Reluctantly Giles agreed and began to climb down the ladder that led to the floor of the stable. Nicole was following him when her foot slipped and she started to fall. She tried to save herself only she couldn’t regain her balance and her body came hurtling down, down, down…
With a gasp, Nicole sat up in the bed, her eyes feverishly searching the room. It was her bedroom, just as it should be, only it was different. The furnishings were the same, but toys no longer filled the chest under the window and no dress lay on the arm of the chair. It was different within herself, different because she realized with a sickening lurch in the region of her heart that she had been dreaming again. Dreaming of that wonderful day, just over a year ago. Dreaming of the way it had been then, dreaming that Giles and Mama and Father were still alive.
Choking back a sob, she threw back the covers, staring hard at the door to her room, knowing that never again would Giles come bursting through, never again would Father call her his little girl, never again would Mama clasp her near. A low moan of pain escaped from her and with awkward movements, as if she were in agony, she stumbled to the window that overlooked the back lawn, that lawn where only last year the wonderful party had been held. Staring blindly out the window, she wondered bleakly at how swiftly it had all changed. Six weeks after the garden party they had traveled to Brighton, Adrian having decided that the sea air would be a delightful change for them all. And it was…at first.
Giles and she loved the sea and frequently the entire family had sailed on the bay at Brighton, reveling in the crisp air, the swell of the ocean beneath their feet. Adrian had even purchased their very own small yacht, christening it The Nicole, much to Nicole’s bursting pride. Oh, yes, it had been a wonderful time…until that day.
The day had been overcast, a stiff wind had been blowing across the bay, making the waters choppy, the weather uncertain. It had been hastily planned for Adrian and Annabelle to take out The Nicole by themselves, Annabelle claiming she wished to have her husband to herself for once. But Giles, full of high spirits and mischief, had decided to surprise his parents by sneaking aboard and hiding in the cabin, determined not to reveal himself until the yacht was far enough away to make it impractical to return him to the dock.
Perhaps if Nicole hadn’t sprained her ankle and been forbidden to walk on it, Giles would have remained with her. Except for that sprained ankle there had been the distinct possibility that Nicole might have joined Giles, the pair of them giggling over this latest prank. But fate decreed otherwise, and so it was that Nicole had been confined at their summer residence, watching from the balcony that overlooked the bay when the accident occurred. Her foot propped up on a pile of pillows, she saw The Nicole slip away from the dock and skim across the choppy bay. A smile on her face, she imagined Giles’s appearance on the deck. Her smile vanished, for The Nicole, running before the wind, suddenly veered crazily and floundered onto her side. Before Nicole’s shocked and horrified gaze, the gleaming white yacht had sunk, disappearing almost instantly beneath the white-capped blue waters.
The hours following the mishap had been filled with suffocating fear as she watched and waited with increasing panic for word of her family. They couldn’t drown, they couldn’t, she kept repeating over and over like a prayer. Friends of the Ashfords had arrived, including Mrs. Eggleston. It was to Mrs. Eggleston, her arms wrapped around the white-faced child, that the task had fallen to tell her that her parents had drowned; their bodies had been washed ashore by the tide just before dawn. Of Giles nothing was ever found and it was believed that he had been trapped in the cabin of the yacht, unable to fight his way to the surface.
Thinking of that, of Giles forever in the ocean depths, brought it all back so vividly that Nicole couldn’t bear it and with an anguished cry she closed her eyes, willing it to have been a nightmare. But it wasn’t.
Nicole missed Giles more than she did either Annabelle or Adrian, for in the manner of many of the wellborn, her parents had oftentimes been too busy for their offspring and Nicole and Giles were more familiar with nursemaids and nannies than the company of their parents.
For Nicole, the death of her family had been a tragedy in more ways than the obvious. Not only had she lost a beloved brother, a twin, her father and mother, but their deaths left her without any family at all. That might not have been so very desperate if Colonel and Mrs. Eggleston had been appointed her guardians. At least with them she would have been loved and cherished. But Annabelle did have a stepsister and Agatha, along with her husband William Markham, had claimed to be connections of the family.
