A perfectly stupid thought. The great bed before her was made up with every creature comfort, including a fluffy down-filled quilt. So why was she still standing beside it, garbed in nothing but transparent linen and gooseflesh?
Because this particular commitment was final. When she climbed in that bed, she gave up the fight. She would be Nicholas Tarleton’s wife for all time. With or without his love.
Julia pulled back the covers, ran her fingers over the wide crocheted edging around the plump pillow. She touched…lingered over the matching pillow beside it. The shiver which seized her was not brought on by the chill of the room. She was about to give up her pride, her independence. Her self.
Or was it possible to be Tarleton’s wife and still be her own person?
Julia climbed into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. With grim artistry she arranged her hair to flow over the white expanse of pillow and bed covers, despising herself as she did so. She left one candle burning. For Nicholas would come, she knew it. Surely.
Would he not?
After long minutes of absolute silence, Julia relaxed her rigid pose, shifted into a more comfortable position. Hours—or was it only minutes?—went by. She tensed at the sound of footsteps, then let out a soft sigh. Too light for Nicholas, they passed both his door and hers. Sophy? One of the maids?
She peered at the delicate porcelain clock sitting on her dresser. Only fifteen minutes later than the last time she looked. Was he still in the drawing room with his parents? Oh, dear God, what had they said about his bruises? And Oliver. She could see Oliver’s knowing smirk, hear his insinuations. Let Harding have her, old boy. While you were suffering in Spain, they’ve been enjoying your profits as well as each other. Get rid of her, Nick and good riddance!
It all made such perfect sense. If their positions were reversed, she’d probably believe it herself!
A tear rolled down Julia’s cheek, dripped onto the lace of her gown. Nicholas would not come. He would keep her here, a sop to conventionality. The major’s wife on display for all to see while he lived a life of his own. With women of his own choosing…
But he said he wanted children…
As if that mattered! There were countless marriages for the purpose of producing an heir while the marriage partners enjoyed a secret and more fulfilling, life with others. If Nicholas came to her, it would only be because he wanted an heir.
The tears were rolling freely now. Julia groped in the bedside table for a handkerchief, then eyed the half-spent candle balefully. Why let him know he was expected? She blew her nose, mopped her eyes. Gulping for air, she summoned enough breath to blow out that last flicker of hope.
* * * * *
Nicholas needed no candle to find his way to his wife’s bed. When he opened the connecting door a half hour later, the glow of the dying fire was enough to reveal wide blue eyes red-rimmed and puffy from weeping, tear-ravaged cheeks, fingers clutching the bedclothes as if a lifeline on storm-tossed seas. He saw fear, accusation and some other emotion so strong it seemed about to explode and engulf them both. Hell and the devil! Was she that upset about having him in her bed?
Fishing in the pocket of his robe, which was all he was wearing, Nicholas produced a large handkerchief. Gingerly, fully expecting his wife to jerk away from him, he lowered himself to sit beside her. When she continued to lie there in stoic immobility, he wiped her tearstained face with surprising gentleness, softly outlining her mouth, brushing back stray wisps of hair.
“Do you hate me that much?” he asked. “I had thought… No matter. This afternoon I was still in a temper. I was determined to hold what’s mine, whether you cared for me or not. In my arrogance I thought that only the pain I had inflicted on you stood between us. I even rationalized that if you preferred Jack, you could still be brought round to remember your old friend Nick with fondness if not with love.
“Now…now my temper’s cooled a bit. You must know I’m not an ogre to hold you against your will. But, understand me, Julia, this is the last time I will ask. Do you find the thought of living with me so impossible? Do you truly want to be free?”
No, no, no, no, no! Julia tightened her grip on the quilt, twisting it around her knuckles. She didn’t want to be free. The thought of Nicholas in Violante’s arms, the thought of never seeing him again, was more than she could bear. She was done with being magnanimous.
And done with lying to herself. She loved him. Now and forever. Any way she could get him.
Yet assent caught in her throat, dammed by a last stubborn impulse to make Nicholas suffer. Truth, Julia, absolute truth. Tell him now. The world won’t come to an end if you swallow your pride. If you choose your Dream instead of your Nightmare.
