The Lodestone

by Charlene Keel

  **

  In spite of her initial trepidation, Cleome found she liked Oliver Landshire immensely. He seemed amused and entertained by her ready wit and good common sense and when she invited Edwina to stay with her at the tavern house to help her prepare for the trip to London, he was happy to agree. He was unfortunate in that he suffered chronically from aching, swollen joints; and when Cleome made up a poultice of herbs that gave him relief from his pain, he became her devoted servant, swearing his fealty for life. He pledged as much all over again as he took his place in the London-bound coach a few days later.

  It was in her mind to speak to Drake, either upon his return to the Eagle’s Head, or upon his arrival in London, about the possibility of buying the tavern house from him. It was the only home she had ever known, after all; and she felt certain he would agree. But he sent word that business was keeping him in Rome longer than expected and she was doomed to wait, and to hide her impatience, for his return.

  Cleome had tried more than once to explain to her mother the stroke of luck that had come to them, but Ramona always changed the subject, refusing to listen, much less understand. Then, one afternoon not long after Mr. Landshire’s departure, she was finally able to grasp it. Cleome was reading aloud when Ramona suddenly raised her hand to interrupt. Cleome put the book down and waited for her mother to speak.

  “You can’t mean,” Ramona said slowly, her voice filled with wonder. “We are to have the fortune me ma was always goin’ on about?”

  “Yes,” Cleome assured her with a smile. “It certainly seems so.”

  “So there really was a fortune?” Ramona asked. Cleome nodded. “Is it a great deal of money?”

  “More than I could ever imagine in my wildest dreams.”

  “And,” Ramona continued slowly, “we are to live in a big house in London, with a splendid coach and fine clothes to get ourselves up in?”

  “Yes. And I must soon go to London, to be instructed by our solicitor in the handling of our estate. I shall find a place for us so I can take you there for a nice visit. If you like it, we’ll stay. If not, we can return to Oakham. Perhaps we could buy a little house around here somewhere.”

  “Leave the tavern house?” Ramona queried, with no hint of alarm in her voice.

  “For our own little place. Mary and Jacqueline will come with us, of course.”

  The smile that had been playing at the corners of Ramona’s mouth started to grow. It got bigger and bigger, until her teeth were exposed in a huge grin. Then she threw her head back on the pillow and began to laugh. She laughed and laughed until Cleome became alarmed, thinking it was a fever coming on again. Quickly, she rose from her chair and placed her hand on her mother’s forehead.

  “No, no,” Ramona protested, giggling and pushing her hand away. “’Tis all right, lass. I’m just havin’ meself a long overdue side-splitter, I am.” The laughter slowly faded to intermittent chuckles. “You’ve got to see the joke of it,” she continued. “She hated us all these years, me da and me. T’was us she blamed for ’is lordship takin’ her out of his will, an’ all. She was one used to havin’ her way over everything, and she’d go on for hours about how she never thought he’d do it, and stick to it, and him her own flesh and blood. T’was the one time in ’er life someone got the best of her. She’s turnin’ in her grave, I warrant, right now.” A new thought struck her. “And what of the title? Is that part of the bargain?”

  Cleome smiled as she curtsied low before her mother’s chair. “Indeed it is. You are a baroness, Lady Ramona.”

  Again, Ramona erupted in laughter, and she laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, my!” she finished. “The angels in heaven must be running for cover! ’Tis only too bad your granda cannot be here to share in the fun. He always liked a good joke, he did.” Mary had told her only a few days before about the death ‘in an unfortunate hunting accident’ of William Desmond. Ramona had accepted the news dispassionately, and Cleome and the maid had thought it just as well she didn’t connect it with the body she had found months before in the stable. “You know,” Ramona continued. “Laughing like that always did give me an appetite. Do you think I could have a bit of cake or some’at, darlin’ Cleome?”

  “Oh, Mamma!” Cleome exclaimed, stooping to kiss the invalid. “Of course you may. And some milk as well.”

  “Aye, that would be lovely, lass. You’ll be sure and tell Mr. Stoneham, when he returns, that I’ve got me appetite back with a vengeance?”

