The Lodestone

by Charlene Keel

  **

  Cleome decided, in the end, to leave Jacqueline a brief note. I must get home, she wrote quickly. Mamma is worse. Please do not worry.

  She put an extra pair of woolen stockings on her feet and then pulled on her new, sturdy boots. An extra flannel petticoat, her warmest dress and her old, mended cloak completed her outfit but she desperately wished she had some boy-clothes. Although she and Edwina had discussed the possibility of disguising themselves as boys to go shopping in Burlington Gate, they had never mustered the nerve to do it. After tying the ribbons of her new velvet bonnet securely under her chin, she drew on her gloves and scooped up her elegant new saddlebags in which she had packed a few things, including the music box which held her father’s legacy. I’ll be home before I have need of much, she thought as she slipped out into the night, for I’ll stop only as needed to feed Epitome or let him rest.

  It was almost midnight and the snow had finally stopped. First, she would go to Drake’s house. He’d be at the club at this hour, and with any luck, he’d have left Epitome stabled at home. The risk of being caught would be greater if she had to go to Stoneham House. Chances are he hadn’t yet started showing off the horse and boasting about his supposed conquest of her. But, her heart protested, he would never do that. Drake played every card close to his chest and his opponents never knew what he was thinking or feeling. That’s why no one knew anything about the enigmatic Mignon. Shaking off all thoughts of him, Cleome reminded herself of the reason for her journey. Her mother needed her. That was all that mattered now.

  Security was surprisingly light around Drake’s residence, with only one sleepy groom and a guard who was already snoring heavily. It was simple enough for Cleome to hide in the thick shrubbery that ringed the stable and wait until the groom had climbed into the hayloft and she heard his lighter snoring. Silently then, she crept inside and found Epitome in his stall. The colt whickered softly in greeting and she quickly put her hand on his neck to quiet him. She found harness and reins and as she would need no saddle, that would simplify her escape. At the last moment, she spied a pair of trousers, a rough shirt and an old cap hanging on pegs near the door. Gratefully, she slipped into Epitome’s stall and changed into them, leaving her dress and petticoats in a heap on the floor. On top of them, she left the note she had scribbled earlier. Mr. Stoneham, she’d written, I am deeply grateful for the loan of your horse. My mother is ill and I have been summoned back to the Eagle’s Head. If there were any faster way to get home, I would not borrow the colt as I do not wish to be in your debt in any way. Cleome

  Getting out of London, even at that hour or perhaps because of it, was no trouble. She was scarcely noticed, and the heavy traffic had kept snow accumulation to a minimum, at least in the city. But out in the open country, travel was more tedious and the path more difficult to see. She rode for hours, until a gray mist, tinted with a faint touch of pink, lit the sky. She was well out of the city when dawn made its way over the bleak fells and snow began to fall again, in large, powdery flakes that seemed to multiply with each gust of wind that whistled past her. The bitter cold assaulted her at first, but then numbness spread over her body. Her fingers grew stiff as they clutched Epitome’s reins. The new storm fed upon itself, building up in thickness and velocity. Even with the urgency of getting to Ramona driving her on, she knew she had to find shelter.

  It was as if the world became an endless, frozen desert of snow spilling over at its edge into a white universe, and she an inconsequential pilgrim caught in a timeless infinity. Terrified that Epitome would founder in a ditch or a snowdrift, she dismounted; and leading the horse, she inched slowly forward. Then, by some miracle, she spotted in the distance what appeared to be a deserted shack. No smoke crawled from its crumbling chimney and it was the time of morning when a farmer would be up and about his chores, if anyone lived there. Gratefully, she made her way to the abandoned structure.

  It looked as if it had been deserted for some time, but it was dry and provided protection from the storm. It had caught fire at some time past, obviously the reason it had been forsaken, for a charred wall with a gaping hole in it stood on the downwind side of the cabin. Epitome seemed as glad of the sanctuary as Cleome, and their physical discomfort somewhat relieved, she found she was ravenous. She had remembered at the last minute to take some biscuits from the pantry, along with a bit of cheese, and these she devoured. After giving Epitome a handful of oats, she curled up in a corner, wrapped her cloak more closely about herself, and with her arms hugging her knees to create more warmth, she fell asleep.

