Marry in Secret

by Anne Gracie

  Pendell nodded. “He converted, sir—genuine, it was, not just to get hisself released. You know how Jones always was on about religions?”

  Thomas nodded. Jones was always getting into arguments with the other men. He’d always assumed it was just to stir up a bit of excitement on a boring voyage.

  “He took to Mohammedism all the way. Got himself freed, started working in a bakery, and next thing you know—typical Jones—his eye’s on the boss’s daughter. Next thing he’s married.”

  “He’s got a couple of little doe-eyed daughters of his own now. Besotted with them, he is.” Dodds grinned. “Serve him right. He’ll be worrying himself sick over them twelve years from now, the randy beggar. Nothing like a former rake for knowing how wicked men can be.”

  “Mr. Wilmott made him write a letter to you, telling you all about it. Mr. Wilmott said you’d be worried otherwise.” Dyson produced two crumpled bits of paper from an inside pocket and handed them to Thomas. “There’s a note from Mr. Wilmott, too.”

  Thomas swallowed. Mr. Wilmott was right. He pocketed the letters to read later. So all his men were all safe and where they wanted to be. It was a weight off his shoulders.

  “Come on now, let’s get you out of the rain, or you’ll catch your death of cold,” he said. “I’ve booked rooms for us all at the Star.”

  Dodds whistled. “Bit fancy for the likes of us, ain’t it, sir?”

  “Not in the least. After what you’ve all been through—”

  “What we all went through, sir,” Dyson interrupted. “You included, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

  They piled into the chaise and headed to the Star Hotel.

  First it was hot baths all round—as much to prevent a chill as for cleanliness—followed by a night of celebration and storytelling. They fell on roast beef, mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding with delight and washed it down with good English ale—none of them had the digestive problems he’d picked up from the bad food on the galleys. The drink and the stories flowed late into the night.

  Next morning they told him their plans. O’Brien and Dodds were planning to set up as woodworkers together. Dodds was a ship’s carpenter and O’Brien had been sold to a master woodworker and had learned from him. “We thought we might set up shop here,” Dodds said. “Looks to be a prosperous town. I’ll fetch the wife and kids—better for them than London, I’ll be bound.”

  Dyson was going back to Yorkshire. He might emigrate, he thought. Would see what his wife thought about it.

  The men were eager to be reunited with their families, so Thomas put O’Brien, Dodds and Dyson on the stage to London that morning. To his surprise, they all had their own money; Wilmott had divided up what was left over from the ransom between them. Compensation for all they’d lost, and something to help them get started.

  He set off home, taking Jemmy Pendell in the chaise with him.

  * * *

  * * *

  “And when we reached Newport, he didn’t even give the chaise time to stop, he was out of it and running madly toward his cottage, yelling out ‘Jenny, Jenny’—his wife’s name is Jenny—Jenny and Jemmy Pendell, can you imagine it?”

  Rose poked him in the ribs. “Get on with it. Jemmy is running madly toward his cottage, yelling out ‘Jenny, Jenny,’ and . . . ?”

  “So, he’s yelling out her name like a banshee, and then she comes out of the cottage and she sees him, and for a moment she doesn’t move. Just stands there stock-still. And then, and then . . .” He paused, deliberately.

  Rose elbowed him again.

  “Then she starts running toward him, and she’s crying and calling his name and—”

  “What was she wearing?”

  Thomas stared down at her. “What does that matter?”

  “It matters to me. What color was her dress?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Blue, I think. With white thingummies.” He made little curling motions with his fingers.

  “Dark blue or light blue?”

  “Light blue—like a summer sky, like your eyes.” He moved in for a kiss.

  She held him back. “And her little girl, what color was she wearing?”

  He frowned. “How do you know there was a little girl?”

  “Of course there was a little girl. What color was her dress?”

  “Pink,” he said, baffled.

  “Oh, that’s perfect. And then what happened?”

  “You don’t want me to describe what Jemmy was wearing?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. So when they met . . .”

  “They kissed, and he whirled her around and then they kissed again, and, well, you get the idea.”

  “No, you’ll have to show me later.”

  His eyes glinted. “If I must.”

  “And when the little girl met her daddy?”

  He grinned. “You should have seen her, Rose. First she hid behind her mother’s skirts, peeping out at him from time to time, but every time Jemmy tried to talk to her, she hid again. And then he sat down on the ground—in his brand-new clothes—are you sure you don’t want to know about his new clothes? Because they were very smart.”

  “No. He sat down and . . . ?”

  “Pretended not to look at her, and she crept out and just looked at him, right up close as if he were some insect she’d just found. Then she reached out and shoved at him—quite a hefty push for a little fairylike creature—and he rolled right over and fell back on the grass as if he were dead.”

  She sniffled. “Oh, he sounds lovely. Jenny Pendell was weeping by this time, I take it.”

  “Yes, just like you are now.” He passed her his handkerchief. “Then the little girl came and tried to wake him up. She pushed at his face and pulled his hair and poked him on the nose and he didn’t move a muscle. She stood there frowning down at him for ages and he didn’t stir, not so much as a flicker of an eyelid. And then, you’ll never guess what she did next.”

