Reckless Angel (26 page)

Daniel sighed as the door closed behind her, and he massaged his temples wearily. Would he ever be able to put this behind him? He could not punish her in this fashion indefinitely, yet neither could he help himself. His anger and hurt seemed not to have diminished in the least. Perhaps, when they could leave this city that seemed to have become an airless prison, he would feel differently. But the futility and mortification of his present anomalous position at the Spanish court merely exacerbated his deep sense of disappointment in one whom he had believed to be utterly straight and honest, for all the rashness of her impulses.

Two days later, however, he was informed by the king's chancellor that His Catholic Majesty would grant
King Charles II's unofficial ambassador an audience on the following forenoon. Wondering what could have brought about this unheralded change of heart, Daniel returned home in a more cheerful frame of mind, only to be informed by the señora that Doña Drummond had not left her bed that day. Frowning, he strode up the stairs and into the bedchamber, where the shutters were pulled tight, allowing only thin bars of sunlight to filter dimly through the cracks. It was close in the room, yet Henrietta lay behind the drawn bedcurtains, in airless darkness, smothered by the quilt.

“What ails you, Henrietta?” He pulled back the bedcurtains and peered down at the small, curled mound. “'Tis as hot and stuffy as Hades in here!”

“I have the headache,” she mumbled. “The light makes it worse.”

His frown deepened. “Can I fetch ye something to ease it?”

A sniff was the only response, and he placed his hand on her brow. Her skin was warm and damp, but that was hardly surprising in the overheated room. “Y'are not feverish, I think.”

“'Tis just the flowers,” she said in a tiny voice, curling up more tightly.

“Then 'twill not last long,” he said matter-of-factly, straightening up. Her monthly terms rarely caused her significant indisposition. “I'll leave you to rest.”

Tears squeezed under her closed lids as the bedcurtains fell back, enclosing her once again in darkness, and she heard the chamber door close softly. He had not even remembered that this month she might have conceived. It meant nothing to him that she had not, and he had not considered for one instant whether it might have mattered to her. He had known that she hoped for it and he had forgotten. He did not know, of course, how very important the possibility had become, how it was to heal this gaping wound in their marriage. But now, as her body shed the hope, she was filled with a great emptiness…a void that grew from utter helplessness. There was nothing she could
do. Her husband despised her; she had no useful part to play in his life, no possible claims upon the love that she had destroyed. The years of her growing had been spent in the thin, dry soil of dutiful caretaking. No love had informed the duty and she had fled the barren ground as soon as she could, searching for warmth, for affection, for someone who would want her. She had chosen Will, and had been chosen by Daniel. But he no longer wanted her. And she would not again stay where she was unloved and unwelcomed.

It was a decision born from utter misery, but at least it was a decision and alleviated the paralysis of helplessness. With the decision came the planning. Betsy Troughton was leaving Madrid for France. She could not refuse to provide escort and companionship for Henrietta, who would tell her she needed to return to The Hague in advance of Daniel because of some ill news they had received of family matters. It was not in the least an unusual occurrence. She could pay for her passage on the ship, and for her hospitality on the road, but she could not travel alone. The Troughtons would understand that. The major difficulty would be the timing. She must present her request with great urgency and at the last possible moment, so that there would be no time for the gossipy piece of news to spread, as it inevitably would, before she was well away. Daniel would not permit her to leave, regardless of how little he wanted her. He was far too honorable a man to cast off even a dishonorable wife. So she must go in stealth.

An hour later, she was on her way to wait upon Betsy, ostensibly to pay her a farewell visit and wish her godspeed and good health and fortune upon her journey. She found the merchant's house in an uproar and Betsy distracted as she tried to direct the packing, soothe a fretful baby, and control a rambunctious toddler.

“Oh, Henrietta, how good of you to call,” she said breathlessly, dabbing her forehead with her handkerchief. “Is it not insufferably hot? No, John, you may
not have that!” She lunged sideways to snatch a crystal jar from her son, who instantly began to bawl. “Oh, I do not know what to do, Henrietta. The nursemaid has the toothache, baby must have the colic, and John will not be good! And how we are to be away from here by the morning, I do not know.”