  It seemed only minutes when a dull thudding on the sole of her boot awakened her. Caught in the twilight state between wakefulness and slumber, Cleome sat up with a start, her lips already forming a cry.

  “You’ve no need to protest so bitterly, milady,” he informed her in a voice as hard as granite and quite as unyielding. “It is not I who have stolen your horse.”

  Fully awake now, she sat up, her muscles stiff and her bones aching. She was astonished to find Drake standing before her, staring at her coldly, his face masked against any emotion. One hand held a riding crop, with which he gave a final rap to the bottom of her shoe.

  “You’ve behaved rather foolishly for such an intelligent creature,” he continued. “Did it never occur to you to simply ask for the loan of my horse? It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble.”

  “You didn’t have to come after me,” she began hotly but his angry, hazel eyes silenced her.

  “No,” he replied. “I could have left you to freeze to death or be set upon by any tramp with whom you seek to share the road. And perhaps injure my horse in the process. Now get up, your ladyship. The storm has lessened but dark clouds are moving rapidly in our direction. We have a long ride ahead of us. I’ll see you to the Eagle’s Head so you can attend your mother, and then I trust you will return my horse. Your other debt I have excused.”

  “I don’t need your help—”

  “Perhaps not,” he admitted, cutting her off. “But you do need my horse. Are you aware that I could have you arrested for stealing him?”

  “Oh, I have no doubt,” she fumed. “But if you’ll be so kind as to let me see my mother before you have me taken off to prison, I would so appreciate it.”

  “After you, milady,” he said sarcastically, stepping aside.

  She wanted to refuse and insist on continuing her journey alone, but her exhaustion prevented her from taking such a foolish stand. Besides, she was glad to see him. She was cold, tired and hungry. It would be too much to hope that he had brought food, and she knew there could be an explosion if she dared commit the folly of asking. Perversely, the thought of it brought a smile to her lips.

  “I doubt, mademoiselle,” he told her sharply, “that you’d be so amused if this shelter had also been discovered by some rogue eager to share his pallet with you.”

  Her face blanched but she retorted, “I do not find this amusing in the least.” She gathered up her saddlebags and grabbed Epitome’s reins. “The cold has set a stiffness in my limbs that caused me to wince. I am sorry if that offends you.”

  He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a silver flask. “This will warm you.” He removed the top and held it out to her. “Take a good, long pull.”

  Cleome put the bottle to her lips and turned her head back. The sweet liquid burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes, but a warm, tingling somnolence spread slowly through her stomach, her chest and finally to her extremities, where it began to thaw the icy paralysis that had settled there. She took another sip, which went down more easily than the first, and then she returned the flask to its owner. Before he replaced the stopper, Drake took a long drink. As he started to lead the horses out of the lean-to, he discovered that his mount had acquired a limp. After a cursory examination, he announced that Prince Talleyrand had lost a shoe.

  “We’ll ride together,” he told her in a tone that would permit no argument. He put his hors
e’s saddle on Epitome, carefully keeping his eyes averted to the work with which he occupied his hands. Cleome searched his face for any signs of remorse for all the months of betrayal, but if he regretted withholding what she equated with her mother’s dignity, and her own, he gave no hint. His task finished, he wrapped her cloak more securely about her and rearranged her cap, tucking in a stray curl as if she were a small, delinquent child.

  When she was cosseted to his satisfaction against the elements, he took her and the horses outside. Giving her Prince Talleyrand’s reins to hold, he climbed onto Epitome and drew her up to sit sideways before him, on his lap. His long arms encircling her slight frame, he prodded the splendid beast into action. The brandy had taken her last bit of strength, and it wasn’t long before the swaying of the horse and the warmth of Drake’s body rocked her gently to sleep.

