by Laura Hile
And her father’s disappearance? This was truly strange—and so unexpected. So far they had heard nothing from him, which Frederick thought was a good sign. Anne was not so sure, but it was likely that he was right. If her father were in trouble, they would have heard something by now. It was not his way to suffer in silence.
Anne pillowed her head on her arm. It was odd to be so tired in the middle of the day, but she was too weary to fight against it. Besides, if she remained awake, what new surprises would she discover?
Elizabeth’s face rose in her mind; she pushed it aside. Frederick would come home and find her here, and together they would talk over Charles’s situation and her father’s and Elizabeth’s. Frederick was wise about these things, she told herself. He would know what to do. Anne gave a comfortable sigh. They would sort things out together.
~ ~ ~
In her eagerness to reach the gate, Elizabeth stumbled and fell into the grass. Her hands were already scratched and sore, so the discomfort did not matter. In another few steps her escape would be complete. Never again would she set foot on the Belsom estate!
The grass was damp, but no matter. Elizabeth knew she should get up, but her limbs would not obey. Her legs felt like jelly. Then she heard scuffling noises. Was there an animal nearby? A wild animal?
She got to her knees, but not soon enough to avoid being bowled over and licked. She gasped, first in horror and then in recognition.
“Sweetie!” she cried. Without thinking, she threw her arms around the dog’s neck. His long, wagging tail whipped gleefully against her waist. “Oh, Sweetie,” she said. “Have you come for a visit?” She pressed her cheek against his neck. He was furry and dusty and smelled like a rainy day, but she did not care.
She pulled away to look at him; the hopeful look in his brown eyes pierced her heart. “Are you hungry? I haven’t any food to give you, love.” She glanced in the direction of the gate. “I daresay Mrs. Yee could find something.”
Sweetie gave a huff of pleasure—or so it seemed to Elizabeth—and rubbed his downy cheek against hers. She laughed. Who would have guessed that one could talk with a dog!
She got to her feet, keeping a firm hand on Sweetie’s collar. “Since you are not wanted up there,”—she nodded in the direction of the Belsom mansion—“you might as well come along with me.”
Sweetie pressed himself against her leg. “Do you know,” Elizabeth confessed, stroking his long back affectionately, “that of all the McGillvarys, I believe you are my favourite?
“Besides,” she went on, “I have a very fine cloak in your exact shade and a smart hat, too. We shall look splendid when we walk about together. What do you think of that?”
5 Once More Into the Breach
Admiral McGillvary came out of the library, slamming the door behind. A moment later it was jerked open by Ronan. “If you imagine that I’m going to stand for this,” he bellowed, “you are sadly mistaken!”
McGillvary paused long enough to collect his hat and riding crop from Jamison. The footman barely had time to open the door.
“Come back here, Patrick,” shouted Ronan, following.
McGillvary descended the broad steps swiftly and made for the stables, leaving his half-brother to scramble after. “If you choose to give trumpery baubles,” Ronan yelled between breaths, “that is your affair! But I refuse to be bested by your mistress! Do you hear?”
At that McGillvary swung round. “What did you say?”
It was all Ronan could do to keep from colliding with his half-brother. He put up his chin. “Your mistress,” he spat, “has made a laughingstock of me! And it’s all your doing!”
The admiral lifted his riding crop; Ronan stepped back a pace. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you put her up to it! What a fellow you are, to send your bits of muslin to do your dirty—Ow!”
A red welt appeared on Ronan McGillvary’s cheek.
“The lady’s name,” said McGillvary evenly, “is Miss Elliot. She is not, nor has she ever been, my mistress!” He turned on his heel and strode away.
“My face!” shrieked Ronan, fingering the welt. “My beautiful—I’m bleeding!”
Ronan stood alone on the gravel drive; his chest heaved. “Blast you, Patrick!” he shouted at McGillvary’s back. “You’ll pay for this!”
He ran after him, half-choked with rage, his sword rattling in its scabbard. “You’re stingy, that’s what!” he bellowed. “And I don’t care who knows! Family honour be damned!”