“Y'are leaving so soon?” Henrietta wiped the toddler's running nose. “I had not realized.”

“My husband is anxious that we do not miss the ship's sailing from San Sebastián. And, indeed, I'll not be sorry to be away from this heat. 'Tis greatly tedious in my condition.” She patted her rounded belly and Henrietta winced under a sharp pang of envy. “Oh, no, Maria, those platters must be wrapped in cloths. They cannot go into the cases like that.”

“Give me the baby,” Henrietta said, taking the keening infant from her friend's arms. “Come, John, let us go into the garden and see what we can find. I will entertain these two for you so you may deal with the packing, Betsy.”

“Oh, y'are too kind, Henrietta.” Betsy yielded up her children with a sigh of relief, and Henrietta took them out into the garden, where the afternoon heat lay like a heavy quilt. The baby stopped wailing as if it were too great an effort suddenly, and little John began to scrabble in a flower bed, a pursuit that his present guardian decided was both quiet and relatively innocuous.

Walking slowly along the paths, she worked out her plan, her mind amazingly clear. She would come here in haste and apparent distress at dawn tomorrow, just as they were about to set off on their journey. She would beg a seat in the carriage, saying that her husband had received bad news from The Hague, and as he could not yet leave Spain himself, he had sent her on ahead of him. No one would question her story. It was a far too common one in these unsettled times. Betsy would welcome her company and her help on the journey, and once they reached France, she would leave the Troughtons and fend for herself. Daniel was
as generous with money as he could afford to be, and she had a fair sum left over from this quarter's allowance. If it should prove insufficient, she must sell the pearls. They had been a gift, not a loan, and were hers to dispose of as she pleased.

Of course, if Daniel still slept in the conjugal bed she would be unable to steal away in the dawn; but if he still shared her bed she would not have the need to do so. The doleful truth simply strengthened her purpose.

She left Betsy in her chaos and went home to the seclusion of her bedchamber, where she selected what she would take with her. The smaller her bundle, the better…a portmanteau would be far too cumbersome and she must be able to carry it herself. She chose a light wicker hamper with strong handles and carefully packed clean linen, her brushes and combs, sturdy boots, a cloak for climes less mellow than the Spanish heartland, and two of her simplest gowns. The elegant court wardrobe with which Daniel had furnished her would have no place in the life she must construct for herself.

She hid the packed hamper beneath the bed, then undressed and got underneath the covers. She was not in the least sleepy, but bed seemed the safest place at the moment. Daniel would assume she was still feeling indisposed and would not disturb her during the evening. In fact, she might not even see him before the morning…and in the morning, she would not see him.

Henrietta turned her head into the pillow and wept, grieving for the loss of a love that had become indispensible for happiness. Without that love, it ceased to matter what became of her.

Daniel spent a quiet evening in the parlor, preparing for his audience with King Philip on the morrow. He knew he would have only the one chance to present his king's request, and he must somehow convince the Spanish monarch that financial assistance in raising an army would not be wasted. He had to paint an optimistic picture of the support King Charles already had,
of the Scots so eagerly awaiting his arrival at the head of an army, of the dispersal of Cromwell's disciplined New Model in the chaotic aftermath of the war and Charles Stuart's execution. Unfortunately, Daniel was not entirely certain how correct such an optimistic picture was. It was hard to be convincing if one was not totally convinced oneself.

As a result, he was preoccupied and, apart from sending the señora abovestairs to see if Henrietta wished for any supper, he did not trouble himself unduly about her retreat. Once his mission here was accomplished, successfully or no, then he would tackle this great morass of misery that enwrapped them both.

Henrietta slept little and was up and dressed long before the first gray showed in the east. She picked up her hamper and crept from the room and down the stairs, slipping the heavy bolt on the front door with exaggerated care.

Señora Alvara, in her little chamber off the kitchen, heard the soft footfalls in the courtyard and sat up abruptly, her thoughts full of robbers. But when she tiptoed to the casement, she saw only Doña Drummond, carrying a wicker hamper, slipping through the gate. Frowning and curious, the señora pulled on a wrapper and ran out into the dawn in her nightcap. Peering down the steep street, she saw Doña Drummond turn the corner at the bottom, heading in the direction of the cathedral square. Whatever could she be doing? Not out for an ordinary stroll, that was for certain.

