“But…but her death was an accident, was it not?” whispered Martinique. “The rebels set the cane fields afire.Didn’t they?”
Rothewell looked grim indeed. “At the time, we thought it most unlikely,” he answered. “That carriage was trapped like a rat in a burning cane field—and yet there was not another such fire set within miles of it. The rebellion might simply have made for a convenient excuse.”
A long moment of silence held sway over the room. “You…you think it was someone else,” she said quietly. “And not an accident.”
“I do notknow, ” he said harshly. “I did my damnedest to uncover the truth, but learnt little. And when I could not be sure, Martinique, I sent you away.”
“It is true that many of the other planters never likedMaman. ” Martinique’s voice was growing strident. “Their wives never welcomed her into their society. Everyone felt she married above her class and her blood. I sensed it.”
“Many amongst the planter aristocracy did not approve,” Rothewell acknowledged. “Society is rife with small-minded people, Martinique, and you would do well to remember it. We feared for your safety. You stood to inherit all Luke’s wealth, save for the actual barony here in England.”
“Mon Dieu!”The thought horrified her.
He tossed down the pen as if disgusted. “On the other hand, it is just as likely someone wanted me dead.”
“You, my lord? Why?”
He gave a twisted smile. “I have a way of making enemies,” he said. “And it was supposed to have been me in the carriage that night, not my brother. But—well, let’s just say I was in no condition to attend a dinner party. On the other hand, perhaps it reallywas the rebels. Perhaps they envied your mother and wished her ill. Or perhaps they did not mean to trap the carriage, or to kill anyone. We will never know. That is why I do not want you back on the island.”
“I—I see.”
But Rothewell’s expression had turned inward, and his jaw was set into that familiar harsh line. She could sense that he was regretting his candor. He was a man who kept his own counsel, and that would likely never change. Nonetheless, she had learned the truth—or a part of it. Martinique was not fool enough to believe she would ever have the whole of Rothewell’s story.
She left him staring broodingly into his cold coffee, leaving the library door open as she went. She was not even sure he was aware she had departed.
Xanthia, however, had got wind of the untouched breakfast tray, and bustled into Martinique’s bedchamber almost as soon as she returned. “Dorothy says you did not eat,” she said worriedly. “What is wrong, my dear? Are you unwell?”
Martinique sat down in the chair beside her bed, and let her shoulders fall again. “I am well enough,” she said. “Well enough for a girl who has managed to bollix up her entire life in a fortnight.”
Xanthia settled on the edge of the mattress, and clasped her hands in her lap. “Have we done the wrong thing, Kieran and I?” she asked, as if to herself. “We did not know, you see, the whole of St. Vrain’s past. I could speak to Kieran. I can make him listen.”
Martinique shook her head. “I have already spoken to him,” she answered. “Besides, it is not Justin’s past, Xanthia, which troubles me.”
Xanthia reached out and clasped Martinique’s hand in her own warm, capable ones. “Can you not learn to love him, my dear? Is it quite out of the question?”
At that, tears began to press hotly at the backs of her eyes. “Oh, Zee!” she said. “Ido love him. Can you not see? That is the very problem.”
“Is it?” Xanthia looked confused. “Does St. Vrain believe he cannot love you? Most men marry for much less than that, you know.”
Martinique gave a bitter laugh. “He says that it was love at first sight,” she said. “He says he scarce deserves me, and that I have given him hope for a happy future.”
“Then I fail to see the problem, my dear,” she said briskly. “Surely you would not refuse this marriage merely to spite Rothewell?”
Martinique dropped her eyes, and shook her head. “It is not that,” she whispered. “It is not spite. It is just that…well, Zee, what is it that is so wrong with me? Why does Rothewell hate me so? Why doesn’the want me? I—I need to understand.”
“Oh, Martinique!” Her voice was weary now. “Those are such complicated questions.”
“But how can I go forward in life if I don’t know what I did wrong in the past?” she cried. “What if Justin tires of me, too, and wishes to send me away? Is it my ancestry? Is it my blood? I went to Rothewell, and I asked him these things, but all he would tell me was that he was not sure who had killed my parents. But there is something more lurking there, tainting all that goes on between us. I feel it. I always have.”
Xanthia rose and paced across the room to the bank of windows which overlooked the lake. With one finger, she pulled back the drapery as if absorbed by the scene, but Martinique knew that she gazed not at the present, but at the past. “Kieran never tired of you, Martinique,” she finally said, letting the drapery drop as she turned around. “He sent you away, my dear, because he had to.”
“Oh, yes!” said Martinique sarcastically. “He feared for my safety.”
Xanthia’s gaze turned inward again. “That much is true,” she said quietly. “The rebellion was barely quashed, and we were all afraid. All the time. Of everything. Many men sent their wives and children away. If there is more to the story, my dear, it is Kieran’s to tell. Not mine. But you must trust me when I say he does not hate you. You are family now, and to Kieran, that means everything.”
“But he holds me at such a distance, Xanthia,” Martinique whispered. “Both literally and figuratively. I think it must be my heritage. I think he is ashamed of me.”
“Oh, no,” said Xanthia firmly. “Oh, no my dear. That is simply not true. Where ever did you get such a notion?”
