The lips moved again. Catherine reached for a piece of clean linen from the pile at the foot of the bed. She dipped it into a pitcher of water and held it to the earl’s lips. She could feel an eagerness to suck, like a babe at a breast, in the slight movements of his mouth.
Something akin to pity welled up from deep inside her. This was no man. This was a child, an infant. He needed constant care. He exerted no influence. He could not harm her.
Catherine backed away from the bed. Her eyes were misting over. I am not going to feel sorry for him, she thought in confusion. This man nearly ruined my happiness. He had no use for my life, a perfectly good human life.
But I would have loved him, with all my heart.
She turned and, as fast as she could, limped out of the room.
Chapter 19
“What precisely will be necessary for the licence?” Jocelyn was not sure, but he thought Beaseley had been satisfied with the answers to his gentle questions about his circumstances. Jocelyn had made it clear that he had no need of any of Catherine’s vast estate, and that, in any case, he hoped to be at sea again relatively soon.
Beaseley returned to the desk in the corner of the library. “I will send a message to the bishop immediately. Where is the wedding to take place?”
Jocelyn shrugged. “I have no particular preference. My own family is dead.”
“I somehow suspect that Lady Catherine would wish to have it here,” Beaseley murmured. His brow creased. “It is inconvenient, of course, given her father’s illness.”
“Her intention is to marry while he is still alive,” Jocelyn said.
“Yes,” said Beaseley. “Yes, I believe it must be. So we will plan on tomorrow morning.”
Jocelyn said nothing. The discussion had a surreal quality to it. Marriage! In the morning! He wondered that he did not feel much emotion at the thought. All he could think of was the sea …
“I will need documents, of course,” Beaseley was saying. Jocelyn snapped out of his reverie.
“I beg your pardon? What sort of documents?”
“We are not posting banns, Captain Avebury. Do you have any papers that will confirm your identity? I can vouch for you but, forgive me, I do not know your people – I am just looking out for Lady Catherine’s interests.”
Jocelyn stared at him impassively for a long moment. “I have nothing of the sort with me,” he said finally.
Beaseley sat back in his seat. “Indeed?”
There was another long silence. Jocelyn knew that the next move had to be his. Beaseley was suspicious, but he was merely the earl’s man of business. He clearly did not want to question Lady Catherine’s betrothed. On the other hand, he plainly felt a great deal of affection for Lady Catherine.
“We were not planning such a hasty wedding,” Jocelyn said. “The earl’s illness forced us to … er … declare ourselves much earlier than would have seemed appropriate, under normal circumstances.”
“Indeed,” Beaseley said again. His expression remained neutral.
Jocelyn rose and strolled over to a window overlooking a fresh green lawn. Thunderclouds were threatening in the distance, and the air was quite heavy and humid. He turned back to Beaseley.
“I have my naval papers amongst my belongings at the inn where I have been staying, in Bath. Perhaps they would suffice.”
“I imagine they would,” Beaseley replied. “Certainly the Navy would not accept a person as an officer without proper recommendation.”
Jocelyn looked at him sharply. There was a little worried crease, a slight frown on his face. But there was simply nothing to say to him, no explanation that could possibly suffice.
“I would not hurt her,” Jocelyn said softly. “I swear it. I am a man of honour, Mr Beaseley.”
“Do you love her?”
Did he?
He wanted to say, to shout, “No, indeed!” He wanted to think about a ship, not a woman.
But his mind conjured up the image of Kate laughing, mud-stained and happy, lying in a grassy field with the sheep inspecting her golden hair, of the Kate who was too smart and too proud to accept the idiocies that the world wanted to impose on her. His Kate was hidden behind the pretty gowns, the enigmatic smile. The ugly limp.
“I love her,” he heard himself saying.
He wanted her to realise her dreams, wanted to see her happy. Wanted to see her holding her babe to her breast.
Was that love?
He wanted to hold her close in the dark hours of the night when he couldn’t sleep, to caress her, to bury himself in her strength, her confidence.
Was that love?
A chair creaked. Jocelyn focused his gaze on Beaseley again. He had risen from his seat and was walking quietly over to him. He held out his hands, grasped Jocelyn’s in his own.
“Listen to me, Captain Avebury. Listen well.” He stopped, as if to consider his words, then gripped Jocelyn’s hands even more tightly. “Lady Catherine is like a daughter to me. I have worried about the eventuality of her father’s death ever since the countess died. She is alone, and a young woman of title and fortune needs the protection of a man. I do not know your present situation, Captain Avebury, or why the circumstances of your betrothal are so peculiar. But I will help you to marry her: I will do everything in my power – as long as you promise to cherish her as she deserves to be cherished.”
“I promise,” Jocelyn said, his hands aching in the older man’s grip. “I do not want to hurt her.” This was true. Could he really cherish her as she deserved? He made a silent apology: he really was not sure.
Beaseley dropped his hands and turned away.
“I can get you the licence, Captain Avebury,” he said. “Only tell me when and where you were born.”
“Do not take a personal risk on my behalf, Mr Beaseley,” Jocelyn said. “I do have my papers from the navy.”
