by Karen Ranney
He almost wanted to sell the damn horse to spite her. He studied her for a moment in silence, then simply nodded.
He caught Mrs. York’s eyes on him and looked away.
Susan York watched Josephine and Jordan, a sinking feeling growing in her stomach. What a horrible set of circumstances, and how like Josephine to have taken advantage of the situation.
Her granddaughter had lost no time circulating the news she was to wed the Duke of Roth. Susan had never seen Josephine write so many letters in such a short time, and most of them to their London friends.
Had it not been for the flurry of correspondence—and she suspected that was the exact reason Josephine had written everyone she knew—Susan might have tried to stop the wedding.
Why hadn’t the duke spoken up? Why hadn’t Martha said anything? Shame? Humiliation? Perhaps she didn’t want to be put in the position of having to marry the duke while Josephine was more than happy to do so.
Susan didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. She said a quick prayer, hoping the Almighty would understand her request: she wanted a way out of this marriage, some divine intervention that would result in happiness for those who deserved it.
At the moment she was out of ideas.
Chapter 29
Martha didn’t venture out of her suite for three days. Staying in her rooms was the only way she could avoid people, namely Gran, Josephine, and Jordan.
Sam sent word that he’d put the Goldfish in the cottage. A good thing he’d been so conscientious because she’d forgotten to take care of the vessel, the scene on the dock taking her mind from her responsibilities.
Gran came to check on her every day, but she didn’t urge Martha to emerge from her hermitage. She was well aware that Gran was looking at her strangely. Did she know what had happened at Sedgebrook? Did her grandmother know her heart was breaking?
On the evening of the third day, desperately tired of her own company and wanting a respite from drawing plans and reading, she went to sit on the terrace.
The hour was advanced; it was late enough that people would have retired after dinner. Even the servants were preparing for bed.
The brick-walled terrace was her favorite spot on a summer night. Beyond lay the forest, now only shadows.
She sat on one of the built-in benches, looking up to see the magnitude of the heavens spread out for her to witness. All the stars made her feel infinitesimal. What were her minor worries in comparison? Her petty annoyances, even her accomplishments, felt so minor in view of such a display. She was only a sigh in the Almighty’s consciousness, nothing more. Yet sometimes when she sat here, especially in the past year, she had the feeling she wasn’t alone. Something or someone cared about her, guarded her, looked out after her. Perhaps it was God or the spirit of her parents.
She missed her father terribly and would have missed her mother, she was sure, if she’d had a chance to know her. But she’d died when she was three and little remained of Martha’s childhood memories.
Her father told her stories, especially when they worked late at the cottage. She’d sit there enthralled, her pen poised above the journal where she was transcribing his words.
“She liked greens,” he said one night. “And I liked lamb. It wasn’t one of her favorite dishes, so we would dare each other. I would eat some of her greens if she would have some of my lamb. I’m surprised Cook didn’t just deliver our dinner on one plate.”
He’d smiled then, his eyes soft with the recollection.
She, too, would have memories, only not of a spouse. But she would carry to her grave the moments she and Jordan sat together at the workbench in his boathouse. Or when she was in his bed.
After tomorrow Josephine and Jordan would be married. They’d go back to Sedgebrook to live out their lives and she’d remain here at Griffin House, intent on another task she would set herself. She’d find something to occupy her days, to challenge her mind, and to keep her thoughts from Jordan.
Only a matter of hours were left. Perhaps she should count them, tick them off in her journal. Record them somehow so she was prepared for the wedding. Anything to keep herself going, enduring, and surviving until he left.
He had been, even without knowing, a large part of her life. When a letter came, her father would always hand it to her and ask her what she thought. Often, she reread the letters or quoted parts to her father, especially when Jordan had sent calculations.
She would simply have to grieve for him, just like she had her father. She’d treat him as if he, too, had died. She’d grow accustomed to never hearing from him again.
Only a few more hours.
Only a little while until he went to the church in his ducal carriage, accompanied by Reese. He’d be dressed in formal wear, the picture of a proper duke. She wouldn’t be surprised if there were a great many women in the congregation who would sigh in longing when first seeing him.
How could Josephine only view him as lame? How did she not see him as the most handsome man in the world?
Only a few more hours.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
She looked up, startled. Gran stood there watching her.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you and now seems as good a time as any.”
She scooted over on the brick bench to make room for her grandmother. Susan came and sat with her usual grace and economy of movement.
They both stared off in the direction of the forest for a few minutes. The shadows and shapes of the trees had been reduced to black, earthbound clouds, their tops tinted silver by the moon.
“I let you hide in your room,” Gran said, “because I know what it’s like to have acted the fool about a man.”
Startled, Martha glanced at her grandmother.
“When I was a young girl,” Gran said, “I fell in love with a young man who was not, according to my parents, my equal either in rank or birth. My parents refused to entertain the suit.”
There was just enough light to see her grandmother smiling softly, as if she was reminiscing.
