She always felt cheated, threatened by me, partly because we were so close in age, but mostly because we were different sexes and treated as such. From the time I can remember, Maude took this personally, feeling neglected by our parents, believing thoroughly that I received more love from them, more…liberties and respect. With each passing year, she grew more bitter and resentful of her sex, her station, and of me.”
Slowly he stood and walked toward the oblong tables.
“I became interested in plants at a very early age. I was fascinated, not by the flowers and their appearance, but by how they grew, their varied patterns, the intricacies of their individual and unique structures. I found myself more engrossed in them as the years went by, and finally, around the time of my fifteenth birthday, I knew I wanted to make botany my lifelong work.” He turned to her, resting his hip on the vines spilling over the thick slab of wood.
“What started all of this,” he softly continued, gesturing to the room, “was Maude’s insatiable desire to have what I had. She wanted to be a botanist because I wanted to be a botanist, and felt she’d make a better one than I if only given the opportunity to prove herself. But Maude would never be able to do such a thing because she was disorganized, acutely self-centered, and undisciplined to a fault.