  After such hearty mirth, Ramona was exhausted and Cleome suggested she follow her treat with a nap. Ramona nodded happily as she ate. Feeling a strong surge of love for her, Cleome could not imagine going through life fearing and despising the woman who had brought her into the world, as Ramona had Adelaide. What matter if I have no name? she thought. I have something better. I have a mother’s love. If Ramona could last through another winter, perhaps she could enjoy a long life of restored health. And it was thanks to the man who had won their home in a game of cards.

  So if Drake Stoneham never looked at Cleome again, if he never spoke to her again, she would have no need to wish for anything else for the rest of her days. But she could not get him out of her mind, and when she got to London, she intended to make herself completely irresistible to him. Worry over the mystery woman in Italy who had so unexpectedly claimed his attention haunted her but she pushed it aside. She intended to dazzle the proprietor of Stoneham House with the newly acquired confidence, style and charm she would surely gain in the city. She was positive that when he beheld her in a more sophisticated setting, the ember she had seen smoldering in his eyes when he looked at her would burst into flame. She couldn’t imagine what she would do about the resulting inferno, for considering the possibilities sent shivers of anticipation racing through her. The terror he’d once inspired in her had been replaced by a new, sweet longing.

  She no longer resisted the idea that she was in love with him. It was an irrefutable fact and she hoped he returned some feeling for her. She had no doubt he desired her, as Garnett desired her, but was that love? A man who could dismiss the passion he instilled in her with the words, T’was a kiss, nothing more, could not be expected to entertain any thought of an enduring devotion. Perhaps she had never considered marriage a possibility because there hadn’t been anyone she wanted as a husband. But she did want Drake Stoneham. With every fiber of her being, she wanted him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. And after that . . . well, she didn’t really know what came after that, but she wanted to experience it with him, and with no other.

  Although his desire for her was evident, she could scarcely believe that behind the cool, aloof façade he usually presented to her, there lay an unrequited love for the illegitimate granddaughter of a mere tavern keeper. She could no more expect him to marry her than she could expect it of Garnett Easton, but she wanted him anyway. She could not, even with her new status and all the wealth that was suddenly hers, have a respectable name. She knew that and accepted it. But she would have Drake . . . and she would have love. She remembered his words and thought—nay, hoped—that she understood his meaning. You are wealthy enough to make your own rules.

  Recalling his mouth on hers and the husky words he had whispered in her ear, and how she had responded without shame to him, she knew in that instant what she desired more than anything in the world. She wanted him; but if, because of the singular detail of her birth, she could not be his wife, then she wanted to be his mistress. She ached for his caresses and the thought of being wed to such an imposing figure of man made her yearn for him even more. But gentlemen did not marry nameless girls, she reminded herself. They desired them, perhaps even loved them, and took them whenever the opportunity presented itself, but they most certainly did not marry them. Since she need never again worry about how she would provide for herself and her mother, and since the sanctity of marriage was out of the question for her anyway, she saw no reason to deprive herself of its pleasures. She could be
happy without marriage, she thought, if she had Drake’s love. And perhaps she could find a way to make him love her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Drake did not return to Oakham in time to make the journey, as much as he wanted to see Cleome safely to London and comfortably installed in Oliver Landshire’s home, where she would stay until the Houghton manor house in Cambridge could be refurbished . . . or perhaps, he thought, until he could see her installed in his own. He knew, even before she realized it in her innocence, that she wanted him. He had seen she was capable of passion and knew she wouldn’t likely choose to live alone. And he knew that even with money, the blemish on her family tree would limit her serious suitors. He also knew he would need more time to woo her than he had first thought.

  Traveling on horseback from Rome to Naples, and then to Liverpool by ship, from whence he went to London on horseback, Drake had much time to think. He realized that as much as he wanted Cleome, he had to put his sister’s welfare before anything else. He preferred riding in the open air to a coach, for he could let his thoughts wander where they would, without the intrusion of well-meaning strangers bent on conversation. When his mind wasn’t on Cleome, it turned to Mignon and what he must do to help her. He had seen soldiers in shock after a battle, but never had he witnessed the terrors that Mignon had traveled through when her mind finally opened to the memory of the cruelty she had suffered under a nameless, faceless satyr. She was as fragile as spun glass but with the proper care, she would recover.