“I do not know,” Martinique admitted.
Xanthia fell silent for a long moment. In the passageway beyond, a door creaked and a tray rattled with dishes. There was the coo of a dove on the windowsill, and below, the clatter of the gardners unloading shovels and rakes. And still Xanthia hesitated. “Kieran is difficult to understand,” she finally said. “His past has been…well riddled with disappointsments, I daresay.”
“Because you were orphans?” asked Martinique. “Is that it?”
Slowly, Xanthia nodded. “Yes, in part,” she admitted. “And like many of us, Kieran has made some bad choices—choices with which he must now live.”
Martinique hung her head. “He told me that it should have been him in the carriage the night my parents died,” she confessed. “Is that the sort of thing you mean?”
Again, Xanthia paused. “Yes, I suppose,” she said, still standing at the window. “Nonetheless, his problems are not yours, my dear. You cannot afford to entangle your emotions with his. You must live your own life. Promise me, Martinique, that you will do that? Otherwise, you make a mockery of all that Luke worked to give you.”
“I…I suppose you are right.” And it was a good point, Martinique conceded.
Suddenly, Xanthia spun around. “And you—you,Martinique, are thevery image of Annemarie,” she said out of nowhere. “Can you understand that, my dear? Kieran cannot but look at you and remember in the next breath that it should have been him in that carriage, not your mother. Not our brother. It is such a stark reminder.”
“I—I never really thought of it that way.”
Rothewell felt guilty?Perhaps that was it, in part. Xanthia, of all people, had no reason to lie. Martinique’s stepfather had loved her dearly. Perhaps that—and his acceptance of her—was what she should cling to.
Rothewell did not hate her.
He had sent her away not because he was appalled by her, but because he wished to keep her safe. Was it true? Perhaps. Perhaps in part.Confused and conflicted, Xanthia had said. But it ran deeper even than that, Martinique suspected. Rothewell was a profoundly unhappy man. Should
his unhappiness continue to blight her future? Should she give up this one chance—this one perfect chance at love—simply because a bitter man could not sort out his own emotions? And should she punish another man for it?
No. No, she should not.
She came off the bed and onto her feet in one motion.
She saw him the moment he crossed over the hill, and watched him as he strode down, his eyes narrowed against the morning sun. Today Justin was dressed for the hunting field, in a long, drab duster and tall brown boots, with a fowling gun laid loosely in the crook of one arm. As he waded toward her through the tall grass, the duster swirled round his boots while a white-and-liver spaniel dashed madly about his legs.
At the edge of the orchard, he lifted his hat in greeting. “Why, Miss Neville, what a pleasant surprise!” he said. “It looks as though you’ve caught me poaching in Sharpe’s orchard.”
She had hitched up her skirts, and was hastening toward him. “And just what are you hunting, sir?” she asked primly.
He let his eyes run over her, then caught her against him with his free arm. “The ivory-breasted bird of paradise,” he whispered, lips pressed to her ear. “And I’ve just caughtmine. ”
She pushed back far enough to see his eyes, which were dancing with laughter, yet tinged with hope. “I think perhaps you have,” she answered.
He held her gaze with his melting dark eyes, then let the fowling gun slide into the grass. He caught her full against him, and kissed her deeply, his hands roaming circumspectly beneath her cloak.
At last, they broke apart, their breathing audible in the still of the morning. “Oh, Justin!” she said at last. “What if everything you thought was true was not? Or—or was only half-true? Or was not the whole of it?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Martinique, we never know the whole of anything,” he answered. “And most of the time, we do not know the truth. But you were speaking of something specific, I think?” He paused to kiss her on the nose. “Tell me what it is that has you in such a flurry.”
She set her hands against the broad wall of his chest, and let her fingers curl into the wool of his lapels. He smelled of citrus and soap, and of the wonderful scent he’d left on her bedsheets last night. “Oh, never mind that just now!” she said. “It will wait, will it not? It will wait forever. Now, you were to bring me a present?”
Again, he laughed, and thrust one hand into his coat pocket. The laugher, she realized, made him look like a different man. Not innocent, no. Never that. But carefree; like a man newly unburdened, perhaps.
“Ah!” he said, extracting a drawn velvet bag. With great care, he loosened the cord, and shook the contents free. It was a ring. A grand oval sapphire mounted in a setting of ornately carved gold, and flanked with two diamonds nearly as large.
“Mon Dieu!”she exclaimed. “Justin, that is worth a fortune.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”
He lifted her hand and slid it onto her finger. Martinique held out her hand to the sun, and the facets seemed to catch fire. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Justin. I cannot wear this.”
“I am afraid, my dear, that I must insist,” he said, smiling. “It was my maternal grandmother’s wedding ring, and her grandmother’s before that, and…oh, Lord, I do not know how many fingers wore it, Martinique, before it came to you. But ithas come to you, and it is said to bring great happiness to every wife who wears it, and I could not forgive myself, my love, if I brought anything less than great happiness to you.”
For a long moment, she studied the ring, marveling at what it was likely worth. Then slowly, she curled her fingers into a fist, and looked up at him. “You kept it,” she said quietly. “The one thing you did not sell, even when you were all but penniless.”
