Never Call It Love (20 page)

She
followed it After a while she could see a little cove, with boats lying at its
wharf. Farther along the cove's edge, a church spire rose above trees. It was
not until she reached level ground that she saw that there were other
buildings, about a dozen whitewashed thatched cottages, strung out along a
single village street.

As
she moved past the wharf, two men furling the sail of a boat doffed their hats
to her. On the village street two little boys riding stick horses stopped their
play at sight of her, stared solemnly, and then, when she smiled, shyly smiled
back. A tall blond woman with a basket over her arm wished Elizabeth a good
morning.

The
old stone church was at the end of the street, and
set at right
angles to it In the churchyard, sunlight slanted through oaks and maples onto
the granite headstones. Attracted by the quiet beauty of the place, Elizabeth
slid to the ground and tethered Satin to the hitching post. "And you stay
here too, Gypsy." Apparently the dog understood, because he lay down beside
the mare and sank his head on his extended paws. Elizabeth went through the
gate in the churchyard's white-railed fence.

Plainly
only the humble rested here. There were no granite mausoleums or marble angels,
only the modest headstones. Those near the fence were the oldest. Some bore
dates of more than two hundred years before. Others, probably even older, were
so worn that their lettering was indecipherable. As she moved back along the
gravel path, she saw newer headstones, including one of granite so unweathered
that it might have left the stonecutter's shed only weeks before. She paused
beside it. The words engraved upon it struck her like a blow. "Anne
Reardon. Died age seventeen and two months, twentieth day of November,
1778."

Footsteps
sounded on the gravel. She turned, to see a plump woman, gowned and bonneted in
black, with a bouquet of field daisies in one hand. At sight of Elizabeth, she
stopped, as if surprised, and then came on, smiling. "A good morning to
you, Lady Stanford."

"Good
morning. Do I... I mean, have we met before?"

"No,
milady. But everyone in these parts has heard a description of you by
now." She paused. "I am Maude Reardon."

"Reardon!
Are you...?" Elizabeth was unable to finish the sentence.

"No.
I'm not the poor child's mother. She's dead long since. Anne was my niece, my
brother Tim's child. Sir Patrick had to stay in London after... it happened, so
I brought her back here in her coffin."

Stiffly
she knelt and placed the flowers on the grave. When she started to rise,
Elizabeth bent and put her hand under the woman's elbow. "Let me help you,
Mrs. Reardon."

"Thank
you, milady." She got to her feet. "Only, it is Miss Reardon. I never
married."

"Yes,
of course. You said you were Tim Reardon's sister." She looked down at the
grave and then asked, almost against her will, "What was she like?"

"Anne?
A usual sort of girl, milady, neither plain nor pretty, and perhaps a little
quieter than most. Sensible, though. When Sir Patrick decided to arrange that
fine marriage for her with an ironmonger's son, Anne never said a word to show
how she felt, although I could see it fair broke her heart to leave Stanford
Hall, she was that daft about him."

"Daft
about... I am afraid I don't understand."

"About
Sir Patrick, milady. She fair worshiped the ground he walked on."

A
sudden thought held Elizabeth motionless. His rage and grief over the girl's
death, his grim determination to have revenge. Could it have been because...?

Before
she could stop herself, she asked, "And was Sir Patrick daft about her?"

"About
Anne?" It was Maude Reardon's turn to sound puzzled. Then horror came into
her face. "Oh, milady! No one ever thought that of Sir Patrick. Why, she
was his
ward."

Elizabeth
felt color in her cheeks. "I see. It is just that I never knew Anne. And
as a matter of fact, I haven't known Sir Patrick very long."

"No,
you haven't, have you, milady? And I am not saying he is a saint. He is like
other men. But everyone knows he was honor itself where Anne was
concerned."

She
looked down at the grave and sighed. "It was a sad
business for
him, what happened to her. And a sad business for you, having your own brother
falsely accused like that."

"Yes."
Elizabeth's voice was stilted. She went on, reluctant to ask the question, and
yet needing to know the answer, "I suppose it was his acquittal that made
you sure my brother had been falsely accused."

"Oh,
no, milady. Many a scoundrel has 'scaped the hangman. It was Sir Patrick's
marrying you that made me sure your brother wasn't guilty. Sir Patrick would
never have asked you if there had been the slightest doubt about that
point."

"I
see." How reasonable Maude Reardon's assumption was, and how utterly
mistaken. Swiftly Elizabeth changed the subject. "Anne's father was a
fisherman?"

"From
the time he was a young lad until his boat caught fire and sank, eight years
ago."

"How
is it that his daughter became Sir Patrick's ward?"

"Why,
because Tim and Sir Patrick were friends, milady."

Strange,
Elizabeth thought. In England, men of such disparate classes might feel mutual
respect and goodwill, but they would not consider themselves friends. Well,
evidently it was a case of other countries, other customs. She thought of
Michael, the coachman, winking at Patrick the day they had landed, and clapping
him on the shoulder.

Maude
Reardon said, "I had best take myself home. A good day to you, milady, and
please remember me to Sir Patrick."

"I
will."

Elizabeth
lingered beside the grave for several minutes, looking at the headstone with
its brief, sad legend. Then she went out to the hitching post and untethered
Satin. She
stepped onto a mounting block worn hollow by generations of booted feet, and
got into the saddle. With Gypsy following, she set out for Stanford Hall.

In
the dining room that night, as she and Colin lingered over sweet sherry,
Elizabeth asked, "What is your opinion of smugglers?"

He
smiled. "They are reprehensible and highly necessary members of society.
Why do you ask?"