A quick stamping of hooves rent the air. The groom and his boy came around the corner of the carriage house leading, with some difficulty, the saddled horse. At McGillvary’s approach Aoife nickered and pranced, but allowed him to untwist the bridle and pat her neck and shoulders. He swung deftly into the saddle.
“Do you hear me, Patrick?” Ronan shrieked, running up. “I’ll publish it to the world! You’re cheap!”
Aoife was very fresh; she plunged sideways and delivered several vigorous kicks. “Stow it, Ronan,” McGillvary said, between clenched teeth. “Or I’ll mark your cheek with my boot.”
Ronan drew back. His half-brother was wearing spurs.
“For you information,” McGillvary continued, “Miss Elliot received no jewels from me. And when I learn what you did to cozen that pendant from her—”
“I did nothing! Nothing!” Ronan’s voice rose to a whine. “She offered it freely! The vixen!”
McGillvary gave a crack of laughter. “Did she now? Bless her!”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know very well what it means. You’re a humbug, dear Ronan. My Elizabeth had your measure in a moment!”
Ronan’s mouth opened and closed; his hands balled into fists. “A humbug?” he screamed. “How dare you!”
Horse and rider wheeled and made for the avenue of chestnuts at a hand gallop. Ronan ran after them. “I’ll meet you for this, Patrick!” he bellowed. “See if I don’t! You’re a marked man!”
At last Ronan was forced to stop. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he yelled down the avenue, “You’re afraid to meet me, that’s what! You fear the edge of my sword!” He waved a fist in the air. “Coward! Come back and fight like a man!”
~ ~ ~
Charles Musgrove pulled open the garden gate in a single movement. It went crashing against the wall, sending fragments of brick flying. He did not care. Who else but Mary would take an innocent friendship and turn it into a sordid love affair?
“What does she want from me?” he flung at the sky. “I’ve given her everything she’s asked for! Everything within my means! What else is there to give?”
He went marching up the grassy slope to the top of the hill. Below lay the lake—and the bench. They’d sat on that bench and talked for hours at a time. What pleasure there was in the company of a kind-hearted, compassionate soul—whom Mary thought was a lightskirt!
Anger lengthened Charles Musgrove’s strides. Very well, he would sit on that bench and remember. Mary had his loyalty, but that was not the end of it. She wanted his heart, too.
His heart! Charles nearly spat. His heart had nothing in common with Mary; he wondered if it ever had. Again Anne’s question rang in his ears. Was he in love? The thought deepened Charles’s scowl. He was not in love with Mary, nor had he ever been!
But Winnie Owen?
A rush of emotion surged in Charles’s breast. He had not answered Anne’s question—she was so obviously expecting him to deny her accusation! And yet he could not.
A light breeze ruffled the surface of the lake, sending flecks of light dancing. Charles winced at the beauty of it. And then he sighed.
No, he could no longer deny what was in his heart.
Anne had guessed it, though he doubted she knew the full extent. She’d guessed even before he knew it himself!
But now that he did know it, what was he to do?
~ ~ ~
Upstairs Elizabeth completed her bath and was wrapped in a t
hick dressing gown. Mary burst into her bedchamber and plumped down on the bed. “So” she said, lacing her fingers together, “I have you to thank for stealing my bath water. But no matter. I can wait.” She studied Elizabeth for a long moment. “What have you done to your hair?”
Elizabeth edged behind the screen. Elise had combed out the tangles and bits of grass, but her hair could not be properly washed until tomorrow. She sat down to finish drying her feet and put on the undergarments laid out for her.
“You are in a charitable mood, I see,” she remarked.
“When one suffers as I have,” Mary said, “one has no choice but to seek refuge in noble ministrations to others.”
Elizabeth did not like the sound of this. “Are you feeling poorly?”
“You cannot know what I suffer! How can you? You are not married.” There was a long pause. “What do you know of heartache and betrayal?”
