by Cheryl Holt
“I have no illusions as to her fate.”
“Have you ever wondered if you could be happily married?”
“No, I’ve never wondered.”
“Neither have I. I’m certain it’s beyond our ability.”
“I’m certain it is too.”
They reached the trees that would swallow them up, which meant the manor was about to vanish from view. He couldn’t stand it. He reined in and gazed back, studying the house, searching for Caroline.
She’d been too sad to escort him out, but he’d been positive she’d be watching from a window. He stared forever, but she wasn’t there.
Blake smirked. “Maybe she’s already over you.”
“I wasn’t looking for her.”
“You can deceive yourself but not me.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“As well you should. She’s not safe with those people.”
“No, probably not,” Caleb agreed.
“Doesn’t that incense you?”
“Yes, but how can I aid her? The only viable solution would be to wed her myself, and I won’t do that.”
“No, definitely not,” Blake said. “The sons of Captain Miles Ralston should never inflict themselves on any female.”
“She deserves to find someone much better than me.”
“By slinking away, you’re behaving honorably?”
“I hope I am,” Caleb said.
“We never chatted with her about Father. With our stumbling on her like this, it seems as if we were destined to meet her.”
“She has very fond memories of him.”
Blake barked out a laugh. “Then he obviously fooled her—as he fooled everyone.”
“She was four when he found her on that island. Over the past two decades, he’s grown to mythical proportions in her mind.”
“We shouldn’t shatter any of her pretty recollections then. It would be cruel to tell her the truth.” Blake gestured down the road. “Are we going or what?”
“Yes, we’re going.”
Caleb couldn’t spur his horse to move though. He would never admit it, but he was incredibly distraught at the notion of parting from her. He didn’t understand why he was so dismayed. He barely knew her, and it was silly to have become so attached, but he couldn’t help it.
He couldn’t ignore the perception that Fate—or perhaps his dastardly father—had guided him to her, so how could he ride off without her? He’d convinced himself that he never wanted to be a husband, but what if that was a stupid idea?
He could rush to the manor and beg her to depart with him. He was vain enough to suppose she wouldn’t even pause to pack a bag. She realized that they belonged together. The impression of connection was so powerful. How could he disregard it?
What if he continued on with her, and it turned out he was ecstatically content? Shouldn’t he discover if that ending was possible?
His anxiety was spiraling, which was hilarious. He wasn’t a fellow who dithered and debated. He picked a path and marched down it. In his own defense though, he’d never been so conflicted.
He viewed himself as a confirmed bachelor. Caroline Grey had nibbled away at the foundation of his attitudes about his future, but they were both better off with fond memories. It was better for her to wonder what might have been. As to himself, he wouldn’t wonder at all. He was too tough to mourn and lament, too tough to pine away.
“For pity’s sake,” Blake scolded. “Make a decision about her. Either go and fetch her away or forget about her and we’ll keep on. What’s it to be?”
Caleb allowed a lovely vision to unfold, of his racing to the house, then running through the halls until he located her. They would jump on his horse and gallop into the sunset—as if they were characters in a romantic novel. But this wasn’t a fictional story. This wasn’t a fantasy. This was real life.
He was Caleb Ralston, a man who owned a gambling business in town, and he needed to get to it.
“Let’s keep on,” he said.
He yanked on the reins, kicked his horse into a canter, and loped away without glancing back again.
Caroline sat in her bedchamber, staring out the window and trying to muster the energy to get on with her morning.
It was Saturday, which would have been her wedding day, but now, it was no different from any other day. She was greatly relieved by that fact, but suffering incredible guilt too. She always hated to upset others, and her uncle was furious.
The only way she could soothe his temper was to proceed with the ceremony, but she kept refusing, so he’d resorted to shouts and threats. His behavior was so disheartening that she’d begun hiding in her room to avoid him.