Señora Alvara stood nodding to herself, her lips moving, as if she were debating with some invisible person. She knew matters were not right between Don Drummond and his lady. There was no laughter in the house anymore, and the lady no longer smiled mischievously and teased both her husband and the señora. But of most consequence: Don Drummond now slept in the little chamber adjoining his wife's. And Señora Alvara was grown accustomed to these lodgers
for whom the pleasures of the bedchamber were manifestly important.

Still nodding and muttering, she returned to the house and went upstairs with a firm, purposeful tread.

“O
h, my heavens, Henrietta, you poor dear! But of course you must accompany us. There is ample room in the coach, is there not, John, particularly now you intend to ride.” Betsy appealed to the saturnine figure of her husband, who had listened in silence to Lady Drummond's breathless explanation and request.

“But of course,” he said politely, bowing to Henrietta. “We are happy to be of service, Lady Drummond. Does your husband not come to see you safe away?”

“He…he could not,” Henrietta said. “I did not wish to tarry in case I missed you, and he had letters of instruction he wished to write without delay in order that they may go back immediately with the messenger who brought the bad news. The messenger will be able to make better speed than we, you understand.”

“Indeed.” He bowed again, but Henrietta could not help the uneasy feeling that his eyes carried a glint of skepticism at this explanation for her unceremonious departure. However, he turned to a postilion. “Have Lady Drummond's basket put on the roof.”

“Oh, I cannot tell you how wonderful it will be to have your company,” chattered Betsy, clambering cumbersomely into the coach, where the wan nursemaid, her aching jaw wrapped in cloths, already sat, holding the baby. Master John, still half asleep, was whining ominously in a corner of the coach.

It was going to be a
long
journey, Henrietta reflected miserably, squeezing onto the leather-squabbed seat beside the nursemaid. However, she had no other options, and once they were away from this city that had brought so much unhappiness, she would perchance feel easier. It was hollow comfort.

The six horses pawed the cobbles of the square outside the Troughtons' lodging. The postilions mounted the near side horses; the outriders took up their positions alongside the vehicle. John Troughton cast a final searching glance around the deserted square and up at the coach roof to check that the luggage was securely fastened. Henrietta plaited her fingers, twisted the slender gold band that had replaced Daniel's signet ring, and resolutely swallowed the lump in her throat—when she saw her husband stride into the quiet square, nestling under the bulk of the cathedral.

It was clear that he had dressed in haste. He was bareheaded, wore no doublet beneath his cloak, his sash was twisted, the collar of his shirt opened. But the set of his jaw, the line of his mouth, a grim anxiety in his eyes, indicated a purpose that transcended the obligations of sartorial neatness.

“Ah, Drummond, y'are come to bid your wife godspeed, after all.” John Troughton, in the act of mounting his horse, greeted the new arrival matter-of-factly.

“On the contrary,” said Daniel. “Where is she?”

“In the coach with Betsy and the children.” Troughton took his foot from the stirrup. “Is something amiss?”

Daniel ignored the question. Walking to the coach, he pulled open the door.

“Oh, Sir Daniel, what a lovely surprise,” exclaimed Betsy. “Y'are come to bid farewell to Henrietta. I cannot tell you how overjoyed I am at the prospect of her company. You could not have hit upon a happier plan.” Then she reddened slightly. “I do beg your pardon, I did not mean to make light of your grave news from The Hague.”

Daniel appeared not to have heard a word of Betsy's
bubbly burble. His eyes were on his wife. “This is not necessary,” he stated evenly.

“Oh, d'ye mean there's better news of your family?” exclaimed Betsy.

Daniel had no idea of what she spoke, but decided that an affirmative seemed safest. “Aye, thank you, madam. And we shall be leaving ourselves for The Hague within the month.” He held out his hand to Henrietta. “Come.”

“I shall want your company,” Betsy said to Henrietta a little disconsolately. “But I can be thankful for ye.” She brightened bravely and patted her friend's hand.

Henrietta, momentarily in the grip of unreality, made no move and could find no words.

