Kassidy felt somehow betrayed. “You never told me about this man.”
Abigail looked at her sister apologetically. “Knowing how Henry always singles you out to bear the brunt of his anger, I decided not to confide in you. This way, if he discovers I have been deceiving him, he will punish only me. You can’t be blamed for what you don’t know.”
“But, Abigail, you must stop seeing this man at once. If Henry does find out, I don’t know what he would do to you.”
“It’s too late for that, dearest.” Abigail’s face brightened. “Be happy for me, Kassidy—I’m going to be married.”
Kassidy felt conflicting emotions. If Abigail were to be married, she would escape a life of drudgery under Henry’s control. But how dreadfully she would miss Abigail, and how alone she would be without her.
“What if this man isn’t worthy of you, Abigail? You know so little of the world, and even less of men. You see only good in everyone. How can you judge a man when your heart is involved?”
Abigail pulled Kassidy down on the bed beside her. “If you only knew who he is, you would be most impressed, for he is a man of great import. Just be happy for me and know that I will be with the man I love.”
“Who is he?”
“I can’t tell you that, Kassidy, at least not now. But after I’m married and settled in his home, you will come to live with us.”
“I’m so confused, Abigail. How can you love a man you hardly know?”
“Since our first meeting we have managed to see each other several times a week. We met on the afternoons I was supposed to be at Mrs. Hardy’s to give her daughters singing lessons.”
There was reproof in Kassidy’s voice. “You should have told me. You know I would have helped you in any way I could.”
“I never meant to deceive you. But he and I discussed the matter and decided to tell no one. He made me promise I wouldn’t tell even you. You see, his mother has her own notions of who he should marry. He doesn’t think she would approve of me. But what can she do if we are already married?”
“I don’t like the sound of this, Abigail,” Kassidy said suspiciously. “If he is a man of honor, he should at least come to Henry and ask for your hand in a proper manner. What if he’s only promising you marriage, so you will go away with him?”
Abigail laughed. “Where you get these notions, I have no idea. I trust him completely, Kassidy.” Abigail shook her head. “You know Henry would never give his consent. He would lock me in and never allow me to see my love again.”
Kassidy knew Abigail spoke the truth. “I want to meet him then. Someone in this family needs to know the man.”
“There’s no time, Kassidy. I’m leaving with him tonight.”
Kassidy clutched her sister’s hand. “Don’t do something you may regret.”
“I could never regret leaving this house that Henry has made more a prison than a home. My only sadness is in leaving you.” She pressed her cheek against Kassidy’s. “I promise to get word to you as soon as I’m able. But don’t be concerned if you don’t hear from me for a time. I have to devise a way to write you so Henry won’t find out.”
“How can I let you go when I won’t know where you are?”
“I will be with a man who loves me and wants only my happiness. You need have no concern for me.”
With a heavy heart, Kassidy asked: “What are your plans?”
“I am to meet him at the crossroads at midnight. Before morning, I will be his wife.”
Kassidy sighed with resignation. “Then we had better pack your belongings. Come, I will help you.”
Abigail’s eyes clouded with tears. “I knew you would understand. My hope is that Henry won’t make you suffer for what I’m doing.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of Henry.”
“I never understood why he seemed to hate you so much, Kassidy. You were always the one he punished when he was dissatisfied with either of us.”
“It’s because I’m the one who defies him. Men like Henry want people to cower before them—I don’t fear him in the least, and he resents it.”
“Please be careful.” Abigail pulled a sealed letter from her pocket. “I intend to leave this for him on the hall table. I wrote him about the elopement.”
Kassidy opened the wooden chest at the end of Abigail’s bed. “It’s a pity your wardrobe is so meager. Father left Henry wealthy, but he’s so stingy he begrudges every pence.”
Abigail pulled a small valise from under her bed. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need much. My beloved has promised me a new wardrobe and anything else that I desire.”
Again misgiving nagged at Kassidy. “If only I knew more about this man.”
“When you learn his identity, you will know that I have married well. He has just come into a fortune and will soon inherit an old and distinguished title.”
Kassidy refused to cry as she placed Abigail’s scuffed slippers in the valise. She had to think how happy Abigail would be and not think how miserable her own life would be when her sister was gone.
* * *
Henry’s face was etched with fury. He tore open the bedroom door and yanked Kassidy up by the arm, waving Abigail’s letter in her face.
“Just what’s the meaning of this, missy?”
Kassidy had hardly slept during the night, and now as she looked at her brother, she knew the time she’d dreaded had come.
“You know as well as I, that it’s a letter from Abigail,” she answered, wrenching her arm free of his grasp. “She’s gone, and you can’t hurt her anymore.”
Henry drew back to slap her, but the defiant look in her eyes stayed his hand. “I’ll find her, never fear. And, before long, you’ll be only too willing to tell me where she is.”
Kassidy shook her head. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. I’m glad she’s gone.”
He pushed her back with a force that banged her head against the headboard, and still her eyes defied him. “Father and Mother didn’t raise you to be to be so cruel. If you had been kinder to Abigail, she would not have been forced to run away.”