  He’d sat by her bedside for days and nights as she alternately recounted what she could recollect of the horror she had suffered, cry herself to sleep and then wake to do it all over again. She didn’t want to talk about it, but he insisted. He knew it was the only way she would rid herself of the demons that rode her so mercilessly, once she’d begun to remember her ordeal. At length, she finally crossed through her own private hell and was able to speak rationally. She agreed to go to England with him when she was stronger; indeed, she seemed eager to move on with her life, but there were two conditions. She would join him in London only if she could perform some task for him in exchange for her care, and provided he never tell anyone he was related to her. When asked to explain her reasons for the latter, her eyes filled with tears. She explained that, realizing now what she had been, albeit not of her choice or her doing, she didn’t want to risk her past catching up to her and spoiling the reputation he was so carefully building for himself. If he didn’t agree, she told him, she would simply stay with the nuns, and perhaps become one herself.

  In the end, he had agreed to her terms; and he was glad of her strength. Even if he thought it unnecessary, he knew that taking such a stand was the act of a rational mind, a mind that would someday be whole again.

  So, he would open Stoneham House, attend to his sister’s recovery and find a way to win Cleome. And until he did, he couldn’t take the chance of revealing to her, or her prospective suitors, that she would be acceptable chattel, with a mother and father who had indeed been joined in holy matrimony. He could not risk losing her before he’d had a chance to claim her as his own. He told himself that he had the best of reasons to withhold her legacy, but as he rode closer to London, the music box and its contents seemed to ignite with the heat of his guilt, and from his coat pocket where it rested, burn right into his leg.

  He had only contempt for himself for denying her what was hers by right, but he could not bear to see her going to some young wastrel like Garnett Easton. It was clear the lad was in love with her—and equally clear that Edwina was infatuated with the golden-haired youth. But it would take the lovely child prodigy a few years to grow up, and Garnett was intent, as far as Drake could see, in his methodical wooing of Cleome. Had not the dark cloud of illegitimacy been hovering above Cleome’s head, he didn’t doubt that the eager Lady Easton would have already managed Garnett’s engagement to her. Even so, the weight of Jimmy Parker’s legacy, small though it was, lay heavy on Drake’s conscience. As soon as he could be sure he had Cleome’s heart, he would tell her all. And he intended to win her by the time he opened Stoneham House. Then, and only then, he would bestow her birthright, and she would not condemn him. He had no doubt in his ability to persuade the tender sex; and although she would be angry, he knew she would forgive him such a small deceit. If she loved him as he was beginning to love her, she would forgive him anything that brought them together.

  **

  With infrequent stops to refresh passengers and horses, the journey to London took a full day and night. Garnett shared the luxury of the splendid Easton coach with Cleome, Edwina and his lovely mamma, while Edwards rode behind in a smaller coach with Jacqueline and Martha, Lady Easton’s personal maid.

  Edwina teased Garnett without mercy because he was not able to get along without his valet. Garnett in turn asked her riddles, which she could always solve, and showed her some magic tricks, which mystified and delighted her. He regaled Cleome with stories of the people she was to meet and the places she would see. When they stopped to rest, he took out his sketchbook and captured their likenesses and the scenes around them on paper. Lord Easton, still proud and unyielding for the most part in his attitude towards Cleome, had traveled down to London the week before.

  They arrived at dawn, when the city was just waking up. Peering eagerly out the window, Cleome was aware of Lady Easton’s disapproval as Garnett and Edwina encouraged her gawking by pointing out sights of interest. Tradesmen and factory workers filled the streets while vendors of delicious-smelling cakes and sausages hawked their early morning wares to young gentlemen just going home from the clubs. Never in her life had Cleome seen so many people in one place at the same time and never before had she heard such a noise, as the sounds of building and industry mixed with the chatter of workers. Oliver assured her that she would grow so accustomed to the hue and cry that she would soon cease to notice, but she had to wonder. Houses and shops crowded close to each other and it seemed there was little solace to be found from nature here. She would miss walking in the woods and the clean country air.