He was so close, so wonderfully, terrifyingly, close Julia could feel him through every fiber of her body. In the dim light his bruises were mottled charcoal smudges. His gray eyes shone silver in the firelight. For a moment the silver flickered, his shoulders quivered. Perhaps—was it possible?—her words had mattered to him.
She’d hidden behind pride too long. A sad, bitter barrier of no use to Willow Herbals, the tenant farms, or the mill workers. To Jack, who might hang. No use to a woman who longed for a home of her own. Children. A husband she could love, even if the sentiment was not returned.
“I don’t want to be free,” Julia breathed, almost in his ear. “I’ve been fighting a battle with my pride and my own foolishness. Nicholas, there is nowhere I would rather be than here. With you.”
He remained silent, studying her face. Wondering if she lied? Damn you, Nick. Can’t you see I’ve laid my soul bare?
Slowly, almost pensively, he traced her lips with his index finger. His lips followed his finger, as his hand dropped to the swelling softness of her breast. Julia stiffened, resisting the ultimate revelation, the complete surrender of her body.
Fool, fool, fool! Why did she have to be such a stiff-backed termagant? For all Nicholas’ faults, she loved him to distraction. And it wasn’t as if they’d never been together. She was, in fact, eager for this compromise. The thought of Nicholas in her bed had haunted her all day long and now her heart was threatening to pound its way out of her chest, moisture was rushing to ease the way for Nicholas’ invasion. She wanted him. Now.
A last faint warning from her fiery core of feminine independence, The stiffer the pride, the greater the fall.
And she would bounce as she always did. Mutual love would come some day. Of course it would. So put your arms around his neck and—
They’d failed to hear the pounding on the door over the pounding of their hearts. The young maid who burst in on them blushed fiery red, swiftly turning her back to face the open doorway. “I’m that sorry, missus!” she cried, babbling her message, “but Miss Sophy says you’re needed. Mis’ Runyon’s baby is comin’ and she wants you by her. It’s her fourth, missus, so ’twon’t take long. I was a fourth babe, missus and me mum says I popped out in no time atall.” The young maid drew a ragged breath, her back still firmly set against the nakedness on the bed. “Beggin’ y’r pardon, missus but Miss Sophy says you should come now.”
“It’s not possible,” Nicholas groaned into Julia’s shoulder. “This isn’t happening.”
“I think it can be said,” Julia agreed between clenched teeth, “that luck has not been with us.”
“You may go, Tess,” Nicholas ground out to the maid who appeared to be frozen in place. Still mumbling apologies, the girl bolted through the door, closing it very carefully behind her.
Nicholas swore. In seething silence he replaced the shimmer of white linen he had swept aside to expose the tantalizing sight of his wife’s rosy-tipped flesh. Still swearing, he retrieved his robe from the pile of bed covers on the floor. He stalked out of the room, the bang of the door reverberating through the silence of the night.
* * * * *
Nicholas’ pique lasted just long enough for him to remember it might be Meg Runyon’s fourth child but the other three had
died. And for Dan Runyon this babe was a first.
He found his batman, valet and friend slumped behind his desk in the room which had been fitted out as Daniel’s office in his capacity as salesman for Willow Herbals. In a seldom-used wing of The Willows, it was adjacent to the spacious room Julia had insisted on assigning to the couple when Meg and Daniel were married. Though the walls were well built, they did not completely dim the sounds from next door and Daniel’s face was grim.
Nicholas lowered himself into a chair in front of Daniel’s desk, placed a bottle of brandy and two glasses between them. “I suppose it’s a bit like women waiting out a battle,” he said. “No one gives much thought to those who wait but it’s a damn hard lot, is it not?” Nicholas opened the bottle and poured two generous portions. “To babies,” he said, holding up his glass, “and to the women who bear them.”
“And may you be the next to suffer,” Daniel returned before downing the brandy in one gulp.