“A great deal, believe me.” This had been one of the most wretched days of Elizabeth’s life, but she did not intend to share the details with Mary. She turned so that Elise could fasten the back of her chemise. When all was in place, she moved from behind the screen.
“So what happened? Has Charles refused to advance next quarter’s allowance?”
The bed creaked as Mary jumped to her feet. “Oh!” she cried. “How dare you utter his name in my presence!”
“I beg your pardon. My mistake.” Elise shook out the folds of the gown and Elizabeth stepped into it. Mary obviously wished to talk. Her sister had played this game for many years; Elizabeth knew her part. “So,” she said, “what has your husband done this time?”
Mary drew a ragged breath. “That Man,” she said, in throbbing accents, “has seen fit to bestow his affection on Another Woman!”
Elizabeth knew better than to react. “Has he indeed?” she said with deliberate languor. Mary would talk in front of the servants! She caught Elise’s eye and dismissed her. Mary was not finished, she knew.
“Did you not hear what I said?” demanded Mary. “Charles has taken up with another woman!”
“I wonder why?” murmured Elizabeth.
Mary bristled. “Upon my word, Elizabeth! How can you be so heartless?” She disappeared behind her handkerchief.
“You’ve been a perfect beast to him, Mary,” said Elizabeth, but more gently. “I doubt things have gone as far as all that. After all, this is Charles Musgrove we’re speaking of.”
“I do not wish to hear his name! I do not wish to speak of him at all!”
“Very well,” agreed Elizabeth. “Neither do I. Have you news from Lady Russell?”
Mary lowered her handkerchief and glared.
Elizabeth pulled forward a chair. “Really, Mary, you cannot expect me to believe such a story. It’s rubbish, and you know it.”
Mary raised her head. “Are you calling me a liar? I heard the evidence with my own ears.”
Elizabeth returned her sister’s glare measure for measure. “Very well. Prove it.”
“If I were able to be up and about, I most certainly would!” wailed Mary. “I would confront her to her face!”
“The woman has a name?”
“Of course she has a name! What are you thinking?”
“Suppose you tell me who she is.”
“We’ve nourished a viper in our bosom!” Mary said tragically, and she gave a perfectly genuine shudder. “It’s—it’s Miss Owen.”
Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. “You take that back,” she exploded. “This instant, do you hear? How can you think such a monstrous thing? Miss Owen is a decent woman, and very kind she has been to you! Charles would no more seduce her than he would Anne.”
“Oh!” Mary shrieked. “Throw that in my face, will you?”
“Throw what in your face?”
“Anne!” said Mary, with a sob. “The Musgroves think that Charles should have married Anne!”
“Anne obviously does not think so! Don’t be a goose, please.”
Mary hiccupped and twisted her handkerchief. “Anne knows what I suffer,” she said, in an abrupt turn of face. “She, at least, is a true sister to me. She heard what that woman said.”
“Miss Owen?”
“No, Mrs.—” Mary paused to blow her nose. “You know, the woman who is to marry Mr. Minthorne next month.”
“Mrs. Barrymore.” Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. “Mary,” she said, “you are making no sense whatsoever. What has Mrs. Barrymore to do with Charles Musgrove?”
“Mrs. Barrymore saw them together—Charles and Miss Owen! Laughing and talking in the garden! She said they make a lovely couple! And if I were well enough, I would run down to the garden this instant and no doubt catch them together!”
Elizabeth lowered herself into the chair. “Is that all?”
“Is that all?” Mary cried. “Charles never laughs and talks with me in such a way!”
“Why should he? You have no regard for anything he says.”
Mary’s lips formed a pout, but she said nothing more.
“Be reasonable,” Elizabeth said. “Talking with a woman does not constitute a love affair. Laughing and joking and sharing ideas—what are those? Nothing. Less than nothing!
“For what do words signify?” Elizabeth spoke more slowly now, as the truth of what she was saying came home. “They’re only words. Follies. Fancies. Castles in the air.” Her voice cracked. “Worthless words, useless words.”