  She relaxed against him, and her lips found their way to the hollow of his throat. Swathed in her own cloak and a great portion of his, she couldn’t hear his sharp intake of breath as she moved drowsily against him. So deafening was the velvet silence created by the thick blanket of snow covering the landscape that she missed his curse when a gust of wind swept her hat away and her hair blew free. He did not stop the horses and attempt to retrieve it. Instead, he drew her closer and tried to deny the increasing hunger in his loins when she sighed and pressed herself more snugly against him.

  They reached the Eagle’s Head when the morning activities were at their height. The storm had left a sparkling crust of snow covering the inn and grounds. The sun had appeared but the merciless temperature was so low that any hope of warmth was canceled out. As Epitome trotted into the stable yard with Drake’s horse following, Cleome came fully awake and the loud harangue between Mickey and Old Sam reached her ears like a welcome song. They were engaged in a spirited discourse over the best way to clear the snow from the drive so that the morning carriage could get underway. Old Sam was for shoveling, while Mickey advocated pouring buckets of hot water over the cobblestones, thus melting the snow and saving his back.

  “Aye,” Old Sam said. “And when it freezes over again, ye’ll have the whole bloody lot of ’em fallin’ on their arses.”

  But for her worry for her mother, Cleome would have been so glad to be home, and to see these dear, familiar faces. She spied Mary, Tibbits and Della watching anxiously from the kitchen window, and there was a great ruckus as they rushed out the back door and waited with outstretched arms while Drake handed Cleome down to them.

  “We’re so glad you’ve come, miss,” Mary offered. “That is, your ladyship. Your ma’s took bad this time, real bad.”

  “Poor mite,” Tibbits soothed the wayward traveler. “She’s sleeping and Fanny’s with her, so you’ll have a bite and a sup before you go to her. Come along now, milady. You’ll be wantin’ some breakfast and a nice hot cup of tea.”

  Cleome was surprised to find she was not at all tired, having rested comfortably in Drake’s arms; but she could do with something warm to drink. As the older women ushered her into the tavern house, Della took her saddlebags from Drake.

  “Has the doctor been yet?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir,” Mary whispered, her grief making it difficult for her to speak. “He’s here still. He’s been here all night, sir.”

  “See that Miss Cleome has a hot bath,” he ordered. “And get her into bed straightaway. She should sleep until her mother awakens.”

  At that, however, Cleome took a stand from which she would not be moved. She would have some tea and then she would go up and sit with Ramona. She refused to take even the time to change her clothes.

  **

  The room was still and quiet, the only sound the labored breathing of the invalid. Mary sat near the bed and Dr. Harris was bending over Ramona. When he straightened and looked at Cleome, he only shook his head.

  “She’s not with us for long, now,” he said. “You must be strong, milady.”

  “Cleome?” her mother’s voice, strange and already otherworldly drifted up from the bed. “Is it you, my heart? Come here, where I can see you.”

  “I am here,” was all she could manage as she took her mother’s wasted hand.

  “All the way back from London? ’Tis time to go then?”

  “Yes, darling. ’Tis time.” Cleome’s voice almost broke, but she held herself together despite her grief.

  “Mr. Stoneham will come and see us,” Ramona announced weakly.

  “Mr. Stoneham?”

  “Aye. He’s to call on us when we get to London. He’ll be livin’ but a stone’s throw away, in a manner just as grand. He promised to come and see us.”

  “Did he?”

  “Aye . . . got to keep tabs on me so he can give a proper accounting to your da, when he comes.”

  “Mamma,” Cleome began, wanting more than anything to give Ramona the small estate Jimmy Parker had bequeathed her. “There’s something I must tell you.”

  “Lass, I’ve been thinking,” her mother continued feebly. “I’d like to wear me weddin’ dress down to London. Mary will help me try it on. I had not intended to wear it again, save for your da, but this be a fittin’ occasion. What say you, Cleome dear?”

  “I think that would be lovely,” Cleome said. The door opened and Drake stepped into the room. Silently, he went to stand behind her chair.

  “There he is,” Ramona whispered and Drake moved closer to the bed. “Come to say goodbye then, have ye?”