The Markhams were only remotely related, but since their claim was greater than that of a concerned neighbor, as in the Egglestons’ case, Agatha and her husband had been appointed guardians. Guardians to Nicole Ashford’s young person and her very, very large fortune.
It had been, and still was, a grim adjustment for Nicole. Strangers now occupied the rooms where her mother and father had slept. Even Giles’s rooms had not been left untouched—Edward, her seventeen-year-old cousin, had commanded them for his use.
The Ashfords had never been intimate with the Markhams, for the two stepsisters had regarded each other with acute aversion. More importantly, Annabelle had come from a wealthy noble family, while Agatha, despite her widowed mother’s opportune marriage to a widower of wealth and position, had been barely genteel. And now Nicole was completely under the control of an aunt she had little in common with, a person she barely knew, and an uncle whose vulgarity was disdained by the local gentry.
Leaning her head forlornly against the window jamb, Nicole viewed the day through eyes filled with tears. If only Giles had lived, things might not seem quite so bad. If Giles had been with her the Markhams might not seem as beastly. At least she and Giles could comfort one another. But now…
Her heart like a stone in her breast, with lethargic movements she wandered over to the marble washstand and poured water into a bowl from the pitcher that stood nearby.
It was only as she pulled on her gown for the day, that she remembered Mrs. Eggleston was coming to see her this morning and she felt a flicker of interest stir. Thinking of Mrs. Eggleston’s own tragedy, she forgot some of her own troubles. The Colonel had died not two weeks ago, and now, Nicole told herself, it is time for you to comfort Mrs. Eggleston. We can comfort each other and together we can face anything.
Chapter 2
“You can’t leave me!” Nicole blurted out. “You can’t possibly! Oh, Mrs. Eggleston, say it isn’t true. Why must you leave?” Nicole cried, her face going white with shock at what Mrs. Eggleston had divulged. The two of them were in the blue room at the front of the house, and Mrs. Eggleston had gently told Nicole the unpleasant and unwelcome news that she was leaving for Canada tomorrow morning.
There was such dismay in Nicole’s voice that Mrs. Eggleston’s resolution wavered. She had known the child would be upset and had cowardly, put off this last meeting. Nicole’s reaction had shaken her more than she cared to admit, but smiling determinedly Mrs. Eggleston said, “My dear, as much as I would like to remain and as much as I shall miss you, I simply cannot stay here in Beddington’s Corner any longer.” Her faded blue eyes pleading for understanding, Mrs. Eggleston continued softly, “We all have to do things that we would rather not, and this, I’m afraid, is one of those times for me. Believe me, child, I would give anything not to have to leave you, but it is impossible for me to continue to live at Rosehaven.”
“But why?” wailed Nicole, the huge topaz-brown eyes wide with appeal, the unmistakable sheen of tears not far away.
Feeling even more wretched, Mrs. Eggleston stared at Nicole, wishing she could give some crumb of comfort. Poor child, she thought, remembering the way the light had died out of the little face when the news of her parents’ death had been given to her. A light that had never come back. Mrs. Eggleston refused to think about the Markhams and what they were doing to the child, and it was only by reminding herself that she could do nothin
g to help Nicole that she was able to continue the conversation.
“My dear, I know things are difficult for you just now, but in time perhaps it won’t seem so terrible. Why in a few years you’ll be a grown-up young lady attending balls in London and this will all seem like a bad dream.”
It was an unfortunate choice of words, for with the dream of how it had been still fresh in Nicole’s mind, the tears she had held back this morning in her bedroom spilled over, running down the thin cheeks. Mrs. Eggleston felt her own eyes fill, and with an inarticulate murmur she clasped Nicole’s shaking body next to her own. “Oh, my dear, do not cry so! Please do not! In a moment, I too shall be wailing and it will accomplish nothing.”
Fighting to control herself, Nicole brought the tears to a stop, her breath coming in little hiccups. Forcing herself to step away from Mrs. Eggleston, she said almost inaudibly, “I am sorry for acting like a baby. It is just that I never thought you would leave me.”