  Oliver’s house was a comfortable old brownstone in the Mayfair section of the city, not too far from the Easton’s townhouse. Garnett and Elizabeth lingered only long enough for Cleome to disembark with Edwina and Jacqueline, and their luggage handed down. With a promise to call the next day after they were all refreshed, Garnett saw them safely inside, where Oliver was just sitting down to breakfast. After a joyful reunion with his niece, and ordering his coachman, John, to take care of the young ladies’ boxes, Oliver insisted that they join him for a hearty meal. Cleome would be quite cozy in his small abode, he promised; and his housekeeper, Hannah, would be glad of Jacqueline’s help.

  The next two weeks flew past as Cleome’s new wardrobe was ordered under Elizabeth’s careful supervision, and she met with the architect who would see to it that Houghton Hall, which had been closed since her uncle’s death ten years before, was brought back to its former glory.

  It was a magnificent old estate, comprising several lush acres and various outbuildings. The house was big and had at one time been splendidly appointed; but a decade of vacancy had opened the two-hundred-year-old structure to decay and weather damage, which would require repair. Cleome’s uncle had used only a few of its forty-odd rooms, which were all filled with linen-draped paintings and furniture. It was grand, austere even—or would be when the restoration was finished—yet in comparison to Oliver’s small, comfortable house, it seemed lifeless and cold.

  Since there was more work to be done in Houghton Hall than at first supposed, Oliver helped Cleome secure a modest, three-story brownstone, with a total of twelve rooms, in St. James Street, near the one Drake had bought. She was outfitted in the latest fashions from Paris as well as the best to be had within the British Empire; and Lady Easton insisted that she have the most expensive and modish articles, from shoes to gloves, from chemises to cloaks.

  Drake called on Cleome briefly, on his return from Ital
y, but he seemed more distracted than ever. Cleome prayed it was the business of opening the club that filled his thoughts and not some exotic foreign lover. Although they were neighbors, she didn’t see him often; and as much as she wanted to seek his advice on everything, he was, for the time being, leaving her to find her own way through this exciting new world. But three days after she and Jacqueline moved into the lovely little dwelling Oliver had found for them, Drake stopped in unannounced to tell her about a delay in the opening of Stoneham House.

  Some important shipments from Venice had been lost in a storm, he explained, and must be replaced; and the carpenters working on an upstairs wing were badly behind. Cleome wrote often to Ramona and Mary, frequently sending her mother some delicious cake, cheese or confection to tempt her appetite; and she struggled desperately with Elizabeth Easton’s efforts to prepare her for entrance into London society.

  Taking her cue from Drake, the clever Lady Easton had at last fashioned together a flawless introduction for Cleome. Oakham was so far removed from London and the late Lady Adelaide’s mismatch with an innkeeper was such old news, she decided, that it would not be of immediate interest. It would suffice to say only that the Lady Ramona was an invalid who’d been confined to bed since her husband died a hero’s death fighting Napoleon in service of the king. It sounded perfectly plausible and by the time any rumors of Cleome’s illegitimacy reached the city, her beauty, intelligence, charm and money—especially her money—would cancel out much of the accompanying stigma.

  It wasn’t exactly a lie but it was not completely the truth and it irked Cleome that she had to account for herself at all. She was not in London looking for a husband, she repeatedly tried to explain; and it wasn’t important to her to be formally introduced. But Oliver, Garnett and Drake all insisted that it was important to business and future investments. That she was also representing Ramona’s interests made it easier to bear, and once she overcame her initial shyness, it pleased Cleome no end to see irritation flashing momentarily across Drake’s face when she conquered yet another gentleman, as the lively Edwina said, with her wit and beauty. She found, under Oliver’s tutelage, that she had an instinct for business and it wasn’t long before she was able to hold her own ground in meetings, asking all the right questions of the men in her employ. Oliver told her proudly that soon she would be able to make decisions on her own for the various Houghton Enterprises, which included coal, copper and tin mines in the north, and factories in the city. This part of her new life, Cleome found so invigorating that she often kept Lady Easton waiting impatiently to take her to a fitting while she asked Oliver one more question.