Tarleton's Wife

by Blair Bancroft

  Julia broke off with a mocking sigh. “But in Spain I discovered reality. And in the weeks since I came to The Willows, I’ve had plenty of time to think. I have wonderful people about me but I am alone. In the midst of all this splendor, I am alone. And I find I can recognize others who are the same. We build tall fences, you and I but in time of need it’s to each other we must turn for help.”

  “It’s a privilege to know you, Julia Tarleton,” Jack said, the intense light in the depths of his eyes saying all that was necessary. He had not been fooled by her self-deprecating words. But if she did not care to be a heroine, he would not press the matter.

  “I have said far much too much,” Julia declared briskly, rising to her feet, “and worn you out. Someday, when you are feeling better, I shall tell you of my ghosts. And you may tell me of yours. But for now, I must pay penance for speaking of sad things. Close your eyes and I shall bathe your face again, as promised.”

  As weak as he was, Jack almost he kissed her. But he made the mistake of closing his eyes as he was told and when he sneaked a look through his lashes, his vision had changed. He saw not Julia Tarleton but a pale-faced young woman clad all in black, her eyes bleak, brow furrowed in inner pain. He saw the face of his friend’s widow. Nick Tarleton’s wife. So he lay back, content for the moment to indulge in the comfort and sensuality of her ministrations.

  The week passed, as did the fever, amid the pungent odors of herbs, sweetly soothing washes and long hours of caring, highlighted by reading, conversation, revelations and soul searching. Each lonely soul had ghosts and in the end each saw through the other’s eyes. Their relationship took on the intimacy of old friends, their actions never more than that. No flirtatious glances. Not so much as a kiss of the hand. Nicholas Tarleton towered between them.

  “Miss Upton and the good Mrs. Peters are to take your place today,” Jack announced to Julia on a morning eight days after her vigil had begun. “I doubt you’ve seen the sun in a week. Spring in Lincolnshire is not to be missed. Daniel has arranged an outing, so put on your cloak and be off with you. If you promise to stay away the whole day, I shall allow you to tuck me in tonight.” At her outraged expression Jack’s lips twitched. “Off with you, my Jule. If that isn’t just like a woman to keep the horses standing. Go on, girl, Daniel is waiting.”

  Looking for support for her protest, Julia encountered only smug smiles from Sophy Upton and Jane Peters. “He’s right, my dear,” said Sophy. “You’ve been seen so few times this week past that the servants are convinced you are shut up in your room suffering from some dire melancholy or dread foreign disease. So you must go out for the sake of appearances, if nothing else.”

  “’Tis a lovely day, ma’am,” Mrs. Peters added encouragingly. “There’s a right touch of spring in the air.”

  Julia threw up a hand in the fencer’s acknowledgment of a hit. “Very well, I can tell when I’m not wanted.” She opened her eyes wide, affecting enormously wounded sensibilities. She even managed a very credible sniff.

  “Shame, shame,” Jack murmured, “you will have them both crying into their aprons. “Shoo! Go on. Away with you. Or else I shall suffer a relapse.”

  With a sudden flashing smile to all, Julia whirled round and was gone, not forgetting to slide the door into the upper corridor firmly into place.

  Meg O’Callaghan was already dressed for the outdoors and waiting with Julia’s cloak, a stylish black bonnet and gloves. The two young women started sedately down the stairs, only to find their feet flying as they skimmed the final steps. They were close to running by the time they reached the front door. Jeffries, the footman, did not quite manage to keep his face straight as he threw open the portal to bright sunlight and the piquant odors of new grass, budding leaves and damp earth warming in the sunlight.

  “Whose idea was this?” Julia demanded as Daniel handed the two women into the coach.

  “I wish I could say it was mine but,” Daniel lowered his voice, “’twas our friend upstairs who thought you were looking pale. A good man, he is. I’ve grown right fond of him.”

  “We all have,” said Julia simply, unwilling to allow herself to dwell on how well she had come to know Jack Harding in a week’s time. Unlike most men whose irascibility in illness was legendary, Jack had been a model patient, refusing only laudanum for his pain and clamping his lips tight shut over only one of Sophy Upton’s more daring decoctions. He steadfastly maintained his good cheer and never repeated his earlier flirtations. Julia reluctantly recognized that if she had a heart to lose, it would have been in grave danger.

