Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (25 page)

‘I’ll be back by Twelfth Night,’ he had said, ‘I promise,’ before
climbing into the saddle and cantering off down the lane.

She had watched him go, her heart swollen with love for him, but
tinged with sadness that he was leaving. He loved her. She loved him. And that
love changed everything for Francesca.

She struggled to hide her joy, pretending that everything was the
same, when in truth nothing was the same at all. She was dizzy with excitement.
The day had never seemed so bright, nor the air so fresh. Jack loved her and
their union had sealed that love. He would come back to her. He would marry
her, just as he had said, and they would live happily ever after. Francesca
hugged the knowledge to herself, and it put a spring in her step.

The days passed and Francesca kept herself busy. She did not mind
the dark winter mornings, rising in the cold to light the fire. She did not
mind scrubbing the floor or brushing the clothes or boiling the linens. Each
morning Francesca awoke with the hope that this day would see Jack’s return.
But Jack did not return. Not the first day or the second or even the next after
that. And with each passing day Francesca’s spirit wilted a little. She told
herself to be strong until, at last, it was the twelfth and final day of
Christmas. She baked the Twelfth Night cake with the last of the flour and
eggs, adding in dried fruit and sherry, and decorated it as best she could. And
then she waited for Jack to return. A hearty fire blazed in the parlour. All
day she listened for the sound of a horse or a carriage, but darkness fell and he
still had not come.

She did not sleep that night, but lay restless in the bed, her
mind whirling with possible explanations for Jack’s absence. What if he had
been charged with Grosely’s murder? Or Grosely’s father had had him killed?
What if Grosely had not been dead when they left him that day upon the moor?
But she knew the latter supposition to be sheer folly; there had been no
doubting Grosely’s lifeless corpse. She told herself that her worries were
fanciful—that Jack had merely been delayed, that he would arrive tomorrow. But,
for all she knew that to be the most likely of explanations, she could not rid
herself of the seep of dread that Jack was not coming back.

Her hopes were raised the next day, when a boy brought a prepaid
letter to the house. She watched Anne reading the address, her heart beating
nineteen to the dozen.

‘It is for you, Mama.’ Anne passed the letter to her mother.

Francesca hid her disappointment.

The family crowded round while Mrs Linden broke the seal and
unfolded the letter. She stood by the window that she might the better read the
words penned so neatly upon the paper. She read the letter, and then read it
again, and when she had finished she sat back down in her chair and bowed her
head and was silent.

‘Mama?’ Francesca forgot all about her own worries in her concern
for her mother. ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

Mrs Linden shook her head, and a single tear escaped from her
eye. She brushed it away with a work-worn hand.

‘Mama?’ Sophy stared at her mother with great round eyes.

Mrs Linden took out her handkerchief, dried her eyes and blew her
nose. And then, satisfied that she was quite composed, she turned to face her
children. ‘It is good news,’ she said. ‘It’s just something of a shock to hear
it after all this time. The letter is from your papa’s brother, George.’

‘Lord Sarum?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Linden carefully folded the letter. ‘It seems that
George has lately learned of our whereabouts. He wishes to put the
disagreements of the past behind us, and is inviting us to come and stay with
him in Salisbury for the month of March.’

‘But what of Papa’s disagreement with him?’ asked Sophy.

‘Papa’s disagreement was with the late Earl—your grandfather.
There was never any argument with his brother, but George was the heir and had
no choice but to do as his father said. And your own dear papa was too proud to
go back to Salisbury while your grandfather lived.’

‘Are we to go to Salisbury?’

‘Yes, I believe that we are.’ Mrs Linden smiled.

Lydia clapped her hands and danced with Sophy. ‘Hurrah!’

‘But how came he to learn of our address now, after all this
time?’ Francesca sat down on the arm of her mother’s chair.

‘From a mutual friend,’ said Mrs Linden, scanning the letter once
more.

Francesca remembered Jack’s visit to Salisbury, and she had the
strangest feeling that he was somehow involved in this.