Elizabeth fought to regain composure, then added for Mary’s benefit, “Even if one speaks of love, if there are no actions, it is only a … word.”
Mary put back her shoulders. “What do you know of love, sister-dear?” she said primly. “Who are you to lecture me?” Mary smoothed her skirts. “You have never been in love. What do you know about losing a man’s affection?”
Elizabeth could only stare at the floor.
“When you have been married,” Mary continued, “then you may tell me how to arrange my life.” She slid off the bed and flounced to the door.
“Be grateful for what you have, Mary,” Elizabeth said roughly. “Though you do not think it much, you have a home and a family. You have a future as mistress of Uppercross. That is something, even if your husband is a disappointment. I believe most husbands are.”
Mary shut the door with a slam, and Elizabeth hurried to set the lock. She leaned against the door. Words without actions—what good were they?
“They are nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing at all.”
~ ~ ~
Charles knelt and gathered a handful of stones. One by one he cast them into the lake. None were flat enough to skip properly, but Charles was not feeling the sportsman today. His thoughts were taken up with what had been going on in his heart. How could he have been so blind?
Conflicting emotions battled in his chest. He scowled at the water, attempting to quell the idiotic smile that pulled at his lips. What he wished to do was dance and shout—to the sky, to the birds, to anyone who would listen—of his love for her. And of hers for him!
That Winnie loved him, Charles had no doubt. It was not for nothing that he had sisters—the signs were there for anyone to read. There was a light in her eyes and a sweetness to her smiles—he had been blind indeed! But what to do now?
For Winnie was headed home to Wales. Her mind was made up; she did not like to remain as housekeeper for her cousin’s bride. She would return to keep house for her father, facing conditions that to Charles sounded like squalor.
He kicked at the turf. Winnie’s father drank heavily and had a temper. Already this caused anxiety, even from afar. But when she lived in the house with the man, what would happen?
She knew how to manage a household, and she said that her father would benefit by having her there to manage the money. Charles had his doubts about this. Money saved would mean more money for drink, and if the man could not hold his liquor …
Charles gazed in the direction of Minthorne’s house. She was safe there. He cou
ld bear never seeing her again so long as he knew she was safe and happy. But she would not be safe in Wales.
You could set her up somewhere.
This sudden thought nearly bowled him over, and just as quickly he quashed it. He could no more support her than he could fly to the moon.
Although it would not cost much …
Ideas came rapidly now—and Charles was surprised at how sound they were. She needn’t live in Bath. In fact, she preferred the country. How much had Mary spent on those gowns last month? Twenty pounds? Winnie could live on that for a year!
For the price of several gowns.
No! Charles thrust the thought from his mind. It was impossible, unthinkable. Winnie would never consent to such a thing!
But the idea would not go. Charles sat down on the stone bench. Crewkherne was much too close to Uppercross. Taunton was too large, as well as too dreary; she would not like Taunton. It would have to be a beautiful place, a place where she could take walks. A country place.
A pair of geese flew overhead, honking as they wheeled to land on the water. Charles watched them, still thinking. Winnie must live in an out-of-the-way country place—near the sea.
Charmouth.
Memories of his visit to Lyme brought a smile. In his mind’s eye he could see Charmouth, with its sweep of country and retired bay and dark cliffs. A delightful place, Charmouth! Here she could wander along the shore to her heart’s content, observing the flow of the tides and the sea birds. Yes, Winnie would enjoy living there. Best of all, Charmouth was within easy reach of Uppercross, a mere sixteen miles or so!
His heart swelled. He would force nothing on her, of course. They would remain good friends, nothing dishonourable or base! He could not write to her—or rather, she could not write to him—but he could visit from time to time. They could take tea together in the garden and talk—delightful!
Charles laughed for the joy of it. Winnie needn’t remain in Minthorne’s house as a servant or return to her drunken father in Wales. She could have a cottage of her very own!
Sometime later he came through the back gate whistling a tune, his mind filled with fanciful plans. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to dream?