Beaseley waved away his concern. “I have not been the earl’s man of business for so many years without learning how to arrange matters.”
He could tell him the truth – he had been born in a village not too far from York. They would find the record of his birth in the village church, along with those of his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him.
But not under the name Avebury. There was no Avebury listed in that register.
It would be too confusing to be honest at this late date. And it would certainly be a strange time to first own such a lie.
So he gave Beasley the fiction that had worked when he entered the navy as a young midshipman all those years ago.
“London,” he said. “I was born in London.”
* * *
They were married very early the following morning. Beaseley was extremely efficient; he had not only managed to convince the bishop and his assistant to arrive at a very early hour in order to perform the ceremony, but also managed to procure a proper set of clothes for Jocelyn to wear. Nor had he brought up the question of Jocelyn’s origins again. Jocelyn was both relieved and disturbed but, when his thoughts meandered in the direction of what might have been, he had only to close his eyes and breathe in the salty smell of the sea, to feel on his skin the burning of the bright Mediterranean sun to regain his composure.
Whatever Beaseley had done seemed to have been enough. The bishop was a surprisingly young man, middle-aged at most, who expressed his sincere sympathies for the sad state of affairs at Albrook and did not appear to think that a hasty wedding was out of order at such a time of distress. Indeed, he shook Jocelyn’s hand quite warmly, and murmured his approval that someone would at last be taking care of “poor, dear Lady Catherine.”
Jocelyn would have been amused if he had not been so dreadfully uncomfortable. He wanted desperately to escape the cloying atmosphere of the dark, dank parish church – it felt more like a tomb than a place for the living body of Christ. At the conclusion of the ceremony they were taken to sign the parish register, which momentarily threw him off guard. It seemed particularly sinful to allo
w his false name to be placed in the book of Catherine’s ancestors, and he hesitated before scrawling “Jocelyn William Avebury” in the appropriate space. Catherine did not hesitate when she bent to sign her name: Catherine Maria Claverton. Her hand was neat and steady, but he saw her pause for a brief millisecond as she crossed the last “t”. Poor thing, he thought compassionately. What desperate misery must have driven her to marry a man she scarcely knew in order to punish a world that neglected her so.
She was demure, avoiding his eyes. She wore a gown of whisper-thin pale-blue silk cut modestly at the throat and covered with an overdress of some kind of net. It was cold in the little stone church, and her skin looked pale and translucent. She must have brought that gown from Wansdyke, he thought. And he felt deeply sorry that she had to celebrate her wedding in such haste, wearing a gown she had had barely a few minutes to select before rushing out of the door to the waiting carriage. He imagined that ladies dreamt of their wedding days, planned for them for years in advance, bought all sorts of things for them – at least, what he could recall of his limited contact with them suggested so. What a pity that he could not have done more for her before this impetuous wedding. He would have enjoyed watching her face light up as she tried on her wedding clothes. He could have bought her diamonds and silks, outrageous hats, travelling clothes for their—
Ridiculous. There would be no wedding journey. For one thing, he was stuck: stuck in England – stuck in Bath, in fact. His mind turned to the question of when he could reasonably expect the Admiralty to send for him. He had already been two months in Bath, and he had spent some time before that settling business affairs with his solicitor in London.
That note. It had warned him, said his affair was on the agenda, but there had been no further contact. Surely by now they had discussed the case? Surely by now they had taken testimonies and reviewed the incident?
They stepped out of the chapel together, he and Catherine. Man and wife. For a second, he thought of holding her hand, but dismissed the thought. This is an arrangement. A convenient arrangement. No matter what he said to Beaseley or what he felt, the facts were plain. He would give her an earl to love. She would give him his life back.
“Under the circumstances, unfortunately …” Catherine was saying to the bishop, who hastily denied he had held any hope of being invited to breakfast.
“It would indeed be unfortunate if anyone were to misconstrue my arrival at Albrook as being … er … inauspicious. Be assured you have my heartfelt congratulations, Captain Avebury, and I wish you very happy.” With a polite bow, the bishop set off toward his waiting equipage, his assistant trotting beside him.
“Well,” Beaseley said. He looked shrewdly at Jocelyn. “Well done, Captain Avebury. Many felicitations.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” Jocelyn replied.
“We will breakfast,” Catherine said to Beaseley, “and then go to see my father.”
But, as they approached the hall, they could see the butler standing out on the terrace, peering anxiously in their direction. Jocelyn felt the sudden tension in the air. He put his hand on Catherine’s arm.
They could see the butler held a piece of black crepe.
“A pity,” Catherine said tonelessly. “I should not have sent the bishop away.”
Chapter 20
Clara had unpacked Catherine’s black dresses. Which would my lady prefer to wear now? Which should she set aside for the service? Which would she like to—
“Whatever you think appropriate,” Catherine interrupted. She nodded a dismissal.
The last Earl Delamare was no more. She had always imagined she would feel as if she had sprouted wings at this moment. Instead, she felt tired and oddly dispirited. Her last connection was gone. She had no family left.
Except for him. The captain. He was her only tie to the earth now.
