Tangled (28 page)

There was singing and dancing and reciting—and of course the Nativity play. Christmas had somehow never seemed quite so precious to him, David thought, sitting in a chair from which he could watch both his wife and the children's performance. There was a warm smile on her face. He wondered treacherously if she had done any more thinking about that last wonderful Christmas with

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Julian she had begun to speak of the evening before, but he pushed the thought away.

David had bought each of the children a ball. He handed them out after the Nativity play was over, while the earl distributed coins among them. Rebecca gave only smiles and praise and thanks to them—and the schoolmaster—for their kindness and generosity in giving up part of their Christmas Day for her pleasure. David wondered if she realized that for the children, who were about to be herded into a salon for a lavish tea, this was probably the high point of all the Christmases they could remember.

She did not protest when he carried her back upstairs after the children had been led away by Mrs. Matthews.

“You must rest awhile,'' he told her as he set her down on the bed, still clothed. "The fourth month is only just over.''

"Yes," she said. "But it is over, David. The fifth month is just beginning."

She usually looked at him with calm self-possession. It was usually impossible to know quite how she was feeling on any matter. Only occasionally did her eyes allow him a glimpse into what was going on beneath the exterior. Her eyes were luminous now—slightly anxious, slightly hopeful. She wanted him to talk about the fifth month rather than the fourth.

"Yes," he said. "It is beginning. Just as a new year will be soon. But you must continue to rest as much as possible."

"Yes, David," she said. The submissive wife again.

He wished he dared try to get through to the hidden Rebecca, the one she kept to herself behind the dignity and the training of years.

But he was afraid of what he might find there. Perhaps the veneer was better than the reality would be.

"Thank you for my gift," he said before turning to leave her.

"A silk shirt made by my own hands?" she said. "It seemed a sorry gift when a tailor might have done a far better job, David. But I have not been able to buy you anything. Thank you for mine." She fingered the single

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diamond pendant on a gold chain that she wore about her neck.

A single diamond unadorned by others or by a fancy setting. It did not need embellishment. Just as she did not. He wondered what she would say if he told her that.

"If you are feeling strong enough," he said, "I'll come back after dinner with Papa and Louisa. Perhaps we can play cards. Would you like that?"

"Yes, David," she said.

Would she rather be left alone—with her memories, perhaps?

"Very much," she added.

He nodded and left the room. She meant it. It had been a far more wonderful Christmas than any he could remember. Next year there would be a child in the house. Perhaps.

He wondered if it would be tempting fate to admit to himself that he was happy. He was. Almost. He had the rest of a lifetime during which to make her happy too— to help her to forget the worst of her grief, to help her relax into a relationship of affection, to make their marriage a full reality again, to give her perhaps another child or two.

Though just this one would bring more happiness—to both of them—than he could possibly imagine at the moment.

Yes, he thought, going downstairs to discover that Louisa too had been banished to her room for a rest, he was happy.

Almost.

Christmas would have been perfect—for both of them, though they did not speak of it openly to each other. For both it was wonderful because the spirit of Christmas had been recaptured again after several lost years. And because they had found it together even if neither quite knew that the other did too. But it was not quite perfect after all.

The earl and Louisa left for Craybourne on Boxing Day. They were both anxious to get home since the time for Louisa's confinement was drawing closer. David accompanied them to the station and stayed with them in the relative warmth and comfort of the carriage until the train could be heard steaming along the track. Then they moved onto the platform.

Several passengers got off the train. David had kissed Louisa's cheek and helped her aboard and had turned to shake his father by the hand before he was hailed by the hearty voice of one of the new arrivals. Sir George and Lady Scherer had decided to break their journey home from Christmas in Gloucester in order to call on their dear friends, the Tavistocks.

Hasty introductions were made before the guard's whistle blew and the train departed on its way. Louisa smiled warmly at Lady Scherer.

"Rebecca will have company for a little while longer," she said.

"She will be so glad."

"My wife is suffering through a rather difficult confinement,"

David explained quietly to his newly arrived guests, hoping that perhaps at the last possible moment they would change their minds and jump aboard again. But a small mountain of luggage had already been de-

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posited on the platform close to them. "She will be pleased to see you."

He did not know if she would or not. She had wanted to dine with the Scherers in London, and perhaps from her point of view it had been a pleasant evening. Certainly Scherer had given them a hearty welcome and Cynthia had been quietly friendly—to Rebecca. They had never talked about the evening.

For David it had been torture. He had never particularly liked Scherer, with his loud, brash manner. Under any circumstances he would have been less than delighted to be forced to spend an evening socializing with him. But he certainly needed no reminding of how his life had somehow become linked with the man's. And he had no wish at all to be in Lady Scherer's company, knowing the part she had played in the whole terrible drama of those events in the Crimea.

The thought of Rebecca having to be with Cynthia, not knowing, had filled him with impotent rage.

But it seemed he had no more choice now than he had had then.

Scherer, for reasons of his own, was choosing to treat him as some sort of hero. The man did owe his life to him, David supposed. But at the same time Scherer should remember how close he and Julian had been. He should be sensitive to the fact that David did not want to remember that day in his life. But sensitivity seemed to be something George Scherer lacked.

How could Scherer force his wife to remember? And to face the man who had killed her lover? And the widow of that lover? But perhaps that was Scherer's intent. David had the uneasy suspicion that the man hated his wife.

And so when he returned from the station and went up to his bedchamber to bring Rebecca downstairs to tea, he took also the news that they had visitors for an indeterminate number of days.