  The coach set out to the east, in the opposite direction from the city of Nottingham. It soon passed through the narrow streets of Grantley with its fine old church and array of shops, past the continual bustle of The Bell and Candle. At the sight of the imposing Georgian front of the suite of offices Ebadiah Woodworthy had built as a monument to his importance, Julia turned her face away, loftily studying the bow-windowed shop fronts on the opposite side of the cobbled street. The town fell away behind them as the coach moved steadily downward toward the coast. Gently rolling hills gave way to mile after mile of nearly level countryside.

  Julia’s eyes danced as she took in the greening fields surrounded by darker hedgerows, stands of trees sprouting the fresh pale green of new life, herds of quietly grazing cows, signs of early planting. It was a world she had scarcely known, a world of lush beauty totally foreign to the dry plains of India or Spain. Or the sickroom. A world where life was not harsh. A world which held promise of better days to come.

  “Are we going to a particular destination” she inquired eagerly as the coach rattled across a stone bridge over a gently flowing stream, “or are we simply exploring?”

  “Well, now,” said Daniel, “I handed the coachman his instructions but Jack wrote them out and, to tell the truth, missus, I don’t know what he’s got planned. Except the inn where we’re to have lunch. He was right sure of that. His treat, he said and no argument.”

  “Argument! I should think not.” Julia favored Daniel with a beatific smile. “I cannot remember the last time I felt so free.” She pressed her nose against the glass as she drank in the springtime glory of Lincolnshire. When they stopped at last, her step was spritely as they entered The Crown Arms for a midday meal.

  The landlord ushered them into an oak-paneled private parlor in the fifteenth century inn, favoring them with an obsequious welcome. A striking contrast to their greeting at The Bell and Candle two months earlier. The coach had failed to shut out the decided nip in the spring air and Julia sank into an ornately carved chair with a small sigh, holding her hands toward the fire. “Do you remember the march through the mountains?” she murmured. “I thought I should never be warm again.”

  “Ah, miss…” Daniel choked and toed the edge of the hearth with his boot, words failing him.

  “No, no, don’t be upset. I am having a splendid time but when I see the three of us once again in a strange inn in a strange town, I can’t help but think of other inns and other towns, other countries. I am infinitely grateful we have come such a remarkably long way from our last journey together.”

  “You have the right of it, ma’am,” Meg vowed, not mistaking her meaning. “Dame Fortune has surely smiled on us at last.”

  “Speakin’ of fortune,” said Daniel, “I heard a rumor last night at the inn. ’Tis said the lads have sailed for Portugal. The whole lot of them. Under Wellesley.”

  “They’ve gone back?” Julia’s eyes shone. “And you sat in the carriage this whole morning and said nothing. Daniel Runyon, I could skin you alive!”

  “Ah, well,” he shrugged. “Sure an’ I was torn, I was. Afraid of casting bad memories into your fine outing. But now seemed a likely moment. Thought you’d be glad they coaxed the general out of his sulks and got him to go back.”

  “And why shouldn’t he sulk?” Julia exclaimed. “When that fool Dalrymple sent the twenty-five thousand Frenchmen we captured back to France and
had the effrontery to use British ships to do it!”

  “Seems Horse Guards have come round to agreeing with you,” said Daniel dryly. “If there’s anyone can beat the Frenchies, it’s Wellesley.”

  “Godspeed to ’em,” said Meg with fervor.

  “Amen!” breathed Daniel.

  The landlord returned to announce their meal, closely followed by his good spouse and two maids bearing the promised array of succulent ham and hearty roast beef, roasted potatoes and onions, snap beans and applesauce of the landlady’s own preserving. There were loaves of bread fresh from the oven, creamy butter just out of the churn, dishes of raspberry and peach jam. When the table was groaning with the inn’s finest offerings, Julia dismissed the landlord and his minions with sincere thanks.