Daniel saw the small, heart-shaped face white with despair, her eyes great dark puddles of unhappiness, and his heart turned over with remorse. Absorbed in his own angry hurt, he had not seen how deep were her wounds—deep enough to cause her to take this drastic action. It was time for the balm of forgiveness, and someday he would forget. “Come,” he repeated. “This is not necessary, Henrietta.”

She swallowed and seemed to come out of her trance. “I think 'twould be best if I continue with Betsy, even if you have had better news from home.”

“Indeed, perhaps it would be so,” Betsy said eagerly.

He shook his head. “Nay, I do not give leave for that.”

Betsy sat back, resigned. When husbands spoke such words in such a tone, wives could only accede.

She could not continue this argument here in the coach, Henrietta realized. The proprieties had to be observed and not even Betsy would openly aid a runaway wife. Meanwhile, Daniel was standing in the open door, his hand outstretched in an invitation that embodied command. For the sake of appearances, she let her fingers brush his as she bent to climb down, but his hand closed hard over hers, his free hand cupping
her elbow, and she felt his breath on her cheek, the muscular tension in his frame as he assisted her to alight.

She stepped away from the coach, out of earshot, and spoke with soft, fierce intensity. “I think it is right that I leave now.”

“I do not,” he replied quietly. “Running away is never the answer.”

“I am not running away,” she denied, soft and fierce still. “I am simply leaving because I cannot live where I am not wanted. I have spent enough years in such a situation and I will not endure it again. You cannot wish me to remain either, if you are truthful, so let us have done with this—”

“This is no subject for the open street,” he interrupted, brusque because he could not bear to hear her talk in this fashion, comparing the neglect and unkindness of her childhood with her life with him, could not bear to see the pain etched upon her face. “We will continue in the privacy of home.”

“No.” She stood her ground. “I will not cause you embarrassment, if you will only let me do what I must.” She turned back to the coach. Exasperation came to his assistance.

“Must I carry you, Harry?”

The question struck her as too absurd to require response and she stepped toward the still-open door of the coach.

Daniel glanced at Betsy's puzzled face peering through the opening. He cast an eye up at John Troughton, now mounted and looking a trifle askance at this strange, whispered parley. Daniel shrugged. Let them make of it what they would. Gossip was the least of his worries at the moment. Without further words, he scooped his diminutive wife off the ground and settled her in his arms.

“Oh, my Lord,” squeaked Betsy, as Sir Daniel began to stride down the hill with his momentarily stunned burden. “Had we better have Henrietta's hamper taken back to their house, John?”

“It would seem so, my dear,” replied John, apparently unperturbed. “I gather there has been a change of plan.”

“Put me down!” Henrietta demanded, recovering breath and wits together.

“If you wriggle in this fashion, I shall be obliged to put you over my shoulder,” said her husband calmly. “'Twill be even less dignified, I fear.”

Henrietta instantly offered a creditable imitation of a corpse. “I will walk.”

“I do not think so,” Daniel said in the same calm tone. “I feel more confident we will attain our destination by this means. Y'are not in the least heavy,” he added reassuringly, as if such a consideration might be preying upon her mind.

Confusion swelled, fogged her brain. This was the old Daniel talking to her, holding her. Yet it could not be. He could not suddenly return, wiping out that cold, harsh stranger, eliminating that disastrous happening as if it had never been. But her every nerve and fiber yearned to believe that it could be so.

“Ah, Don Drummond, you have brought her back!” The señora greeted their return in customary voluble and enthusiastic fashion, flinging up her hands and exclaiming with pleasure, apparently not a whit surprised at the captive position of the retrieved wife, who was herself shrinking with embarrassment.

“Yes, thanks to you, señora,” he replied in her own language, looking down at his speechless, red-faced burden and switching to English. “Fortunately, Señora Alvara heard you creeping out and woke me up. When she told me she had seen you going toward the cathedral square, I was able to draw the correct conclusion and thus spare us both a most tedious amount of trouble.” So saying, he marched up the stairs and into the bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him.

He set her on her feet, but kept a hand on her waist while his other gently cupped the curve of her cheek. His eyes were now grave, not a trace of amusement in
his voice as he said, “It is over now, elf. We will not speak of it again.”