“God willing,” Nicholas murmured. Adding as a scream drove through the walls, “though at times like this ’tis easy to understand why the good Lord made the urge to mate so powerful. If not, a man might well turn craven before putting his wife through such as this.”
“Aye,” said Daniel, you have the right of it. Just now I feel a rutting beast instead of a man. Ready to vow I’ll never touch her again.”
“And she’d be the first to disabuse you of that notion, my friend.”
“Aye, when it comes to pain, I’m thinkin’ God made women stronger than men. I’ve heard many a soldier with no’ but a minor wound carry on far worse than a woman during a birthing.”
“Did I?”
Daniel’s full attention snapped back to his commanding officer. “No, Sir, not you, Sir. Quiet as a lamb you was.”
“Well, thank God for that,” said Nicholas with considerable relief.
Only half the bottle was gone when Julia knocked on the door and entered, only mildly surprised to find her husband sitting up with Daniel. Both men were finally allowed the privilege of peering at the wrinkled red-faced bundle tucked up next to Meg, which Sophy assured them was a fine, healthy boy.
“I’ve never really looked at a baby before,” Nicholas admitted in a quiet aside to Julia while the happy parents smiled at each other in fatuous satisfaction. “I see why each birth is called a miracle. Small as he is, it doesn’t seem possible that he could be born at all.” Nicholas’ hand bit into Julia’s shoulder. “Is it too much to ask?” he demanded fiercely. “How do you feel about it now you’ve seen a birthing?”
“I’ve seen many. Women who follow the drum have few illusions about the realities of life. Whether wife, maid, or whore, the women must stick together to survive.”
“And you are not afraid?”
“It is women’s work, as soldiering is men’s work,” Julia said lightly, adding with greater care, “but in the end we have new life to show for it, while the men have only death.” She laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “I refuse to be afraid, Nicholas. I am as anxious for children as you are.”
Nicholas bent to whisper in her ear. “I suppose you’re too tired…”
Julia blushed, even as her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a giggle. The major and Mrs. Tarleton repeated their congratulations to the proud parents and made a hasty exit.
Babies were not the only impossibility. By the time they reached Julia’s bedchamber, she had not only swallowed her pride but digested the last bitter morsel. Lust, if not love, triumphed. The day, which had started so badly, ended remarkably well.
* * * * *
November 2, 1810, was a day of somnolence at The Willows. Meg Runyon rested from her labor with her husband hovering nearby, while the maids vied to fetch and carry and catch a glimpse of newest addition to the household. Sophy Upton admitted her years, not leaving her bed until late morning. Nor were the master and mistress of The Willows seen until well past noon. A stirring of relief blew through the household. It might be that all would be well.
But frightening tales of violence in Nottingham soon tempered the staff’s pleasure in the reconciliation of their master and his missus. Looms had been smashed in the night, drays loaded with stockings and unmentionables overturned, some said burned. Heads broken in a street riot outside two mills, one of them owned by the major. Too like the Frenchies, it was. Heads rolling on Grantley green was what it could come to. Cottagers’ heads, more like. ’Twas enough to scare a body witless.
Peters, his nerves on edge from the myriad tensions around them, so far forgot himself as to usher a visitor into the breakfast room almost as soon as Nicholas and Julia sat down to eat. “Begging your pardon, Major,” the elderly butler said, “but this young man has been waiting some time and he says his business is urgent.”
Julia listened with growing horror as the messenger confirmed what the household servants had already heard. An entire wing of the finest looms had been destroyed, reduced to pungent smoking rubble inside the red brick oven of the mill’s walls and shattered windows. A large shipment of knit goods on its way to London had been totally destroyed. Two men were dead, many injured in rioting in the street. The militia was being called out.
“Damn them!” Nicholas exploded. “Why couldn’t they have talked to me? I was willing to listen.”
“I thought they would,” Julia murmured. “I thought they could see we were trying. If they’d just given us a bit more time…” It was her fault. She should have known. Smug with satisfaction in her own good works, she had failed to see what was happening at the mills. Failed to curb Jack’s rabble-rousing.
As if she could.
Julia’s head sunk into her hands.