"I
wanted to make sure of your sentiments before I told you. You see, I think I
discovered a smugglers' cache today." She told him of the cave and the
stacked cases.

"Where
was this?"

She
described the spot as best she could. "Is that Stanford land?"

"I
don't think so. I think it is Moira Ashley's. But smugglers play no favorites.
They will use anyone's land." He paused. "Where else did you
ride?"

"Down
to that little fishing village on the cove." Reluctant to speak of that
encounter in the churchyard, she said, "Well, I must go to my room. I want
to write a letter to my mother tonight."

"I
thought we might play chess."

"Perhaps
tomorrow night." If, she amended silently, Patrick was not home by then.
She had a feeling that he would resent those chess games and would try to see
to it, by one means or another, that they were discontinued.

Up
in her room, she took paper from the drawer of the pretty little desk and began
to write. She was completing the last sentence of her letter when she heard a
voice in that vast hall downstairs, speaking so loudly that it penetrated the
thick walls of her room. After a moment she realized that the voice was
Patrick's, and that he sounded angry. Angry over what? Had he returned to find
that Colin or one of the servants had disobeyed some instruction he had left?
Whatever the trouble, it was no concern of hers. She signed and sealed her
letter, and then glanced at the clock on the desk, with its gilt frame of
cupids and lovers' knots. Only a little after nine. Nevertheless, she felt
sleepy, perhaps because of that long morning ride.

She
was moving toward her wardrobe when someone knocked. She crossed to the door
and opened it. Mrs. Corcoran stood there. "Sir Patrick is home, milady. He
wants to see you in the library."

The
round face looked frightened. So the master of the house really was in an angry
mood. "Very well. Tell him I will be down soon."

"Please,
milady! He said to come right away."

Elizabeth
said swiftly and soothingly, "Then tell him I will be down in a
moment."

The
housekeeper hurried off. Elizabeth moved to her dressing table and tucked a
stray lock of chestnut hair into place. Then she went along the balcony, down
the right-hand staircase, and through the open library doors. Just beyond the
threshold, she halted.

Patrick
leaned against the massive table, arms crossed over his chest, booted feet crossed
at the ankles. His face was black with anger.

"Close
the doors!"

She
looked at the tray, holding a brandy bottle and an almost empty glass, which
rested on the table near him. Then,
with cool deliberation, she turned and
pulled the doors closed.

She
said, facing him, "What is it?"

"I
shall tell you what it is, madam! Before coming home, I stopped to see Maude
Reardon in the village. She told me of your conversation with her today. How
you implied that I might have taken advantage of my ward.... What a mind you
must have, madam!" He picked up the brandy glass and drained its contents.

Cheeks
aflame, but trying to keep her gaze steady, Elizabeth watched him in silence.

"Is
it not enough that the child died as she did? Must you defame the character
that nobody questioned while she was alive? And what of me? Did you really
think that I made that girl my mistress, and then tried to palm her off on a
respectable London family?"

Her
own anger had kindled now, speeding her heartbeats. "Did you expect me to
regard you as the soul of honor and chivalry in your relations with women? Why,
after your treatment of me, I think you should not be surprised if I think you
capable of any outrage!"

The
blood had rushed to his face. "But you gave me provocation! Anne Reardon
did not. She was no liar, no perjurer, intent only upon saving a depraved
monster from the gallows."

Elizabeth's
voice shook. "Is that all you have to say to me?" She turned toward
the door.

"No!
I forbid you to go to the village ever again."

She
whirled around. "Forbid? I am your legal wife, but not your prisoner. I
shall go wherever I please. The only way you can stop me is to lock me
up." She opened the doors and, head high, moved out into the hall.

"Perhaps
I will lock you up!" he shouted after her. He stood motionless for a
moment, and then splashed more brandy in his glass.

Damn
the woman. And to think that in Dublin he had
found himself eager to get back
to her. Why, he had even bought her that dress....

He
had seen it in Madame Leclerc's shop, fitted on some sort of wire contraption
in the shape of a woman's body. It was of ruby-colored velvet, with long cuffs
of white lace falling below elbow-length sleeves. Instantly he had thought of
how that color would bring out the warm tints of Elizabeth's face, and contrast
with her gray eyes. Too, it would look well with his mother's ruby necklace and
earrings.

Yes,
Madame Leclerc told him, the dress was for sale. A Dublin lady had ordered it,
and then, when it was completed, had decided the color did not suit her.
"But have you the certainty that it will fit Lady Stanford? The lady for
whom it was made is of the slender figure."

"So
is Lady Stanford. And if necessary, she can have it refitted, when we come to
Dublin to order other gowns from you."

At
his request, she had wrapped the dress in several layers of stout canvas. All
the way from Dublin, he had carried it strapped behind the saddle. Then he had
stopped in the village to see poor Maude and to give her the present—a pair of
black lace mittens—he had bought for her in Dublin. By the time he had reached
Stanford Hall, he was in such a rage that he had told Joseph to unstrap the
canvas bundle and throw it in a storeroom somewhere.

He
drained his glass, set it down, and started toward the doorway. Then he turned
back, and inverted the glass over the bottle. Carrying the bottle by the neck,
he went up to his room.

He
undressed, put on a dressing gown of dark red brocade, and poured himself more
brandy. Seated on the edge of his bed, he stared at the connecting door. He
could hear her moving about in the room beyond.

Well,
it was true he had grievously wronged her, but he
had tried to right that wrong as
best he could. And true, he had realized that he could expect little of a
marriage such as theirs. But surely she'd had no right to ask those
insinuating, slanderous questions of Maude. Surely she had no right to defy his
order to stay away from the village. Perhaps he had not really meant the order,
but even so, she had no right to throw it back in his teeth.