“Humph,” he snorted. “Little either of you know about my life. Even though you and Abigail have never thanked me for it, I have protected you and given you a home. As for Mother and Father, if they weren’t off to Egypt or Florence, they were in India, leaving me to look after you two. Well, they died as they lived, pushing their responsibilities onto me.”
“You never see life as it is, Henry. Everything revolves around you. Your conversations start with your wants and end with your needs. You see no joy in life, and you see no good in others. Even your own daughters are frightened of you.”
His lower lip trembled with rage. “You’re the one who has reason to fear me, missy. You have defied me in everything. I blame your rebellious spirit on Aunt Mary, who has always encouraged it in you.”
“I will always oppose you, Henry. Until the day I die, I’ll still defy you.”
“But in the end you will lose, Kassidy. I’ll never give up until your spirit is broken and I have taught you humility.”
With jerking motions, he moved to the door, removed the key, and inserted it on the other side. “I think the day will soon come when you will see things my way. Before I let you out of this room, you will tell me what I want to know.”
Kassidy glared at him. “I won’t tell you anything, Henry.”
After he closed the door, she heard the lock click. A tear lingered at the corner of her eye before it rolled down her cheek. She knew Henry was capable of ruthlessness. But no matter what he did, she would not beg and she would not ask him to free her.
She rubbed her head where a knot was forming. “Some day I’ll leave,” she whispered, sinking down beneath the warm cover and watching the sun rise over a bank of clouds.
5
The square-rigger, Middlesex, rode the choppy waves on her homeward journey across the English Channel. Raile stood on deck, staring at the gathering mist and
feeling strangely subdued, his mood pensive. At long last he was going home, but there was no rejoicing in his heart.
It had been many months since his fellow soldiers had returned to the appreciation of a grateful nation and to be welcomed to the bosoms of their families. There would be no one to welcome this returning hero—no one to care that he had survived his wounds.
The brisk wind that rattled the canvases also ruffled Raile’s dark hair. He felt a coldness in his heart, and wondered if it was a mistake to return to England.
“You’re still weak, Colonel,” Oliver said with concern. “Don’t you think it’s best for you to go below until we make port? You’ll want to be strong enough to attend the many celebrations that will no doubt be held in your honor.”
“Don’t call me colonel, Oliver. You know I resigned my commission.”
“I keep forgetting, sir. We were in His Majesty’s service for so long, it’s hard to think otherwise.”
Raile turned his gaze on his valet. The spry little man was as capable as he was optimistic. He had stayed by Raile’s side and encouraged him through the months Raile had lain in bed afflicted with pain so sharp he cried out for death to release him. Oliver had been there to assure him he would not die. There were times when Raile had no will to live, but the little man would not have it so. His steadfastness had given Raile the courage to endure the pain.
During the long convalescence that followed, Raile and Oliver had transcended the barrier that separated a common soldier from an officer, a master from a servant. But on the day he realized Raile was going to live, Oliver once again assumed his role as valet.
Raile was not certain at what moment he began to live again. One morning he had awakened to find the birds singing outside his hospital window and the sweet aroma of honeysuckle filling his nostrils.
Two weeks ago, he had been released from the hospital, and now he was going home.
“You really should go below,” Oliver urged once more. “You know since you got that head wound, you’ve been having headaches. The wind can’t do you any good.”
“Don’t coddle me, Oliver. 1 spent months in that damned hospital in Brussels. All I want to do is breathe air that doesn’t smell of medicine.”
Oliver knew it would do no good to press, so he moved on to other matters. “Will we be going straight to Ravenworth Castle, sir?”
Raile’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Unless my uncle has changed his habits, this is the only time of year we can find him in residence there.”
Oliver’s loyal heart burned with resentment against the DeWinter family, who had so ill-used his master. He knew that even though the colonel’s family had turned away from him, Raile had continued to pay their expenses and had left provision for them in his will. In his eyes, Oliver served a man of selflessness and honor.
“If you will pardon me for saying so, sir, I don’t understand why you’re going to Ravenworth Castle. You have immense wealth and have won fame as a hero. What do you need with those people?”
The swirling fog thinned, and Raile could see the vague outline of other ships that had docked. He watched the angry waves splash against the shore with an endless motion that had sculpted the ever-changing land. He was silent for so long that Oliver thought he would not answer. But with a twist of his lips, Raile said, “They are my family.”
Oliver said nothing more. Raile DeWinter would always follow his convictions, and no one could deter him.
Raile’s eyes darkened as he wondered what awaited him at Ravenworth Castle. It had never been in his character to harbor bitterness, but five years was a long time to live in self-imposed exile. Like a man in a trance, he watched the shoreline of England materialize out of the disappearing fog. A hero, Oliver had called him. He had met death and slain his enemies with practiced detachment. Now, he would face his uncle, with far more difficulty.
He pulled his greatcoat about him, feeling suddenly cold. He would rather encounter a dozen enemy soldiers than face the duke.
