The earl's eyes grudgingly reflected respect. "And how do I know you're not lying now?"
"I swear it," she answered softly. "On my mother's soul."
"If you desired to make such a bargain, why didn't you come to me and say so?"
There was a knock at the door, and a manservant in scarlet came into the room and bowed respectfully. "Your lordship—"
"Out!" Beauford ordered. "Set foot in this room before I call and I'll have your head!"
His face ashen, the man mumbled apologies and hastily backed out.
Charity gathered her courage and spoke frankly. "You taunt me, Lord Beauford. If I had come offering myself as a bride..." She shrugged. "A pregnant bride. You would have laughed in my face." Her fingers closed around the small brass doorknob. "Aunt Elizabeth knows nothing of this, or of my coming here. Please don't tell her," Charity implored. "I would not have her further shamed by my deeds."
Lord Beauford worried thoughtfully at the square-cut nail of a scarred and wrinkled thumb. The girl before him was a beauty; in truth he wondered if he had ever seen one fairer. If the child had caused her to blossom with fuller cheeks and rounder bosom, none could suggest it was not an asset. His fingers ached to take a flaxen curl and let it slide through them. Surely it would feel like silk. "I like your grit," he admitted. "You remind me of my lady grandmother... the Catholic one."
A hint of mischief sparked in the jade. "We share that at least. Poor Catholic that I am, I can change my faith for no man born of woman."
Harry laughed. Spirit! The girl had spirit! She faced him bravely with no weapon but her own wit and natural dignity. He who had faced down an arrogant young king! "Then I suppose we shall have to find a papist priest if we are to conclude this fey bargain."
Charity stared at him in disbelief and he laughed again softly. "I don't understand."
Imperiously he waved her back to her seat. "Listen well to my terms, Caroline. For I will say this only once, and we both may live to regret it."
"My lord?" Her legs felt weak and she sank into the chair. What did he mean to do? Surely he would not have her now, not knowing?
"I am the last of the Eames line," Beauford stated plainly. He leaned on a silver-headed cane for support, but strength and authority poured from his eyes. "In four marriages I have produced no living heir. If I die without legal issue, my six-hundred-year-old title, my estates in England and France, my Maryland and Virginia lands... the ships..." He waved his cane to encompass them all. "Banking houses." He struggled to remember, then gave up in disgust. "All my wealth, damn it! All! goes to His Most Christian Majesty, King George."
Beauford compressed his lips tightly as though he had tasted something foul, then continued in a harsh whisper. "And if there is one thing I'm still able to chew, it's my hatred for him. For ten years he's sat smirking like some loathsome spider, waiting for me to die so he could get his greedy German hands on what is mine." The faded eyes looked at her shrewdly. "I would take great joy in robbing him of that, Caroline."
Charity shivered. She moistened her lips, knowing she could show no fear before this cagey old lion. "You would consider me as wife, knowing I carry another man's child? Knowing that my child would be heir to all you leave behind?" She dared not hope. Behind that wrinkled visage lurked a mind like a steel trap. He was toying with her... he must be.
"Because of that child," he corrected. Lord Beauford went to her and took her hand in his, holding it with a strength she would not have believed a man his age could possess. "But if I do, I will have your most solemn oath that you will never reveal by word or deed that I am not the father. Is that clear?" He applied the slightest pressure to her hand. "Do you understand, Caroline? Your oath, on peril of your soul and that of your unborn child."
"Not even to Jamie?"
"Least of all to James Drummond. He is a man who would claim his child, bastard or not, at any cost. I will not be cheated of my revenge." He took a deep breath. "Any hint that the child might be another's and my estates will fall like wheat before the royal sickle. I will marry you, Caroline, give you my name, my protection, and my honor... and you will give me your child, boy or girl, forever."
Charity stiffened. "Give you my baby?"
"Good," he cried. "You'd have none of that, would you?" The old voice cracked and he continued tenderly. "What kind of beast do you take me for?" The grip on her hand turned to a caress. "I would not separate you from your babe. My child will need a mother's love and her defense. I'm not long for this world, we both know that."
She covered the yellow parchment hand with her own smooth one. "Forgive me. Whatever you would have of me, my lord, I will give most freely."