She was glad to have him. That he was kind she had no doubt. But there was something else – something else. Had his love of the sea compelled him to marry her, propelled her into this insane deed? Did he really believe that the Claverton connection would extract him from his trouble?
The house was quiet. There was little fuss and hubbub. They had all been preparing for this moment for so long, it seemed almost a relief to face it at last.
Beaseley wrote letter after letter for immediate dispatch to London. “Everything is taken care of, my lady,” he assured her.
“You are too efficient,” Catherine said acidly. Beaseley looked up. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Do not mind my sharp tongue.”
Beaseley watched her for a moment. When it became apparent that she had nothing more to say, he bent over his letters again.
Catherine looked over at Jocelyn. He had spent the past few hours staring out of the front window of the library, across the rolling green lawn to where the sheep grazed in the distance. The wedding ring was heavy on her finger: it was an old piece the dowager countess had given to her mother. Catherine shuddered slightly. She hoped it wasn’t bad luck to wear a Claverton ring, but she hadn’t thought to bring any of her mother’s own jewellery with her. Beaseley alone had remembered that a ring would be called for.
While she was certain Beaseley knew there was something very odd about the hasty wedding, she knew without a doubt that he had spoken to Avebury and satisfied himself. What had been said, she had no idea, but he would not have turned a blind eye had he thought she was making a foolish decision.
What was he thinking, her captain of the pleasant smile and unhappy storm-blue eyes? Had he merely accepted her offer as it stood, seeing a way to get out of his miserable predicament? Was there anything more? Any possibility of more?
And, she asked herself, did she care? Did she care for anything beyond the gift of an earl, a gift that her captain had all but promised to provide?
She did care. Perhaps … perhaps it was not love. What did she, a foolish young cripple, know of love? Perhaps it was not a grand passion of the sort that was whispered about from time to time. But he did not scare her. Sir Lyle was a passionate lover – he scared her. Now she was beginning to understand that passion was less important than constancy, steadiness, trust.
Even if Avebury did not care for her with the passion of a lover, she wanted to do good for him. He did not deserve the trouble Lydia had described. Catherine was sure he had never done anything criminal in his life. She was a shrewd judge of character – years of spying from the edges of the ballrooms had made her so – and he was decent, a gentleman. Sir Lyle was fascinating, intriguing. But she was not at all sure that he was a gentleman. She prayed that Avebury’s decency would never be tested against the knowledge of that stupid portrait.
Catherine turned her eyes away from the window. She needed to get to London, quickly. In his note, LaFrance had sounded desperate. He must be out of funds yet again. She knew he was still threatening to exhibit the portrait, to find a patron who would support him, his distasteful habits and the company he kept. She shuddered.
She had heard about the struggling young artist during a period of very deep depression and, on a whim, had ordered Lydia to accompany her on a visit to his studio. The visit was to lead to a world of complications. Complications far exceeding the euphoria that she had experienced for a brief period.
I have to get to London. But I am stuck here – for now.
She suddenly pushed herself up to a stand. Beaseley looked up. Jocelyn turned slightly.
“I need some air. I hate just sitting and sitting. We must have been here for hours. I have not done a thing, and I feel utterly useless.”
Beaseley looked exhausted and ill at ease. He pulled at one ear, then removed his spectacles and rubbed his face. He replaced his spectacles and peered at Catherine. “I would never wish to presume, my lady,” he said faintly. “Certainly, if you wish to handle the arrangements—”
“Stupid man!” she cried. She rapped the back of the chair, the knuckles of her hand producing a sharp report that echoed through the
library. “Of course I do not wish to do that!”
“Kate,” Jocelyn said, his voice mild. Catherine looked at him, about to give him her best icy put-down, but her voice failed her. She stared at him, and to her dismay, she felt her throat lock tight and her eyes begin to smart. She sat down again and looked down at her clasped hands. The old gold of the wedding ring gleamed dully in the daylight. She shut her eyes. It was a Claverton ring – she did not want to see it.
What he does not know about me, she thought in despair. This good man calls me “Kate” with such affection – but he does not know the level to which I will sink in order to get what I want.
“The countess is tired,” Jocelyn said to no one in particular. He rose from his seat. “I will take her to her rooms for some rest. Will you have need of her, Mr Beaseley?”
“No, Captain Avebury,” Beaseley murmured. He shuffled papers on the desk.
“Will you send word when you have arranged the funeral service?”
“Yes, of course. Most certainly.”
She rose listlessly, without looking in Beaseley’s direction, and took Jocelyn’s arm. He guided her through the library and out into the hallway. It was empty.
“Have they all deserted the sinking ship already?” he asked.
Catherine shrugged. “Perhaps. There is really no reason for them to stay. The ones who had arranged new positions have doubtless gone. And good riddance.”
“You still need the servants – surely you will still need help.”
“I do not care about any of it. Perhaps I will give everything away.” They began their lengthy ascent with Catherine leaning on the stair rail. Jocelyn put his arm about her waist, and she discovered something else about Captain Avebury: that he was able to support her weight so efficiently that climbing stairs with him was like flying through the air. At the first landing, she stopped and turned.
The Portrait Page 12