The weather was dismal—all grey skies and blowing gales and rain.
A week had passed since Twelfth Night, and Tom and Francesca set out alone for
the market at Salcombe, leaving their mother and sisters to stay warm and dry
at home.

After days of fretting Francesca knew she had to do something. So
she phrased her question as nonchalantly as she could. ‘I wondered if you had
heard aught of Lord Holberton of late?’

Tom cast her a look that had shades of both puzzlement and
suspicion. ‘I’ve heard nothing,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Curiosity,’ she said calmly, and forced a smile to her face.
‘What other reason could there be?’

‘I can think of one.’

She felt her heart somersault, but she did not stop walking. She
did not even look round at Tom, lest he see the truth written all over her
face. Instead she adjusted the basket on her arm and smoothed some imaginary
strands of hair back from her face.

‘Sophy seems to be under the impression that you are sweet on
him. Is it true?’

‘Sophy is young and prone to fanciful impressions,’ said
Francesca, and knew that she was being unfair to her sister.

They walked in silence for a few moments.

‘If he has done anything that he should not—’

‘He has done nothing,’ Francesca said before he had even finished
the question. ‘Why should you even think such a thing?’

‘Because of how happy you were when he was here and how unhappy
you now seem.’

‘You are imagining things.’ She forced a laugh.

‘Perhaps. You know that he has something of a reputation, don’t
you?’

‘A man may change for the better.’

‘Not him,’ said Tom succinctly.

She remembered what Jack had told her of how his brother came to
be shot.

‘He is a rake, Fran. He seduces women and abandons them, with no
notion of honour or dishonour.’

‘Tom!’

‘I did try to warn you.’

She kept going somehow, one foot in front of the other,
maintaining her face in a mask of normality.
He seduces women and abandons
them.
She heard the words over and over again. Just as he had seduced and
abandoned her. It could not be true. He had asked her to marry him; he had to
come back. But she thought again of that night when they had shared their love,
and it seemed that she heard the whisper of the words he had said:
You do
know that I love you, Francesca, don’t you? That I have no intention of living
my life without you?
And she realised for the first time that he had not
actually proposed marriage to her at all.

A dreadful chill was spreading through her. He had loved her and
he had left. In almost two weeks he had not come back. There had been no
letter—not even the smallest scrawl of a note. The evidence was damning.
Francesca knew that either she had been ruined by the most beguiling of rakes,
or that something terrible had happened to Jack. Neither was an option in which
she wished to believe, and yet if she must choose she would take the former a
hundred times over.

She wanted to weep and cry aloud. She wanted to run away and keep
on running. She walked on, the empty basket over her arm, her purse and Tom’s
coins in her pocket. Walking and walking. Tom was still talking, but she did
not hear his words. She was concentrating on locking all her hurt away, on
being strong and calm and capable. There was food to be bought and dinners to
be cooked, a house to be kept, a family to be cared for. There was no time to
dwell on the darkness of probability.

Francesca and Tom were returning home from the market with their
basket filled with supplies. The rain had been falling constantly for the last
hour, soaking into their clothes until they grew damp and heavy. Francesca’s
bonnet was limp and bedraggled, her cloak was so wet as to be clinging to her,
and the bottom of her skirts were sodden and muddy. Tom was little better. They
made their way down the lane towards home, their feet slopping and rubbing in
the wetness of their boots.

The front door opened and Anne ushered them in. ‘You’re soaked
through to the skin!’

‘We’d better go round to the back door,’ said Francesca, ‘or
we’ll leave a trail of mud and water throughout.’

‘No, no,’ Anne insisted, ‘Come in quickly.’

Francesca was too cold and miserable to notice the excitement in
her sister’s tone. She hurried after Tom through to the kitchen, and began to
peel off her wet clothing.

‘We’ve got a visitor,’ said Anne.

‘Who is it?’ Tom pulled off his muddy boots and stockings.

Francesca stopped, her cloak hanging heavy in her hand, rainwater
dripping on to the floor.

‘Lord Holberton.’ Anne smiled.

Francesca grabbed for the table and leant heavily upon it until
the lightness in her head subsided.