The guests had departed, so the manor seemed inordinately somber, as if someone had died. It felt as if she had died. Caleb Ralston had burst into her life and forced her to look at her circumstances. The end result was that she couldn’t continue down the path she’d been traveling. She’d finally taken charge and had focused on what she really wanted for herself, that being Caleb Ralston.
Wasn’t that the most foolish dream ever?
How could he ride off without her? She’d perceived their powerful bond. How could he not have perceived it with the same intensity?
Since he’d fled, she hadn’t stopped pondering him for a single second, and she wondered if he ever thought of her. In her more gullible moments, she’d persuade herself he hadn’t meant to go, so he’d return for her. Then she’d come to her senses.
He was a rich, handsome bachelor. He had a thriving business in the city where he was surrounded by glamorous, sophisticated women. Why would she—provincial, boring Caroline Grey—have tantalized him?
He’d made no promises, had declared no heightened affection. They’d shared numerous torrid kisses, but that was it.
A knock sounded on the door, and she called, “Yes, who is it?”
A housemaid peeked in. “Are you all right, Miss Caroline? Mrs. Scruggs sent me to check on you. You didn’t come down to breakfast, and she was worried.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“It’s almost eleven,” the maid said. “Would you like me to bring you a tray?”
“No. I’ll be down soon. If I decide to eat, I’ll head directly to the kitchen.”
“It’s clear you’re not your usual self today, so I can’t bear to distress you further, but there’s something you should know. Mrs. Scruggs ordered me to leave you be, but I couldn’t. This is too important.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Miss Janet didn’t sleep in her bed last night. When I went in to light the fire this morning, she wasn’t there. The covers hadn’t even been mussed.”
“She wasn’t. . . there?”
“No, and it appeared she’d packed some of her clothes. I’m afraid to speculate over what it indicates.”
“Oh, no,” Caroline murmured, and she recollected Janet’s odd remark where she’d had to be sure the Saturday wedding was cancelled, that her presence wouldn’t be required.
“She left a note for you on her pillow,” the maid said. “We’ve been debating whether to show it to you. As I mentioned, we’re loathe to bother you when your mood is so low.”
She held it out, and Caroline walked over to retrieve it. She flicked the seal, blanching with alarm when she saw what Janet had penned.
I’ve moved to London to make my way there. I will provide you with my address once I know what it is. I hope you’ll join me in town after I’m settled. You’ll always be welcome. . .
Caroline gaped at the words, reading and re-reading them as if they were written in a foreign language she didn’t comprehend. What was Janet thinking?
Janet had argued with her father about the prospect of living in the city, but Caroline had assumed Janet was simply needling Uncle Samson. It had neve
r occurred to her that Janet would actually pick up and go.
She sighed with regret, and the maid asked, “Is it bad news?”
“Yes, it’s bad. You were correct about Janet. She’s run away to London.”
“By herself?” The maid was aghast. “I don’t imagine her father will be too happy about it.”
Caroline chuckled miserably. “That’s a gross understatement.”
“Will you come down and inform him, Miss Caroline?”
“I suppose I’d better.”
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Caroline’s pulse raced. Whenever someone approached, her immediate thought was that it would be Caleb. But it was a footman.
“Miss Caroline, your uncle requested I fetch you down to the library. He has to speak with you right away.”
“I was just about to attend him,” she said. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
She eased away and shut the door, trying to ignore their concerned expressions. She was pale and sickly, and the staff had to be gossiping about her. She’d like to proclaim that she wasn’t ill. She’d merely had her heart broken, and there was no cure for her terrible affliction.
She’d fallen madly in love with Caleb Ralston, and she couldn’t cope with the sentiment rocking her. She had to privately mourn the loss of him, and eventually, her despondency would wane. At least she expected it would wane. A person couldn’t be this dejected forever. Could she be?
She checked her reduced condition in the mirror, and she pinched her cheeks and straightened a comb to hold her chignon more firmly in place. Then she headed down to confer with her uncle. She was rehearsing various comments, being anxious to devise a suitable explanation for Janet’s conduct, so he wouldn’t explode with rage.