Henrietta wanted to believe him with all her heart, wanted to accept the simple words of forgiveness and forget the whole dreadful business, but she could not. She moved away from him, shaking her head. “No, it can never be over if you will not understand. You will always remember and you will always despise me. You will never trust me again.” Her voice was low and she was biting her lip fiercely.

“What is there to understand?” he asked quietly, unable to dispute her statement for all that he was determined to put the wretched business behind them.

“I did not think I was violating your trust,” she answered in the same low voice. “I only wanted to help you—”

“Help me!” Daniel broke in. “God's grace!” He ran his hands distractedly through his hair. “I suppose I should have guessed. 'Tis always when y'are feeling at your most helpful that the worst trouble occurs.”

Henrietta made no attempt to contest this melancholy truth, saying only, “I do not know why that should be. It seems unjust.”

“I rather suspect 'tis because y'are incurably impulsive.” Daniel sighed. “I think it's time you told me the whole, don't you?”

“I do not suppose it will make any difference to the way you feel,” she said. “I had thought it an excusable trespass, but I must have been mistaken.”

“Let me hear the excuse.” He listened attentively as she told him of her conversations with the queen and her ladies, of her deductions, and of her plan.

“It seemed so clever,” she said at the close. “'Twas such a good idea. But when you would not share the dispatches with me, I thought…” She paused as the dreadful memory of those moments of discovery returned in full force. “I was going to tell you all about it once I had put the plan in action, so I was not intending to deceive you at all. But when I tried to ex
plain that to you, you would not listen. You were only interested in what you thought I was doing.”

Which was perfectly true, Daniel reflected. He had not been in the least interested in her motives for her underhandedness, and he had been far too shocked and angry to listen anyway. “So, you were intending to confess the whole, were you?” When she nodded, a tiny smile born of relief glimmered in his eye. “I see. But it was still an abominably unprincipled act, Harry, even if you intended no deception.”

“I know,” she acknowledged simply.

“I do not imagine you will ever do such a thing again,” he prompted carefully. The look of horror that crossed her face was answer enough. “Just one more question; although I am certain the answer is perfectly clear, I don't seem to be able to hit upon it. Why on earth did you not come to me immediately you had realized what the queen wanted of you, instead of attempting to deal with it alone?”

Her eyes widened in surprise at such an obvious question. “But that would have been so ordinary!”

“Ordinary,” Daniel murmured. “Yes, of course. I knew the answer had to be staring me in the face. How stupid of me.” He shook his head and tutted as if annoyed with himself.

Henrietta regarded him suspiciously. “I wanted to show you that I could be skilled at intrigue. I want to be a part of what you do, but I do not think you always accept that I can. I am not such a baby, Daniel, as you believe me.”

“I do not think you a baby,” he said, smiling. “But y'are still only sixteen, love. There are things about the world you have not learned yet.”

“Well, I will not learn them if you do not give me the opportunity,” she pointed out reasonably.

“I suppose that is true.” He glanced at the watch hanging at his side. “Hell and the devil! 'Tis past eight of the clock and I'm bidden to the king's presence at ten.”

“Oh, it worked!” Henrietta clapped her hands in
voluntarily, a radiant smile chasing away the drawn look she had worn for so many days.

“What worked?” He went to the clothes press, drawing out his best suit of richly brocaded silk edged with silver lace.

“Why, my plan, of course…Oh, I forgot to tell you about what I did when the marchioness came to visit.”

“Tell me.” He listened incredulously to the details of her conversation with the lady. “What an astute little thing you are,” he said finally.

“Did I say the right things?”

He nodded. “Exactly what I would have said myself, had I the wit to conceive of such a clever plot.”

“Y'are pleased?”

He nodded again. “I'd have to be a monster of ingratitude not to be.”

She plaited her fingers, staring down at them with an air of great concentration. “Then perchance you think that 'twould be wise of you to take me into your confidence in the future?”

“I beg leave to tell you, madam wife, that y'are an artful wretch,” Daniel declared roundly. “Yes, indeed I have learned the unwisdom of excluding you from my affairs, just as I trust you have learned the unwisdom of unprincipled behavior, regardless of the purity of the motive.”

“I could not endure such a time again,” she said quietly, holding out her hand to him. “To have you say such things to me again.”