  “I would never miss an opportunity to be near you, madam,” Drake said gallantly and Ramona smiled.

  “Get on wi’ ye, now,” she scolded, summoning the last vestiges of her strength. “When ye see Jimmy again, ye must tell him . . .” her voice trailed off.

  “Mamma?” Cleome questioned, alarmed.

  “Ne’er you mind,” she said, looking for the last time into the face she loved best. Then she turned to Drake. “I think I’ll just go along now and tell ’im meself.”

  And it was over. Cleome held her mother’s cold, lifeless hand for a moment and then turned to Drake.

  “I will never forgive you, sir,” was all she said to him.

  **

  Ramona died peacefully, clutching the dried remnants of a spring bouquet and a faded scrap of paper inscribed with plans for elopement and rough terms of endearment, and signed simply, J. P. Mary closed Ramona’s eyes and gently wrested the love note and the crumbling flowers from the death grip of her beloved mistress.

  “Sent her this letter, he did,” Mary told Cleome. “Lady Adelaide got hold of it somehow. Told me to burn it, but I put it in me pocket. I went straight to the fireplace and burned the market list. What a time we had, Tibbits and me, the next day in Oakham, tryin’ to remember everything on that list!” A chuckle at the poignant recollection escaped from the maid’s constricted throat and her voice broke. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her shoulders heaved. “But for Miss Ramona, I would not have been able to write me own name,” she said, at last giving way to quiet sobs.

  Later, while Mary and Tibbits attended Ramona’s body, a new resolve filled Cleome’s heart. She went first to the kitchen and asked Della to have Mickey go for the Reverend Jefferson, and then she got the leather pouch and Jimmy’s music box from her saddlebags. When the two older women had completed their ministrations, she approached the bed reverently. Ramona was far more beautiful in death than Cleome had ever seen her in life. She could not cry, for her sorrow was too great to be measured in tears. Such grief, perhaps, was a private thing. The tears would come later. In the meantime, there was much to be done.

  As Mary and Tibbits watched, Cleome took her father’s treasures out of the bag and carefully placed them on the bed. She slipped the wedding band on the third finger of Ramona’s hand and instructed Mary to put the money pouch, shaving brush and rusted razor in the coffin before it was closed. Then, because she needed something to keep in memory of her father, Cleome took the heart-shaped lodestone on the black ribbon from around Ramona’s neck, where
it had been since Drake had given it to her, and tied it around her own. With her embroidery scissors, she severed a lock of her mother’s hair and placed it in the music box with her father’s copper curl. Slowly, she bent to kiss Ramona’s icy lips; then she turned and left the room. She was not able to bring herself to look upon that still form again.

  Back in her own room, she changed from her disheveled traveling costume into one of her comfortable old day dresses, still hanging in her wardrobe as if she had never left. Beneath it, she wore the lodestone next to her heart.

  **

  Drake paid his last respects to Ramona privately and then sought Cleome out. “If you will permit me,” he said, “I would like to stand with you at the funeral.”

  “I will not permit it, sir. I’ll not deny that your kindness helped my mother at the end of her life, but what you withheld from her—and from me—I cannot forgive. If my presence here disturbs you, I can find lodging at Easton Place.”

  “Your presence disturbs me immeasurably,” he whispered, leaning close. “I want to be at your side more than I want anything in this life. Cleome, you were ready to give yourself to me. I know you feel something for me. Let me help you through this sorrow. You must listen to reason—”

  “There is no reason I will accept,” she broke in coldly. “Deceiving me is one thing—I’m told gentlemen often practice deceit with their country paramours—but you have done my mother a great disservice.”

  “So great that you would throw away our future? You know I’d never do anything I thought would hurt her. Trust me enough to listen, to try and understand.”

  “How could I ever trust you?” she demanded, struggling to keep her voice even, although she wanted to scream at him. “As much regard as I had for you, I now have only fear. I would be putting myself at terrible risk by placing my future in your hands.”

  “Will you allow me to stand with you at the funeral?” he repeated stubbornly.