“I told my parents I would always love him, that nothing would ever change my feelings for him.”
“He wasn’t my grandfather?”
“No,” Gran said. “His name was Matthew.”
“You named your son for him,” Martha said, surprised.
Gran nodded. “It was a York family name, so no one ever knew the difference.”
“Nothing changed your feelings for him?”
Gran smiled. “No, but I began to respect your grandfather and then to feel fond of him. Later, fondness turned to love. He made my days pleasant as well as my nights. I learned that I could love someone else almost as much as I loved Matthew.”
“What happened to Matthew?”
“He’s still living a bucolic existence on his farm,” she said. “He married, too, and had seven children.”
She knew there was a reason her grandmother had told her the story, but she wasn’t certain what it was. Unfortunately, she wasn’t left in doubt for long.
“Just because you’ve lost your virginity to one man doesn’t mean you can’t fall in love with another.”
She stared straight ahead, unable to look in her grandmother’s direction.
Several long minutes passed. The shriek of a fox and the rustle of undergrowth in the forest were the only sounds.
“How did you know?” she asked, only one of several questions coming to mind.
“Amy overheard you and Josephine a few days ago.”
“Oh.”
“If I’d known the truth, I would have stopped this marriage. As it is, I don’t know how to keep it from happening now.”
“I’m sorry, Gran,” she said. It wasn’t enough of an apology, and she knew it even as the words were uttered.
“What shall we do about the situation?”
She sank back against the bench, closed her eyes, and wished herself anywhere but here.
“Is there anything to be done?
”
“You could find a husband,” Gran said.
“I don’t want to marry anyone.”
“Don’t resign yourself to life as a spinster, child. You could experience love with someone else.”
She didn’t want anyone else. She wanted Jordan. Perhaps her feelings would change in a few years. Perhaps when she didn’t feel this great yawning emptiness inside.
“He doesn’t seem to have an affinity for Josephine,” Gran said.
She didn’t say anything.
“Is there a possibility you could be with child?”
“No,” she said. “There isn’t.”
“Well, thank heavens for that.”
They remained silent for another few moments. Her grandmother placed her hand on Martha’s wrist.
“Why on earth didn’t you say something? Why did you just sit there and allow her to win?”
A question she’d asked herself hour after hour.
“At first I was too shocked to say anything. I didn’t understand why Jordan had gone along with Josephine’s story. Then I learned he’d taken a medicine. He genuinely didn’t know the identity of the woman he was with.”
She glanced at her grandmother. “You mustn’t blame him. I’m the one who was in his room.”
“I expected to have problems with Josephine, my dear girl, not you. Why were you there?”
“Because of Josephine,” she said, and told her what her sister had planned.
Gran had no comment other than a muttered oath, one she’d never heard her grandmother use.
“How do you feel about him, child?” Gran asked a moment later.
“Does it matter now?”
Her grandmother sighed. “No, I guess it doesn’t. This is a terrible situation, my dear girl, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to cure it.”
Neither did she.
“I wish you’d fought for your happiness, Martha. Like it or not, Josephine does. You let others dictate your life.”
Martha turned and looked at her grandmother.
“You’ve been defined by those around you, my dear girl. You were your father’s daughter, Josephine’s sister, Marie’s stepdaughter, even my granddaughter. It’s time to stand up for yourself and decide what you want.”
What if she wanted the Duke of Roth? How did she accomplish that?
She didn’t ask the question of her grandmother. There wasn’t, after all, an answer.
Gran left her with a kiss to her cheek and a pat on her shoulder.
“We’ll get through this, my dear girl. I promise.”
She’d always believed her grandmother, but she wasn’t altogether sure Gran was right in this instance.
How was she to get through this? At this time tomorrow, Jordan would be married and legally her brother. How was she to have sisterly feelings for the man who’d been her only lover?
“Miss Martha?”
She looked up to find Mr. Haversham standing there, faintly lit by lights from the parlor windows. She and the stablemaster were cordial, but she rarely saw him. Unlike Josephine, she wasn’t an avid horsewoman.
The stablemaster had bushy white eyebrows so long the hairs sometimes fell in front of his eyes. She wondered how he never noticed them. Or did he like looking through a forest at the world? His mustache was a match for his eyebrows in color and thickness. His beard, however, was neatly trimmed and the color of his hair, a mix of black and white. A stocky man, he had a bearing revealing his previous military service.
Charles was there as well, peering over the man’s shoulder. She hadn’t seen the carriage driver since they’d arrived home from Sedgebrook.
Charles had been with them nearly a decade and was as tall and thin as he’d been as a half-starved lad in London. He’d never quite lost his London accent, but thank heavens he had finally stopped looking terrified all the time, his eyes darting back and forth as if afraid someone was going to steal the shirt from his body.
“What is it, Mr. Haversham?”
Charles stepped forward; the two men looked at each other and then at her.