His smile was a little bitter. “That one ring alone would have bought me my little house inle Marais. But I dared not sell it. It was meant for my wife. And it became, eventually, a—a sort of symbol of hope.”
“Your hope?”
“My only hope of someday finding the right woman, and of ensuring her happiness.”
“Oh, Justin,” she said, holding his gaze. “You do not need a ring, my love. You need nothing save yourself to make me happy.”
The last of the clouds lifted from his expression. “So you will do it, then?” he asked. “You will marry me, Martinique?”
She held out the ring again, and studied it coyly. “A Christmas wedding, I think,” she said musingly. “Then a New Year—and a new life—in Paris.”
He laughed, and his eyes widened. “InParis ?”
Martinique smiled up at him. “We have old fears and old memories to sweep away, you and I,” she said. “What better way than for us to begin than in Paris?”
“Why not?” He was slowing nodding. “What better way indeed?”
Martinique twined her arms round his neck. “And after all,” she said, “you once promised me the loan of your little house inle Marais for my wedding trip, you will recall. And you are a man who never goes back on his word.”
He chuckled quietly and leaned into her. “Well, then, Lady St. Vrain-to-be,” he said, touching his nose to hers. “Here are three more words to be kept: I love you. And if I am not much mistaken, the key to that house is in my other pocket.”
The Merchant’s Gift
Julia London
For my mother, who taught us that it did not matter what side of the tracks a person came from, but whether they were polite and if their clothes were clean and neatly pressed. My clothes are clean and neatly pressed, Mom.
One
Leeds, England
August, 1822
On a warm August afternoon, an ornate post chaise painted black with gold trim and topped with gold feather plumes thundered into Leeds on the strength of four grays that each stood sixteen hands high.
The coach was returning from London en route to a stately mansion, only recently completed, that boasted twelve chimneys on the banks of the River Aire. Mr. George Holcomb, the owner of Heslington Park, was fond of pointing out to anyone who was kind enough to listen that his home had more chimneys than any other house in Yorkshire.
Generally speaking, Mr. Holcomb was fond of speaking of his wealth at every opportunity. After all, he’d come by it honestly (an enormous number of sheep) and, at least in his estimation, he’d come by it rather brilliantly, for he’d foreseen a growing market for English wool and wool products in America. As a result of his foresight, Mr. Holcomb now enjoyed one of the largest wool production operations in all of Yorkshire. He had risen from obscurity to be considered the wealthiest of the gentry in the region.
His success meant that his youngest child and only daughter, Grace, would have a dowry that would attract only the best suitors. That she would be afforded the opportunity to enter London society and rub elbows with aristocrats and then marry an aristocrat. And on that happy day, George Holcomb would receive the recognition he so richly deserved from the members of the most elite society.
He was so keen to see that happen that he made application on Grace’s behalf to Mrs. Harris’s School for Young Ladies, a renowned finishing school for young heiresses. Grace was accepted, and upon her graduation two years past, she had entered the London social scene with a presentation at court to rival all others.
Her debut had been so spectacular—a full ball, an orchestra of twelve, and French champagne served in crystal flutes—that Holcomb was certain she would receive an offer within a month’s time.
Not only did Grace not receive an offer within a month’s time, she did not receive even ahint of an offer her entire first Season.
Her father could not fathom why. Grace was handsome; not too fat or too thin. Her hair was a pleasing shade of auburn, the same as his own, and her eyes the russet color of autumn leaves. Her mien was bright and pleasant, she showed no symptoms of a nervous disposition, and there was the added incentive of his enormous wealth. What more could a man desire in a bride?
<
br /> When Mr. Holcomb questioned Grace upon her return from London—and he’d done so endlessly, reminding her that she had cost him a fair sum in gowns and slippers and other flummery in the process—she had assured him that her manners were impeccable and she’d not offended anyone of which she was aware.
Yet Mr. Holcomb was not convinced and sent Grace back to Mrs. Harris in advance of the next social season so that she might reacquaint herself with her lessons in etiquette. Grace was always happy to see Mrs. Harris, a wise woman who understood the difficulties a young heiress of common birth faced when entering the marriage mart of high society. Unlike Grace’s father, Mrs. Harris was never cross or impatient. In fact, Mrs. Harris saw no reason to mention to anyone other than Grace the horrible faux pas Grace had made last Season.
It was very innocent, really. When she’d been introduced to Lord Billingsley, a viscount who would one day be earl, she had proudly told him her father’s occupation when asked. Lord Billingsley had seemed quite impressed and had asked her lots of questions about sheep, which she took as a sign of his interest in her. In her determination to secure a match, Grace had thought it perfectly acceptable behavior to make a gift of a cap—made with Holcomb wool, naturally—to Lord Billingsley at a garden tea one afternoon.
He’d laughed with delight when she’d presented it to him, and he’d professed to being grateful to the wool industry for all the socks and caps it produced. How was she to know he was being snide? How could she have possibly known he was laughing at her behind her back, or that some people began to talk of the shepherdess from Leeds?
The School for Heiresses Page 17