  As she motioned her friends to be seated, Julia had no doubt about the purpose of the day’s outing. Jack Harding and everyone at The Willows, were reminding her that the world was renewing itself. Time for her to put aside the darkness and return to life.

  After their excellent luncheon, the coachman continued southeast toward the lowest, flattest portions of Lincolnshire. Julia’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. What more had the conspirators planned?

  Some twenty minutes later, Daniel, who had deserted the two women to ride on the box with the coachman, roared out an exclamation. “Mother of Heaven, will you look at that now?” he called. “Pull up, man, pull up, so the ladies can have a better look.”

  Daniel flung open the coach door and bade both women look at the fields stretching out before them. “’E has the devil’s tongue, that one,” he declared. “Told me there’d be a sight to see, some pretty flowers for the ladies but would you look at that now? Nothing but flowers from here to heaven. Clever devil, Harding. See if I don’t dunk ’im the next time I help with his bath!”

  Julia stood poised in the door of the coach, hanging onto the paneling so she could lean far out to view the countryside from the height of Laetitia’s Summerton’s lumbering old coach. Acres of yellow and gold daffodils stretched out before her, rippling in a gentle sea breeze off the Channel. In the distance she could make out a bright splotch of red, an entire field of tulips. “But what do they do with them all?” she gasped.

  “Grows ’em for the bulbs, missus,” said the coachman. “Sells ’em, don’t you know. Not much use for the flowers thims’lves. Some are good for May Day, I reckon and the grave decorations are right purty but mostly they jes’ get picked off so the bulbs will grow strong and fetch a good price.”

  “Oh.” Julia digested this in thoughtful silence. “Drive on,” she ordered. “Slowly.”

  For mile after mile the coach moved through fields of flowers. Orange tulips, yellow tulips, salmon, scarlet, dark red, snow white. Daffodils of every shade from pale narcissus to deep gold. Dark green hedgerows neatly encompassed each field. An occasional small stand of trees punctuated the landscape, with a glimpse of a cottage beneath. Other than that—flowers, nothing but flowers.

  The coach finally slowed and came to a stop at the beginning of a narrow trail running along the top of a dike, which cut straight across a broad expanse of salt marsh. Ahead, a mile or so to the east, lay the blue-gray waters of the English Channel. Overhead, seagulls screeched their high raucous notes as they dipped and swooped on the springtime sea breeze. Towering gracefully along the edges of the dike were stands of cattail, fluffy marsh grass and pink and white mallow whose natural beauty rivaled that of the neat fields they had just traversed. They had come as far as they could. Journey’s end.

  For a long time Julia stood beside the coach and simply stared, her gaze swinging slowly from the choppy white-capped sea to the earth colors of the marshland and back to the brilliantly colored array of flowers behind them. She took a deep breath, gulping in the tangy salt air, the mingled odors of marshland and springtime flowers. The sharp clear smell of new beginnings.

  “I have an idea,” she said.

  * * * * *

  Fall 1809

  The fire in Julia’s bedchamber had dimmed to embers. The snappy bite of the early fall night should have penetrated the room’s cozy warmth but snug under the covers Julia knew only the glow of love and light. He had come. Once again he was with her. Rational thought was useless. No matter how firmly Julia told herself she was dreaming—that Nicholas was a figment of her fevered imagination—she could see him, feel him, taste him. Whether ghost or phantasm of the mind, he was with her and nothing on earth or in heaven could make her will him away.

  Nicholas’ visits had been more frequent of late. As if he had discovered a crack in reality and found it increasingly easy to make the forbidden journey back from…where?

  What did it matter how or why, as long as he was here?

  Nicholas! Eagerly, Julia held out her arms, welcoming him to her bed. He smelled of sharp mountain air, smoky campfires, horses and—smiling, Julia wrinkled her nose—and garlic. How unlike the fastidious Major Tarleton.

  Yet there was no doubt it was he.

  In spite of the lack of moon or fire, she could see him clearly against a background of shimmering mist. New lines seamed his face. His sandy hair was lightened by flecks of white. He was the veteran solider now, tempered from iron to steel. He came to her on a whirlwind, driving her back into the pillows, hard lips demanding all she, in her inexperience, could give. And more.