“It’s a problem we have, Miss Martha. One we thought it best to bring to you.”
That was curious. She knew nothing about the stables or about the maintenance of the horses. She probably rode about three times a year. Otherwise, she preferred more sedentary occupations.
“How can I help you?”
Charles pulled the cap off his head, turning it round and round in his hands. If there was more light she’d be able to see the expression on his face. Since he was staring down at the terrace floor she could only surmise it was one of reluctance.
She decided that encouraging his speech would do nothing. Better to simply remain silent and let the two men find their way to an explanation.
“It’s about the torpedo ship, Miss Martha.”
“What about it?”
The two men looked at each other again.
“Well, I was having my dinner,” Mr. Haversham said. “One of the girls brought me some of the stew from tonight. Did you have a chance to taste it, Miss Martha?”
She bit back her impatience and answered him. “Yes, I did. I’ve always thought it was one of Cook’s best recipes.”
“I feel the same,” he said, his voice sounding as if he smiled. “Well, I was eating my stew and thinking of how it reminded me of my mother’s cooking when Charles climbed the stairs and opened my door without a hint of a knock.”
“I didn’t want to be heard by the thief,” Charles said.
She wasn’t understanding, but she didn’t like the words thief and torpedo ship spoken in the same story.
“What happened, Charles?” she asked, hoping the man was a little faster in his recitation.
“I was checking on the springs of the carriage, Miss Martha. The one we’re going to use for Miss Josephine. Underneath it, I was. I don’t think anyone could see me. Maybe just the toes of my boots, but they didn’t seem to be looking.”
Once again, she tried to be patient.
“It’s not right, Miss Martha,” the stablemaster said. “Nothing either of them could say would make this right.”
Mr. Haversham had been in the military and was a stiffly proper gentleman. All the lads employed in the stable were inspected in the morning as to their appearance and sent back to their rooms to change if something was amiss with their shirts or trousers. No swearing was allowed, and anyone who broke the multitude of rules he’d established was severely reprimanded and given extra duty. Strangely enough, there were always applicants for any available position. Mr. Haversham was as well-known for his loyalty and support of his staff as for his strictness.
“I thought it best you know.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know what you know, Mr. Haversham. Is someone stealing something? Something to do with the torpedo ship?”
Both men nodded at the same time.
“Your sister, Miss Martha. And His Grace’s friend. They put your ship in his carriage, under one of the seats.”
“You saw Josephine do that?”
Charles nodded. “Yes, miss. She was helping His Grace’s friend.”
Josephine had already betrayed her. Now she was stealing from her?
“He’ll be leaving in the morning after the ceremony, Miss Martha, and he’s all for taking the torpedo ship with him.”
“No, he won’t,” she said, standing. “Thank you for telling me, both of you. I won’t forget your kindness and your honesty.”
“What shall we do, Miss Martha?”
“Right now, just watch the carriage. Make sure he doesn’t leave early.”
She straightened her shoulders. She could confront Reese herself. Or she could simply retrieve the Goldfish and place it under guard, never discussing the issue with either Josephine or Reese. Or she could demand an explanation from Josephine.
None of those alternatives seemed to fit the situation.
Instead, she was going to ask for help from the one man she shoul
d avoid at all costs.
Josephine would have slipped away had Reese not stood between her and her bedroom door, advancing until her back was against the wall.
“Thank you for helping me acquire the ship,” he said, his voice low. “The War Office will be grateful for your assistance. What a pity you’re getting married. I think you would have been an asset to the Intelligence Branch.”
Josephine smiled back at him, but there was an edge to her expression.
“Are we done now? No more threats to tell Jordan anything?”
All he’d done was go to her and ask if the rumors were true. Had Martha discovered the answer for the guidance system? Josephine had responded by demanding he never mention Martha’s damnable ship again. When he suggested that he could put the prototype to good use, she’d not only shown him where the ship was stored in the cottage, she’d accompanied him to the stables where he’d secreted it beneath one of his carriage seats.
This time he hadn’t threatened to tell Jordan anything. Everything Josephine had done was of her own volition.
“Did you miss me in the last few weeks? I found myself thinking about you, a bit more than I wished.” He propped his arm on the wall, leaning over her. She didn’t, as he knew she wouldn’t, move away or show any discomfort at all.
“You’re a damned courageous woman,” he said.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Nothing scares you, does it? You see something and you go after it without a second thought.”
“Why does that sound like an insult?” she asked.
He leaned down to brush a kiss against her forehead. She didn’t move away.
“Believe me, it isn’t. I’m the same way.”
“What a pity you aren’t a duke, then,” she said.
She laughed, a soft little chuckle that did odd things to his nerves. He wanted to kiss her, to press his body up against hers, to pin her to the wall until she admitted she had missed him, that she’d thought about him, and she was happy he was here now.
Instead, he cupped her cheek with his left hand, leaned down until he was only a breath away from her lips.
“I miss you in my bed, Josephine,” he said.