  “She kissed him, and like Sleeping Beauty he woke up?”

  He stared at her in amazement. “How do you know these things?”

  Her mouth curved in a mysterious smile. “I’m a woman.”

  He looked down at her. “You certainly are . . .” And he bent to make sure of it.

  “You’re going to give Jemmy a job here on the estate, aren’t you?” she said after a while. “Because there’s nothing for that family in that little village.”

  “How did you—? Never mind. Yes, we arranged it on the trip up from Southampton. There’s a spare cottage with plenty of room for him and his wife and daughter and—”

  “And his grandfather.”

  “His grandfather?”

  “Yes, I want to employ him to build me a rose garden.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Any objection?”

  He laughed. “Would it do me any good if I did?”

  “It might. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how good you are.” She pulled his head down for a long, luscious kiss and one thing led to another and they made love again, slowly, thoroughly, until he was sated and exhausted and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

  “I love it when you smile like that,” she said sleepily. “I love you so much, Thomas.”

  The sound of Thomas not responding hung in the air.

  He swallowed. It was all very well for him to tell himself that the words didn’t matter, but they mattered to her. If they didn’t, she wouldn’t be telling him all the time that she loved him.

  And if he were honest with himself, every time she told him she loved him he felt warmth coil in his chest and spread all the way through him. A small healing. A benediction.

  So he was lying about the importance of the words. Lying to himself and by omission, to her. Because he did love her, more than words coul
d express.

  He opened his mouth to tell her so. But to his chagrin, she flinched, and pressed her fingers over his mouth.

  “No, don’t, I’m sorry. I wasn’t pressuring you. I don’t need you to say anything, Thomas. I’m all right, truly. I don’t need to know.”

  He took her hand and kissed her on the palm. “Yes, you do. And I need to tell you. It’s just . . . I’m not very good with words.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Hush. I do. Rose, you’re . . .” How to describe something so immense, so powerful? He groped for words; impossible, flimsy, parsimonious, feeble words.

  “Of course I love you.” So inadequate. Useless.

  “And I—”

  “I’m not finished.” He’d barely started. He took both her hands in his, held them cupped against his heart as he lay on the bed facing her, all defenses down. Vulnerable. Open. “Rose, when I was shipwrecked, the thought of you kept me afloat. When I was dying of thirst in the desert, you were my water. When the other men were lost, barren of hope, wishing to die, I refused to allow it because I was strong, because I had you in my heart. You were my beacon, my hope, the very flame of my being.

  “You were with me in the filth and degradation and brutality of the galleys, keeping me sane, keeping me strong. Reminding me that there was another world, clean and good and wholesome because you were in it. Through my darkest days, the knowledge that you were here, waiting, gave me heart. I knew, with unquenchable certainty that somehow, someday I would get back to you. And though I didn’t realize it, since my return you’ve freed me from the invisible chains that bound me still. My dearest girl, I love you, more than I can say, more than any words can ever express.”

  “Oh, Thomas.” She was awash with tears. “But if you felt like that, why did you keep telling me to take the annulment?”

  “I didn’t think you wanted me. I was damaged. I didn’t want to drag you down to my level.”

  “Oh, Thomas, never think it. I always loved you and I always will. I loved you when I married you, and—”

  “And I loved you.”

  Her face crumpled. “Really? It wasn’t just because you were protecting me? Because of the possibility of a baby?”

  “No, I loved you then and I love you now. From the moment I first saw you in the pump room in Bath, I knew you were the only woman for me.”

  “When you told me you’d been damaged, I believed you, but I still loved and wanted you.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “But, Thomas, you’ve been through the most horrendous experiences, and I don’t know how, because God knows it should have destroyed you, but somehow you’ve emerged from it a fine, strong, decent, beautiful—yes, beautiful, don’t argue with me—kind and loving man. I don’t deserve you, but I’m selfish that way and no matter what you say or do, I’m keeping you.”

  There were no words after that. Thomas’s heart was so full it felt ready to burst. All he could do was show her how he felt in the best way he knew. By loving her.

  Epilogue

  To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour.

  —WILLIAM BLAKE

  The late-afternoon sun was soft, mellow with the hush of autumn. A faint scent of wood smoke hung in the crisp air. The trees surrounding Brierdon Court were thin of leaves, a mere smattering of gold and claret and brown against the stark tracery of branches. Yellow birches, golden larches, tawny oak leaves drifting down to lie in damp carpets and become one with the earth.

  Seated on a rustic wooden bench, Rose gazed out over the place that would become her rose garden. She and old Mr. Pendell had spent many a happy hour designing it and poring over rose catalogs. They’d decided on a walled garden—roses were tough, but in a sheltered, sunny spot they’d flower more and longer, Mr. Pendell said. And a walled garden would make more of the scent—stop it from being blown away. The perfect place for a lady to sit. Or a lady and her gentleman, he’d added coyly. He was a romantic, old Mr. Pendell.