Her heart twisting, Mrs. Eggleston murmured, “Nicole, my dear, it is not the end of the world, you’ll see. I shall write and you must promise to write me back. We shall continue to know how the other is doing, and while I know it is not the same as seeing one another whenever we wish, it will suffice. You’ll see that I’m right.”
“Oh, how can you say so! You know that my aunt begrudges every penny I ask for—I can just see her paying the shocking cost of mailing a letter to Canada,” Nicole said vehemently, a spurt of spirit returning.
Mrs. Eggleston bit her lip. What Nicole said was true. The house, the lands, and the fortune were all Nicole’s, yet the Markhams, moving in with their son with indecent haste, did act as if Nicole were some unnecessary encumbrance with which they had to live. More than once Mrs. Eggleston had seen Agatha order the girl about as if she were a thieving waif who had strayed into her hallowed presence. And Edward, Edward made no bones about disliking his younger cousin, treating her with a spitefulness that dismayed Mrs. Eggleston. As for William, Agatha’s husband, Mrs. Eggleston’s little bosom swelled with indignation—he was forever making disgustingly vulgar remarks and it seemed always pinching Nicole’s cheeks or nipping her arms, laughing about their little benefactress.
Looking at the slender figure in the white muslin gown, it seemed incredible to Mrs. Eggleston that the thin little girl with the wan features and dull eyes standing so dejectedly across the room from her could possibly be the same Nicole that had romped so happily the day of the garden party. Would the child ever regain that air of gaiety, ever sparkle with happiness again?
Reminding herself that she could do nothing to change the unhappy situation, Mrs. Eggleston closed her mind to more distressing thoughts. Realizing that to prolong this sad interview would be painful to them both, she said with forced cheerfulness, “Write to me when you can, my pet. And now I fear I must be off.”
It took a great deal of resolution to leave that lonely little figure, yet knowing she could offer no alternative, that she was, in fact, in a worse position than Nicole, for at least Nicole had a roof over her head, Mrs. Eggleston walked briskly from the room, but her heart was heavy in her breast.
The heaviness in Mrs. Eggleston’s breast was not all for Nicole. Mrs. Eggleston herself had troubles, a great deal of trouble, but not for the world would she have let anyone know—certainly not poor Nicole, the child had burden enough as it was.
Colonel Eggleston’s death of an inflammation of the lung had been a shock, but an even greater one had awaited his widow—it was discovered that not only had he left no fortune of any kind, but that he had been deeply in debt. The gracious home, Rosehaven, where Mrs. Eggleston had lived for over twenty years, was to be sold as well as every item of value that had been gathered throughout the forty years of her marriage. She was to be thrust penniless into the world at a time when she should have been looking forward to a safe, sedate future.
No one, least of all Nicole, knew of the disaster that had befallen her, and with a stubborn pride, she intended that no one ever would. To her friends, and there were many, she told with a bright smile that there were too many memories at Rosehaven—it was such a big house for one old woman and anyway she wished for a change, saying to those who asked that she was going to live with some distant relatives in Canada. The truth was that she had been most fortunate to gain employment as a companion to an elderly French émigré lady who was leaving England for Canada. As Mrs. Bovair planned to sail on Wednesday, this was Mrs. Eggleston’s last day in Beddington’s Corner.
She returned to Rosehaven and spent the remainder of the morning packing. She would be staying the night at the Bell and Candle, Beddington’s Corner’s only inn, leaving the following morning for London. Depressed, she folded what clothes she felt would be suitable for her new role in the stoutest valise she possessed. Afterward there were still a few hours before the carriage would take her into Beddington’s Corner for this, the last trip, and she wandered through the empty rooms of her home for the final time.
So many memories, she thought wistfully, some sad, some happy. She stopped before a bay window that overlooked a curved fishpond, and as if it were yesterday, she could see Christopher Saxon, laughing, his young face dark and the thick blue-black hair giving him the appearance of a wild brigand, as he fished a screaming four-year-old Nicole from the shallow depths of the pond.