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They stayed for only two days. It seemed more like two months to Rebecca. After Boxing Day she stayed in bed during the mornings at David's insistence, but she came downstairs in the afternoon, walking on legs that

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felt alarmingly weak and unsteady, and did not retire again until after dinner.

Sir George Scherer was as friendly and as hearty and as talkative as she remembered him from London. His wife was as quiet. Rebecca set herself to entertaining them, determined to be gracious, determined to like them if she possibly could. She felt rather ashamed of some of the wild imaginings she had indulged in during her month upstairs. That evening in London could not possibly have been as sinister in tone as she remembered it.

But the atmosphere she remembered there returned.

"Do a lot of shooting, do you, Major?" Sir George asked David after dinner on the second evening.

"Not a great deal," David said. "And I have not been a major or of any other military rank for half a year, you know."

Sir George laughed. "But I always think of you as Major Tavistock," he said. "It was fortunate for me that you were, eh? He should shoot frequently, Lady Tavistock. He would keep your larder full. I have never seen such a deadly accurate shot in my life as the one that killed that Russian."

Rebecca smiled and asked Lady Scherer if she played the pianoforte. Lady Scherer did not.

"Do you still have that pistol?" Sir George asked. "The one that killed him?"

"Yes," David said. "Perhaps you would like to play for us for a short while, Rebecca, if you are not tired."

"You do?" Sir George said. "Fetch it in here, Major, if you please.

It would be a pleasure to see it again. Cynthia would like to see it, wouldn't you, my love? The gun that saved your husband's life and shot the villain who would have killed him?''

Lady Scherer said nothing. He was tormenting her, Rebecca thought. But how? And why? Was he reminding her that her lover had saved her husband's life so that he could go on tormenting her?

Was that it? But she had put those thoughts behind her. She did not want to be thinking them.

"I consider bringing a gun into the presence of ladies to be in rather poor taste," David said, getting to his feet 206
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and holding out a hand for Rebecca's. His eyes were cold, she saw.

"Quite so," Sir George said. "But I wish you could have seen it happening, my love. Right through the heart with no time at all to take aim. That was some shooting. But pardon me, Lady Tavistock. I should not be conjuring such images before your eyes, should I? It will only serve to remind you that your first husband too was shot-in the same battle, at that. Right through the heart too, was it not? But you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that he died a hero. A great hero, ma'am."

What was he saying? Dear God, what was he saying? Rebecca set her hand in David's and looked up into his cold, cold eyes.

"This is almost the first day my wife has been downstairs for an extended period of time," he said. "I am afraid she is overtired. The music must wait until tomorrow. Come, Rebecca, I'll take you up to your room."

Though she had walked down the stairs, leaning heavily on his arm, and they had agreed that she would move from place to place in future on her own feet, he lifted her up into his arms.

"I am sorry," she said, turning her head to look at their guests.

"Please excuse me."

"And I am doubly sorry, Lady Tavistock," Sir George said, on his feet, a look of contrition on his face. "Here am I talking war talk when Cynthia keeps reminding me that everyone wants to forget the war. And you more than anyone must wish to forget. Do forgive me, ma'am."

"Good night, Lady Tavistock," Lady Scherer said quietly.

It was a long time before David came to bed. Rebecca had even fallen into an uneasy sleep by the time he came. But she had lain for a long time staring up into the darkness. What had he meant? The Russian David had killed had been shot through the heart. Julian had been shot through the heart.

What had he meant? What had he been implying? Anything? Had he been implying that there was somehow a connection between the two shootings? There could be no possible connection. Her mind stopped just short of making one—it would be too nightmarish to

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move her thoughts even one step closer. She stared upward.

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The following morning David asked George Scherer to leave. He took him riding early, while the ladies were still in bed.

"What I did in the Crimea," he said abruptly once they were away from the stables, "I did because I had to. Not because I wanted to. It would have hurt to be forced to kill any fellow officer. To have to kill Julian Cardwell was an agony to me, as I am sure you must realize, Scherer. We grew up as brothers. I do not argue that you had a legitimate quarrel with him. That was not my concern. But losing him—by my own hand—hurt and still hurts more than I can possibly describe in words. I would have expected you to understand that."

For once George Scherer had nothing to say.

"My wife loved him dearly," David continued. "It is painful for her to be reminded of his death and of the manner of his death. I don't want her reminded, especially at this time. She is preparing to give birth and has not had an easy time of it."

"No," George Scherer said, none of the usual heartiness in his voice, "I don't suppose you do want her reminded, Major. Especially of the manner of his death."

David frowned. "Having you here," he said, "can only serve to remind us both of what is best forgotten. Inhospitable as it sounds, Scherer, I must ask that you do not prolong your visit."

"I wonder," Sir George said as they turned their horses for home again after a very short ride. He did not say for a while what it was he wondered. “You married Lady Cardwell very soon after your return from the Crimea, Major."

It was as he had begun to suspect, David thought. The man had not come out of gratitude at all.

"I begin to wonder," Sir George said so quietly that he might have been talking to himself, "for whose sake you shot him, Major."

David sucked in his breath. "There is a train leaving this afternoon, I believe," he said. "At the same time as the one you arrived on the day before yesterday."

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"Cynthia and I will be on it," Sir George said, chuckling and looking his old self again. "We would stay longer, Major, but we would not tax Lady Tavistock's health. A short Christmas visit seemed in order, though. Cynthia has talked of little else. 'We simply must call on the Tavistocks without whom you would not be alive and here with me, George, dear,' she has said to me more times than I can count since we decided to go to Gloucester for Christmas. And so we came. This afternoon we will resume our journey. We will call again when your wife is in better health. Perhaps for the christening of your son? I will pray that it is a son. Every man likes to have an heir."