  Now the walls were finished and stone flags had been laid, forming the pathways that wound romantically through the garden. The beds had been dug, manured and dug again, and trellises constructed for the climbers. Several pretty arbors had been built with seating beneath—in time the bare wood would be covered by roses.

  Everything was ready. Only one rosebush had been planted so far, a transplant from Mr. Pendell’s garden. Rose had chosen it especially. It was her special rose, and though it was just a bundle of sticks at the moment, in spring it would blossom with white roses, tiny, sweet-smelling buds. The rest of the rosebushes would be planted tomorrow.

  But Rose wasn’t thinking about roses. She wasn’t thinking about tomorrow at all, but about a time in the past when she’d been young, and ignorant and alone.

  “I promise I won’t forget you,” she said softly. “You were with me for such a short time, but you meant all the world to me. I loved you then, and I love you now. And though I have more to love now, it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forget you, or love you any less. You’ll always have a place in my heart, your own special place.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Thomas came up from behind and sat down on the bench. She turned her face up to him and the smile dropped from his face. “Rose, darling, what is it? What’s the matter?” He pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe her cheeks.

  She took it from him, scrubbed at her eyes and then blew her nose. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking.” She hadn’t even noticed the tears running down her cheeks.

  “You were talking.” To nobody. She could see the concern in his eyes.

  She looked at the little lone rosebush. “I was talking to the baby. The one I lost when I thought I’d lost you.”

  He slipped his arms around her and gathered her against him. “Ah, don’t be sad, love. You’ll have a baby one day, I’m sure of it. But if not, don’t worry . . . I can’t bear it when you worry.”

  His words caused her eyes to fill again. “I’m not sad, or worried, truly I’m not. Quite the contrary. I’m just . . .” Unable to find the words to explain the turmoil of emotions inside her, she simply took his hand and placed it on her belly. And waited.

  Thomas continued, “I know you’ve been fretting for weeks now—and it’s been worse since Emm had her baby. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but it really doesn’t matt—” He broke off. A strange look came into his eyes. He glanced at her belly, then looked at her. “Rose? Did I just feel—?” He broke off again. His big hand was warm against her belly.

  She nodded, laid her hand over his and said mistily, “There’s a baby in here, and it’s alive, Thomas. My baby is alive. And kicking.”

  “A baby? But how—I mean when?” The baby kicked again and he stared, wonder dawning in his eyes. “How long? I mean, do you know when he—she—when our baby will be born?”

  Our baby. She loved hearing him say it.

  “In three or four months.”

  “Three or four months! You mean you’ve known—” And then he realized. “And all this time you’ve been fretting and worrying? Without saying a word.” The arm around her tightened.

  She bit her lip. “I didn’t want to say, unless . . . until I was sure everything was all right.” She’d felt the first faint flutters weeks ago, but still she hadn’t dared to believe . . .

  “Ah, love, you should have told me. But it’s going to be fine, I’m sure of it.” He glanced down at her belly again. “A baby! We’re having a baby!” His silvery eyes blazed with emotion.

  She smiled mistily, and he pulled her closer, one hand cupping her jaw as he kissed her tenderly, the other protectively cupping her belly, and their baby.

  Author’s Note

  Dear readers, thank you for reading Rose and Thomas’s story. I hope you enjoyed it.

  Most of my sto
ries take me in a different direction from the one I expect at the beginning, and while this is part of the pleasure in being a writer, it also throws up some challenges.

  One of those challenges is to present history that is true to its time through characters that modern readers can identify with. We can’t rewrite history, we can only try to understand and learn from it. And try to do better.

  So many changes have occurred in the past two-hundred-plus years: for women, whose choices for an independent life or expanded identity were so limited by customs and expectations and access to their own funds; for people of different origins and ethnicities who were certainly seen as less than equal; and how our notions of what it is to be human have altered (perhaps not quickly enough!).

  Thomas’s time as a slave changed him and gave him a greater understanding of and sympathy for the lives of people in less fortunate positions; servants, poor people, people dependent on others or bonded by things less obvious than chains. Because of this, he’s not a typical earl of his time.

  But his experience of being shipwrecked, captured by tribesmen and taken across the desert to be ransomed or sold was the kind of thing that really did happen.

  There are many accounts of people captured and enslaved by Barbary pirates (or corsairs) from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century. For Thomas’s story I borrowed from the true-life account of Captain James Riley—An Authentic Narrative of the Loss of the American Brig Commerce: Wrecked on the Western Coast of Africa, in the Month of August, 1815, with an Account of the Sufferings of the Surviving Officers and Crew, Who Were Enslaved by the Wandering Arabs of the Great African Desert, or Zahahrah.

  I had Thomas and his men experience much the same as Capt. Riley and his men, right up until the point where Capt. Riley was ransomed and sent home. His ransom was organized by William Willshire, the British vice consul to Mogador from 1814 to 1844.

  Since I did not want Thomas to be ransomed, I removed William Willshire from my tale, and thus sentenced poor Thomas to four years of slavery. But the real William Willshire deserves a mention (see next page) because he was a hero.