  On a shuddering gulp for breath, Nicholas broke their embrace long enough to strip off her nightdress. The calluses on his hands added exciting texture as he touched her breast, caressing, teasing, exciting. His other hand slid sensuously up her inner leg from ankle to knee to thigh, until, finally—when she thought she might die of it—his fingers reached the innermost source of her femininity, questing, stroking, plunging into the moistness of her desire.

  Julia gasped as his mouth replaced the hand on her breast, the flickering strokes of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, the rhythmic pull of his mouth flooding her with sensations that cried out for fulfillment. A whimper of protest rose in her throat as Nicholas, on a long-drawn sigh of pure satisfaction, buried his head between her breasts. The warrior finding respite on the ultimate symbol of nurture and rebirth.

  He clung to her as if to life itself. As if she were his hold on reality, the thin thread that bound him to earthly existence. If he let go, life would fragment, dissolve…fade to black.

  Tension radiated from him. There had been other nights like this—manifestations of their brief moment of love in La Coruña—but somehow, tonight, new images formed in her mind. Fleeting, erotic images of unknown, unimagined pleasures. Shocked and more than a little fearful, Julia trailed her fingers down Nicholas’ back, eliciting a moan of pure ecstasy. He shifted his weight to allow her insinuating fingers to find their goal as they seized his rigid manhood with practiced ease.

  In some far corner of her mind Julia marveled at the mystery of it. The young virgin and the very proper major had spent one night together. Whether these nighttime fantasies fulfilled a need brought about by the agony of their suffering in Spain, by pure lust, or possibly even love, they had certainly never done this. So how could she dream about it when such a way of loving was unknown to her?

  With a rumble of warning, Nicholas rolled away. “Damn it, Julia, I’ll not make a fool of myself like some raw recruit!” Clutching the edge of the bed, he took several deep breaths before, still struggling for control, he returned to the attack, teasing open Julia’s feminine folds and plunging his tongue into the glorious dark depths.

  Julia’s startled cries swiftly faded to murmurs of sheer pleasure. Whatever Nicholas was doing to her, she wouldn’t live through it, of that she was certain. Rolling swells of passion grew, quivering just out of reach. Tantalizing, terrifying. What if they stopped? The waves rose to mountainous height, taking her with them, rolling, crashing, thundering, into a mindless realm of sensation.

  Before her body could crumble into rubbery chaos, Nicholas rose above her, fitted himself to her and rode the stor
m, plunging, retreating, driving himself home.

  Into the blinding light. Into warmth. Fulfillment. Love.

  And, ultimately, into the pitch-black void from which he had come.

  Chapter Eight

  September 1810, Lincolnshire

  The thatched cottage which had once been the charming, comfortable abode of Miss Sophronia Upton was almost unrecognizable. On either side of the front door—in a concession to conventionality—a haphazard mix of dahlias, chrysanthemums and marigolds brightened the whitewashed walls. But the winding entrance road to the cottage was rutted with the tracks of heavy vehicles and what had once been a modest park and flower garden had been transformed into an undulating sea of herbs. Every variety that could be cultivated in the cool dampness of Lincolnshire stretched out behind Sophy’s cottage, augmented by a small section devoted to a determined effort to grow herbs foreign to the English climate. Inside, the cottage bore even less resemblance to its days as Miss Upton’s retirement home. It was, in fact, no longer habitable.

  As Julia descended the steep central staircase after an inspection of the upper rooms, she paused, leaning back against the wall as a series of sneezes swept over her. With a grimace of annoyance she blew her nose and continued down the stairs, her vision nearly obscured by row after row of drying herbs hanging from a network of cords strung among the rafters above her. Indeed, every room in the cottage had been given over to bunches of herbs hanging upside down, many cupped with slings of white gauze to catch precious seeds as they dried and fell from the plant. Only the kitchen, for which Julia had bought a modern flat-topped stove, remained free from the overpowering melange of nature’s wonder plants, its function now wholly devoted to processing Willow Herbals.