Abruptly, Nicholas dismissed the messenger, bidding him wait outside. “Is this Jack’s work?” he demanded. “Well…is it?”
“No!” Julia snapped defensively, her head coming up to glare at her husband. “At least I don’t think so,” she amended. “I know it looks bad, Nicholas. He has been stirring up the mill workers but I truly don’t believe he had a hand in this. He knows you well. I’m certain he understands you were going to rectify the problems at the mills. I can’t believe Jack would have anything to do with this level of violence.”
“We’ve not been too friendly these past few days,” Nicholas pointed out with a certain dry reasonableness.
“He wouldn’t!” Julia retorted, eyes huge with dread. “He would not do this. But,” once again she hung her head, “it’s quite possible his past words and actions, might have stirred up those who did.”
Nicholas pushed back his chair, pausing long enough to tilt up his wife’s face and place a light kiss on her lips. “I’m sorry, my dear. This is not how I planned to spend the day.” A wicked un-major-like grin momentarily lit his stern features. “I was, in fact, thinking of spending the afternoon in bed.”
In answer to this blatant attempt to lighten the situation, his wife rewarded him with a tremulous smile. “I assure you I’ll be here,” she promised softly. “And, Nicholas…take care.”
For a moment their eyes locked, exchanging vows that their personal truce would last. The major turned on his heel and left to join the messenger on the ride back to Nottingham.
Chapter Nineteen
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Peters said to the mistress of the house, who was fully engaged in a one-sided conversation with the tiny bundle in her arms. “You’ve a visitor, Mrs. Tarleton. Come alone on horseback, she has, without so much as a groom to bear her company. I attempted to tell the young lady you were not receiving callers, ma’am but she insisted, saying the matter was of some urgency.” The butler hesitated, clearing his throat. “’Tis the young Spanish lady, missus, though I fear I cannot repeat her name if my life should depend on it.”
“Doña Violante is here?” Julia gasped. The baby, sensing her disquiet, began to howl.
“In the drawing room, ma’am,” Peters intoned, his face elongated to its most lugubrious expression.
Autom
atically, Julia cooed at the baby, hushing him gently before returning him to his mother. “Hell and the devil!” Julia muttered under her breath. “Do I look all right, Meg? No, don’t tell me. I look haggish, I know I do. And twice the chit’s age, to boot, for all there’s less than four years between us.”
“You’ll be fine,” Meg assured her. “It’s her who needs the comfortin’, I’m thinking. Go and be kind to the girl. She’ll be needing it.”
“She’s right, Meg is,” said Daniel. “’Tis yourself has won the game and now’s time to be gracious about it.”
“You’d best see what she wants,” Meg urged. “It may not be what you think at all. With all the queer happenings these days, there’s little would surprise me. Go now, missus and come back to tell us all about it.”
Violante Modestia Vila Santiago was small, exquisitely beautiful and possessed of a figure few seventeen-year-olds could boast. Her creamy cheeks were ornamented with a blush of dusky rose. Her unadorned lips would have been the envy of every woman, painted or unpainted, in London society. Long black lashes framed her liquid chocolate eyes. Though confined in a severe chignon, her hair shone with the luster of a black pearl.
When this flawless creature rose to her feet, her wide eyes fixed on her hostess with considerable apprehension, Julia was assailed by a wave of utter depression. She was an elephant. An ancient crone. A gauche pretender to the fringe of society. Before her was dainty beauty, elegance and a family tree stretching back beyond the crusades. There was no way, no possible way, she could compete with this exquisite child.
Nicholas, what game are you playing? How could you allow me to hope?
The flawless child sank into an equally flawless curtsey, swiftly expressing her profound appreciation to Señora Tarleton for agreeing to see her. When both women were seated, they studied each other in candid silence. Julia could only confirm what her first glance had shown. Doña Violante was a gem among women. When the girl gave a small quick nod as if something about her hostess met with her approval, Julia could only suppose the younger woman was pleased by her own superiority over her rival. That the Spanish girl might find consolation in being bested by a worthy opponent never occurred to her.
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