He laughed wryly. "You needn't worry about that. I'm still vain enough to want other men to believe I can take a beautiful young wife to the marriage bed and beget a child, but I can't fool myself. Those years are long past. I will trouble you not. Give me your friendship and obedience"—amusement bubbled in his voice—"as far as obedience is in you." His grip tightened again menacingly, and his hawk eyes pierced hers. "I warn you, Caroline. I'll wear no cuckold's horns. I'm not that senile! Think carefully before you answer. As long as I draw breath, you will be bound to me."
"There is no need to consider further, my lord. I will be most honored to become your wife," she replied steadily. "On your terms." Pain wrenched at her heart. Not tell Jamie? Not tell the babe who the father was? Ever? "Pay the price," Mam had said.
"On your knees, girl, and swear the oath I gave you," he ordered sternly. "An oath that must hold you beyond death."
Charity sank to her knees on the thick red carpet. Once spoken, the words would hold her. "On the soul of my unborn child," she repeated, "there shall be no father on earth but you, Lord Beauford." Her harsh whisper was nearly drowned by the ticking of the clock. "So help me God."
"You are to tell no one," he insisted. "Not the child, not Drummond, not the devil himself that this child was sown by any man but me."
Softly, lips dry, she said the words as he bade her, and Lord Beauford raised her up gently and kissed her cheek. She smelled again the clean spice and tobacco which clung about him.
"We need never speak of this again, my lady," he said kindly. "Make yourself at ease. I will send for your aunt at once and tell her that we have sinned and intend to make things right before man and God. We will be married as soon as it can be decently arranged."
"As you will, my lord," she answered meekly. Charity's head was spinning. She had won! But at what a price. Something dear was lost to her, something that could never be regained. "I will do my best," she assured him. "But I warn you, obedience has never come easy to me."
"So I always said to my tutor." Beauford beamed. "And stop calling me my lord. You sound like a chambermaid. If we are to be husband and wife... if we are to be friends, Harry, or at least Beauford, will do in private." He could not hide his satisfaction. "Major Whiggsby will be beside himself with jealousy."
"And doubtless the clergy will give us both a well-earned lecture," Charity replied saucily. "For we have sinned most heartily in a lewd and un-Christian manner. The good father will set me heavy penance which you, my... dear Harry, should share. For yours is the greater sin."
"How so?" he fenced, heartily enjoying the moment and the thought of this laughing girl filling his house with life.
"I am but a weak woman," she answered tartly. "A man of your years and position should set a better example and not lead innocents into sins of the flesh."
Harry joined her laughter, and his heart eased. Avalon's halls would not echo to empty footsteps. I have you this time, George! By God, I have you by the throat!
On the first day of May, Caroline Smythe-Tarylton married Harry Eames, Earl of Beauford, in a private ceremony in the church at Oxford. The bride was beginning to show unmistakable signs of motherhood, a fact which did not go unnoticed on the Eastern Shore.
"It's disgraceful," the reverend's wife confided to her closest friend, Ma
ry Goldsborough. "Him eighty years old and her the way she is. A little fortune hunter like that to trap an earl between her sheets!"
Mary sniffed and brought a large handkerchief to her dripping nose. "And if the truth were known, 'tis probably the child of some bond servant. Or that Jamie Drummond."
"Not so." The goodwife dropped her voice to a whisper. "His lordship confessed their sin before witnesses. He asked God to forgive him for taking the innocence of an unworldly young woman." Her eyes grew large in her round face. "On Christmas Day."
Mary blinked. "Well, I never!"
And in a tavern across the bay at Annapolis, a toast was drunk to the bridal couple. Captain Daniel Halifax lifted high his cup. "To the prettiest and most cunning wench in the Colonies," he cried. "She led me and that damned Drummond a merry chase. No wonder she'd have nought to do with us. She had her eyes set on becoming Lady Beauford!"
A chorus of groans followed his confession, and another round was ordered. "May his lordship's nights be sweet and merry," said a cooper.
"And may the lass soon be left a rich widow for one of us to take advantage of," finished another deep voice.
"Aye! To the Lady Beauford!" Mug clanked against mug, and the tavern keeper grinned broadly. "And to her good fortune!"