The morning sky was cloud-capped as the coach crested a hill and slackened its pace to enter the village of Ravenworth. Raile glanced out the window. He had always felt a kinship with the village that belonged to the duchy. He loved the cobblestone streets, the thatched-roof cottages built of local stone. With a feeling of homecoming, he looked at the glass-fronted coaching inn and then at the spiraling steeple of St. Matthew’s Church. It was good to be home.
On closer inspection, he noticed that some of the houses needed to be painted and repaired. Apparently the village had deteriorated, as had many English villages since their men had gone off to fight the French.
Raile looked upward at the DeWinter ancestral home. It rose out of the valley like an impregnable fortress, which it had been during many invasions throughout the years. The castle had once been a bastion against attack and a haven for the villagers in time of war and unrest. He was sorry to see that the years had not dealt kindly with the castle. Even from a distance, he could tell that the masonry was crumbling.
When Raile and John were growing up, the tower in the west wing had been closed because it was in danger of collapsing. He was angry to see that the windows were still boarded up. Apparently no work had been done on the castle in all the years he had been gone, even though he had authorized payment for repairs.
In his grandfather’s time, Ravenworth Castle and its grounds had been well tended, but his Uncle William had not been a reliable custodian for the family trust. He’d had little liking for the country, preferring to live in London, and his neglect was obvious.
The carriage now angled up the steep grade toward the castle. Raile noticed with annoyance that his uncle’s flag was not flying above the battlement, which would mean he must still be in London. How could his uncle talk of family pride, yet allow the ancestral home to fall to ruin?
Oliver was seated opposite Raile, and the servant nodded in satisfaction. “It’s good to be in the country again, sir. I have always found the air here invigorating.”
“Yes,” Raile agreed as the horses slowed to make the last sheer incline. When they reached the courtyard, they clopped along on cobblestone.
The driver pulled up at the front door. Raile drew in a deep breath.
Oliver moved out the door and folded down the coach steps. As Raile descended, he noticed that the butler stood by the door with a look of sheer bewilderment etched on his face.
“Good afternoon, Ambrose,” Raile said to the stiff little man who had been at Ravenworth for as far back as he could recall. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Perhaps you heard about my wounds?”
Ambrose’s usual calm slipped even further. “Everyone thought. . .that is ... we were informed that you were ... dead. But of course, you aren’t.”
Raile smiled. “As you can see, I am most certainly alive.” He adjusted his coat and climbed upward until he was even with Ambrose. “I take it my uncle is not at home.”
There was something strange about the way Ambrose gripped the door handle. “No, sir, but you will find your half brother and your stepmother in the salon.”
Distaste made Raile’s tone biting. “A fitting homecoming to be sure,” he muttered, entering the cool hall of the castle. With determined steps, he moved to the salon.
He opened the door and allowed his gaze to run the length of the room. His stepmother was seated near the window, her head turned expectantly in his direction. He watched the color drain from her face, and she caught her throat as if she could not breathe.
“My God, Raile, what are you doing here?” She came slowly to her feet, her face ghostly white. “They told us you were dead.”
He looked past his stepmother to Hugh, who calmly smiled and said flippantly: “I remember, Mother, when I was just a lad and my nurse told me that ghosts of long dead DeWinters roamed the halls of Ravenworth Castle. Perhaps Raile has joined their numbers.”
If there was anyone Raile wanted to avoid, it was Hugh and Lavinia. His voice was devoid of feeling as
he asked: “What—no ‘welcome home, brother’ or ‘I am glad to see you’?”
Hugh shrugged. “If I said I was glad to see you, we would both know it would be hypocrisy. You and I have never pretended affection, have we, brother?”
Raile glanced about the room with a puzzled expression on his face. “Where is my uncle?”
A strange look passed between Lavinia and her son. “But surely you must know that your uncle has been dead these past six months,” Lavinia replied at last.
Raile felt as if a heavy blow had been delivered to his midsection. It had never occurred to him that his uncle might die while he was away—he had just supposed the duke would live forever.
He had thought all affection for his uncle had died that day five years ago. If that were true, why this heavy sadness? There had been too much left unsaid between him and his uncle, and now it would remain unsaid.
“You knew Uncle William was in ill health,” Hugh reminded him, yawning behind his hand. “Even so, there were times when I thought that old man would outlive us all.”
Raile was still trying to digest the news of his uncle’s death. “That would make John the duke of Ravenworth,” he said reflectively. “Where is John?”
A strained expression darkened Hugh’s eyes. “Poor Raile. I’m afraid we have more tragic news for you. You see, cousin John was rushing to his father’s deathbed when he was set upon by footpads and they robbed him of his purse and his life.”
His childhood friend dead—how could that be? “My God, no! Not John.”
“It was a pity he died so young,” Lavinia said. “Of course, John and I never liked each other, so I won’t pretend to grieve for him.”
This was not the homecoming Raile had expected. His childhood friend and the man who had been a father to him were both dead. But he was not going to allow Hugh and Lavinia to see his grief.
Song Of The Nightingale (DeWinter's Song 1) Page 4