‘What’s wrong, Francesca?’ Anne stared at her sister with
concern.

‘Nothing at all. I’m fine.’

‘Go and change. I’ll wring out your clothes and hang them up to
dry.’

‘Thank you.’ Francesca squeezed her sister’s arm and hurried up
to the bedchamber with wet bare feet. She stripped off the remainder of her
clothing and pulled on a plain grey dress that was made of warm wool. She
rubbed her hair with a towel until it no longer dripped water, then combed it
out and pinned it, still wet, in a roll at the nape of her neck. She found
clean stockings and a pair of slippers, and finally stood ready, but she made
no move other than to sit down upon her bed.

Jack was downstairs, and she did not know what to think. Her
heart was bruised from the long wait and the worst of imaginings. He was down
there, and a part of her lit with joy at the knowledge, and the other part was
scared of seeing him again. There was so much risk in loving, so much
vulnerability, so much potential to be hurt…and yet joy too vast to be
measured. She touched her fingers to her chest and felt the small bump of the
Swift
that lay beneath the layers of clothing. She thought of all that had happened
since that night aboard the boat. She thought and she thought, and then she
took a deep breath and, rising from the bed, walked towards the bedchamber
door.

Jack thought Francesca was paler than he remembered, and there
was a slightly strained look about her eyes. He worried that she had been
working too hard and not eating enough.

‘Lord Holberton has come to visit us,’ said Mrs Linden. ‘Lydia,
pour Francesca some tea,’ she directed. ‘It should still be warm.’ She peered
at Francesca. ‘You look rather pale.’

‘She’s coming down with a chill,’ supplied Anne. ‘She almost
fainted in the kitchen.’

Everyone looked at Francesca.

‘You exaggerate, Anne. I’m quite well,’ said Francesca.

Jack stood up from his chair by the fire. ‘Take my seat,
Francesca.’

‘I’m fine where I am, thank you, my lord.’ She stayed seated on
the wooden chair by the door.

‘I insist.’ He rose and walked over to her, reaching his hand
down towards hers.

He could feel all eyes of the Linden family upon him, but he did
not care. He took her hand in his, feeling the tremor within it, and guided her
over to the armchair by the fireside. Her face was still pale, but two pink
patches had now appeared on her cheeks. When she was seated he took the cup of
tea from a gawking Lydia and passed it into Francesca’s hands. She was
trembling so much he could hear the slight chink of china as the cup rattled
against the saucer.

Everyone stared. No one spoke. Francesca sipped her tea in
silence.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if I might be allowed a few moments
to speak to Francesca.’ He looked meaningfully at Mrs Linden. ‘It will not take
long.’

Tom looked at him suspiciously, but Mrs Linden was on her feet.
‘Come along, Tom. Bring the tea tray, Anne. We shall retire to the kitchen for
a little while.’ Her cheeks had turned very pink. ‘Sophy, Lydia.’ Mrs Linden
shooed them all out before her.

The parlour door shut. He could hear them trailing through to the
kitchen, their voices murmuring, raised in quiet, questioning tones, and Mrs
Linden hushing them before the firm closing of the kitchen door.

He came to her then. Crouched down and took both her hands in
his. ‘I’m here at last.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was so soft that the word was barely more than a
whisper.

‘Francesca…’

She looked directly into his eyes. ‘Where have you been, Jack?’

‘London.’ His brow furrowed in perplexity. ‘There were affairs to
be set straight with regard to Grosely. His father was causing difficulties. I
told you all in my letter.’

‘I received no such letter.’

Jack frowned; the reason for Francesca’s pallor was now apparent.
‘Then you know nothing of my journey and must have thought the worst of my
absence.’

‘I feared that something, or someone, had beset you.’

‘Not that I had abandoned you?’

‘Perhaps the thought crossed my mind.’

‘I told you once before that promises made at Christmastime are
as gifts and must be kept.’ He stroked his thumbs across her fingers.

She bowed her head briefly and he could see then that she was
holding back the tears. He knew that she had suffered in the time he had been
away.

‘You are here now and that is all that matters.’ She glanced up
at him and smiled.