Lady Deale witnessed the marriage, along with representatives of the government and half the planters on the Tidewater. Lord Beauford was taking no chances that the ceremony might be discredited. It was actually a second taking of the vows. A Russian Orthodox priest had blessed their union the night before at Avalon. The fact that he spoke no English and that the couple understood no Russian was irrelevant. His ritual was close enough to that of a Roman Catholic priest to ease Charity's conscience, especially since the good father had consented to hear her confession just prior to the vows.
Lord Beauford had the Russian escorted to his ship, a Swedish merchant vessel, without the clergy of Oxford being any wiser. The marriage lines in Russian were carefully put in a fireproof box as added evidence, should Caroline's rights come before the court.
Lady Deale had made no protest to the wedding. She had taken the bride aside just before the ceremony in Oxford and asked if she was with child.
"I am," Charity admitted. Her gown was cloth-of-gold with silver threads and flowers of seed pearls, so full and heavy that it was difficult to walk. A net of pearls covered her hair, and one hand was weighed down with a gold betrothal ring.
"Whose child is it?" Elizabeth demanded.
Charity looked her straight in the eye. "My Lord Beauford's."
"Not Jamie Drummond's?"
"No." It was true. Jamie had given up the right to call himself this babe's father when he abandoned them. Why, then, did it hurt so much to say the words? The green eyes hardened. "The child is Harry's," she repeated.
"God help you then, child," Elizabeth said softly as she embraced her. "Either I know you less, or you're a good liar. And I cannot help but love you, no matter which."
Without reply Charity had given her hand to Lord Beauford and walked down the aisle beside him. A smile touched her lips and spread to her eyes as a light fluttering sensation beneath the fabric of her magnificent gown caught her attention. You're safe, she soothed silently. Rest easy, precious. Automatically she made the responses to Lord Beauford and to the reverend. Her eyes clouded with tears, not of sadness, but of joy. She was safe, and her baby was safe. Charity smiled angelically at Beauford.
Lord Beauford's heart was flooded with happiness. That smile enough was worth taking her to wife. His lips brushed those of his bride gently and he turned to face his friends and neighbors. "Gentlemen, ladies," he paused for effect. "I give you my Lady Beauford." Taking her arm tenderly, he led her from the church in triumph.
* * *
Across the Atlantic, in England, on the day of Charity's wedding to Lord Beauford, Jamie's mother burned a second letter. Her son's departure for the Colonies had been delayed yet again, and if she had her way, the delay would become permanent.
"Your father needs you," she had reminded Jamie. "As heir, your place is here in England, not at the end of the world on some... some tobacco farm!"
Jamie barely controlled the anger in his voice. "I've told you both I'm going back. DunCannon's health is improving. And I'm already late for my own wedding."
"There can be no question of your returning to America before fall," Lord DunCannon said. "If your intended cannot wait a few months, you can well look higher for a bride. I could show you a half dozen young women with rich dowries within a day's ride. And after the London season..."
Jamie slammed his fist on the table, sending a glass goblet rolling. "I'm going to marry Caroline," he insisted. "And I'll damn well be on the next ship for Maryland, with or without your blessing!"
"You'll do no such thing!" DunCannon thundered, rising in his seat. "I've disowned one heir, I could well do the same for you."
His cinnamon eyes darkened to ebony. "I'll not be bought like a Fleet Street harlot," Jamie said hoarsely. He threw down his napkin and pushed back his chair. "The woman I love is on the Tidewater, and I've kept her waiting long enough." A muscle twitched along the hardened jaw. "And as for your fortune..." He glared at his father. "It is yours to do with as you see fit!"
"You ungrateful young pup!"
"Jamie!" his mother cried. "Don't—"
The mahogany chair went spinning as Jamie stormed from the room. Inheritance be damned! He took the steps two at a time and ripped the lace stock from around his neck. His clothes had become as confining as this house.
A week later Viscount Braemar, only son and heir of the Earl of DunCannon, set sail for the Maryland Colony with his father's curses still ringing in his ears.
"Bring your Caroline back, if you must," Megan had pleaded. "Only promise me you will return soon."
The wind from the west was fresh. Jamie stood at the rail and watched as the lights of Bristol faded and winked out, one by one. He wondered if he would ever set foot in England again, then shrugged as he realized that everything he cared about lay ahead.