What had happened to that shining youth, she mused. She hadn’t thought of Christopher in years, for it was a painful memory, and she wondered if the boy were even alive. He had been so handsome that spring nine years ago—tall, his skin dark tawny, with eyes such an incredible gleaming amber-gold—it seemed impossible to think that such a vibrant young spirit could be dead, or that he had been capable of doing the terrible things they whispered about.
Christopher, like Nicole, Mrs. Eggleston had known from childhood, and he too, like the twins, had once been a frequent visitor to her home. With a wry smile, she acknowledged that it appeared to be her fate, to be drawn to children, yet to have none of her own. But Christopher had been like the grandchild she would never have and she could not bring herself to believe the stories about him. Shrugging aside the unhappy thoughts, she scolded herself—there was no use crying over spilt milk. She turned away from the fishpond, but remembering what had happened the last time she had left Beddington’s Corner, she hesitated. If she hadn’t gone with her husband to Spain that summer, perhaps Christopher would still be here, a young man of twenty-four and not, if he were alive, heaven knew where and in disgrace. She dreaded leaving Nicole, knowing the child was in an unfortunate situation. But knowing there was nothing else she could do, Mrs. Eggleston told herself that just because she had left Christopher and he had come to grief was no indication the same fate would overtake Nicole. Surely not!
Unbeknownst to Mrs. Eggleston, her departure from Beddington’s Corner would indeed be the start of a new life for Nicole—a life fraught with deception and peril. Her leaving had awakened Nicole from the apathetic state that she had fallen into since her parents’ death and it was in a thoughtful and introspective mood that she joined the Markhams and their son, Edward, for lunch.
After lunch Edward, his blue eyes gleaming with unkind mockery and his blond handsomeness spoiled by the malicious cast of his lips, said to Nicole, “Poor baby, now you’re all alone. Oh me, whatever shall you do?” His eyes narrowing at Nicole’s lack of response, he went on, “Well, now that old ‘Eggie’ is gone, maybe we’ll have some peace in this house and not be constantly tripping over her. Maybe now you’ll be a little friendlier to me—won’t you, dear cuz?”
Nicole flashed him a disdainful glance. Most times he could taunt her into losing her temper, smiling smugly when his parents scolded her for her lack of control. But today Nicole was too distressed by Mrs. Eggleston’s departure to rise to his bait.
Edward, seeing that she would not provide him with any sport, shrugged his shoulders and left the dining room, in search of more lively company than his cousin.
&
nbsp; With fondness, Agatha watched her only child saunter from the room, her plump features retaining a modicum of prettiness. The faded blond hair was skillfully arranged in a cluster of curls that would only have been suitable on a girl half her age, and the gown she wore, while stylish, had been made for a woman several pounds lighter than Agatha. Watching her aunt’s ample bosom swell with maternal pride as Edward walked out the door, Nicole stared, fascinated at the way the seams strained almost to the breaking point yet managed not to burst.
When Edward had gone from the room, Agatha picked up the letter she had been reading to William. It was from a close crony of hers in London.
“Oh, listen to this, William! Beth writes that she has met Anne Saxon.” With that Agatha began to read aloud.
“‘I was most fortunate last week to meet some neighbors of yours. Didn’t you say that Ashland was near Baron Saxon’s estate? I’m sure you did. Well, my dear, there I was in Hookham’s Lending Library and who should I meet but young Anne Saxon! She is truly a beautiful girl with all those blond curls and blue, blue eyes. She is here for the season, I understand, and the gentlemen are already calling her the “Incomparable.” They say that they are even betting that she will be engaged before the season really begins.’”
Laying down the letter, her aunt shot Nicole a look. “Did you know Anne was to be in London?”
Nicole sighed. Her aunt was most ambitious to join the ranks of the ton and she had been mortified and angry when it had been thrust on her that while every door was open to orphaned Nicole Ashford, the same doors did not swing wide to her less wellborn aunt and uncle.
Not wishing to be subjected to one of her aunt’s tirades about the unfairness of “certain” people, Nicole replied, “No. Anne is eighteen, she is almost grown. Why should she tell me that she was leaving for London?” Shifting the attack into her aunt’s lap, Nicole asked, “Why are you so interested in her?”
Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3) Page 2