* * *
The new Lady Beauford rode through the fields at Avalon and watched as the slaves transplanted the fragile tobacco plants and carried water to each one in endless rows across the wide fields.
"Are you certain you should be riding?" Harry asked. "Do you feel all right?"
Charity smiled. "I feel wonderful. The house runs itself. There is nothing for me to do here. Your butler and staff know their jobs too well. I have to do something; I just can't sit all day." Her morning rides on Duchess were becoming a real pleasure. If she would never become a skilled horsewoman, at least she didn't fall off. There was no need to tell Harry that the servants resented her and slighted her in small, almost unnoticeable ways.
She could find no such fault with her husband. As he had promised, Lord Beauford provided Charity with her own suite in the north wing of the house overlooking the formal gardens. It had been the original house before Harry had bought the land and built the magnificent manor.
The suite consisted of a bedchamber, a large and small sitting room, a dressing room, and sleeping quarters for her private maid. When she saw which way the wind blew at Avalon, Charity brought a girl from Widow's Endeavor to wait on her who would tolerate no obvious slights.
Even before the wedding, Lord Beauford had showered her with gowns and jewelry. A team of seamstresses was brought from Annapolis to fashion her a wardrobe unlike any ever possessed by a woman on the Tidewater. Harry waved aside her protests.
"Allow an old man his pleasures," he said, and gave orders that the women also sew garments for the child to come. "Would you have my son in flour sacks?"
Charity laughed. Harry had claimed the child as his own, and she doubted if young princes were more joyfully anticipated. A pony and cart had arrived the first week, stabled royally beside Charity's mare.
"Don't you think the babe's a little young for a pony?" she had asked, barely keeping a
giggle from escaping.
Harry scoffed. "He can ride in his nurse's arms, can't he? My earling must be a horseman from the first."
"Have you considered, Beauford, that this might be a girl?" Charity teased. They were sharing a late morning cup of tea in her private sitting room.
"Poppycock! It's a boy and I won't hear of anything to the contrary." He patted her hand. "The midwife has assured me it's a boy."
Secretly Charity agreed with him. She did carry a son, she knew it. In her mind she tried name after name, knowing full well that Harry meant to name the boy William after his own grandfather. She could not deny him the privilege after all he had given them.
Life at Avalon fell into an easy routine. If Charity's heart ached for the loss of Jamie, she was comforted by the thought of her baby and the knowledge that the child would be safe and cared for. Her friendship with her husband grew, and she came to appreciate his good humor and consideration.
Charity shared laughter and jokes with her maid Nan, and they rode often to Elizabeth's to visit. The older woman asked no more questions about the father of Charity's baby. But they all avoided mentioning Jamie's name.
Now that there was a new overseer at Bold Venture, Elizabeth's responsibilities were eased. "I thought one plantation was overwhelming to run until I had two," she admitted. "Now my own seems an easy task."
There were shared dinners and quiet evenings, and one Sunday afternoon Elizabeth held an outdoor gathering in the gardens in honor of the newly married couple. All the prominent planters on the Eastern Shore and their families were invited, and Charity was able to meet other young wives and mothers. To her surprise, most were friendly and accepting of her situation.
"You're not alone," Jane Comegys said frankly. Jane was a tall plain girl with a birthmark on her cheek. "My marriage was an arranged one, my first marriage that is. Ralph Thompson was forty years older than me and hadn't a hair on his head." Her Northumberland accent was as thick as any Highlander's. "But this"—she motioned to the birthmark—"kept me from finding a husband at home, even with a dowry. I accepted Ralph's proposal without laying eyes on him, and I never regretted it for a minute. We had three good years together and he left me young Ralph." She indicated a laughing boy dashing across the yard. "And after a decent time, I married my overseer, Tom Comegys." Her blue eyes twinkled. "It made a stir all right, until Maisy Horsey got herself with child by a sea captain." She laughed. "There are few enough of us on the Tidewater. An unknown girl, especially as beautiful as one as you, is bound to cause a scandal when she marries a man as old and wealthy as Lord Beauford. But if you're a decent wife to him, they won't hold it against you." She regarded Charity shrewdly. "And next time, you can choose a man you favor. A man can overlook much for a well-provided widow." Her eyes searched out and found her husband among the gentlemen.
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