As she marched toward the library, the butler and housekeeper, Mrs. Scruggs, were there. They were whispering animatedly, and when they saw her, they braced as if with dismay.
The butler said, “Miss Caroline has arrived, sir.”
“Marvelous,” her uncle replied. “Send her in.”
They weren’t a fancy family, and there was no need to announce her, so it was very odd. She swept by the pair and entered without pausing to wonder what was happening. But the instant she was inside, she staggered to a halt.
The vicar was there, and he was over by the hearth and gripping his prayer book. Gregory was there too, dressed in his best suit, and his presence definitely flummoxed her. Mrs. Starling had slithered away a few days earlier, and he’d left with her. Caroline hadn’t realized he was home.
“What’s going on?” she asked Gregory.
He shot a furtive glance at her uncle, then he bustled forward and clasped her hands. He pulled her over to the vicar, and she was so bewildered that she lurched after him like a puppet on a string.
“You’re here, and the vicar’s here,” Gregory said. “Why not proceed with the ceremony?”
“With the wedding ceremony?” she inquired like a dunce.
“Yes. It’s our wedding day after all, and it hasn’t been officially cancelled, so Father and I thought, why not? The vicar was kind enough to oblige us.”
Her uncle came over, and he stood on one side of her, Gregory on the other. They boxed her in, as if trapping her so she couldn’t dash out.
“You’ve been upset,” Uncle Samson told her, “but we were sure you didn’t mean to cry off. Gregory and I are sorry to have quarreled with you, and we’d like to put this bickering behind us.”
Caroline bristled, recognizing it to be the most awkward moment she’d ever suffered. She was fuming, but she wouldn’t lash out at them in front of the vicar.
“The wedding has been called off—by me,” she tightly stated. “I’ve been very clear. I can’t and won’t marry Gregory. We don’t suit, and there are too many. . . issues between us.”
She didn’t cite them: Gregory’s mistress, drinking, gambling, and dissolute existence in town.
As she should have anticipated, her uncle disregarded her remark and waved to the vicar. “Don’t listen to her. Open your prayer book. Read the vows.”
“Mr. Grey!” The vicar’s tone was scolding. “I have two functioning ears, and she spoke in plain English, so I understood her with no difficulty. She has refused.”
Uncle Samson scoffed. “She doesn’t know what she wants.”
Gregory chimed in with, “My father is her guardian. Her choice of spouse is up to him. Not her. He and I are both committed to the union. Please begin.”
The vicar glowered at them, then spun to Caroline. “What is your preference, Miss Caroline? Will you continue—as your uncle is demanding?”
“No!” she insisted. “I’ve been very firm about it. I sent you a note to inform you that the service was cancelled. Didn’t you receive it?”
“Yes, I received it.”
“Then I apologize for your being dragged here on false pretenses.”
“Once I grasped what you had penned,” he said, “I wasn’t certain what to think, but your uncle claimed you were confused. I stopped by because this is a big decision, and I must be convinced that you’ve weighed the consequences. I ask you again: Do you—or do you not—wish to wed Gregory Grey?”
“No, I don’t wish it. I will never marry him. I just can’t.”
Caroline whipped away and stomped out. Behind her, the vicar said to her uncle, “You have wasted my time, sir!”
“She’s not serious!” Samson said. “Let me talk to her. Stay where you are. I’ll be right back.”
“I won’t stay,” the vicar replied. “I will not perform a ceremony when the bride is so vehemently opposed.”
She didn’t hear the rest of their conversation. She hurried to the foyer and up the stairs to her room. She went inside and slammed the door.
Typically, she viewed herself as being very calm. She never liked to rock a boat or cause a scene. But buried deep down, she had a terrible temper. She’d spent too many years tamping it down, and when it exploded, it was hard to control. She never liked to have it flare, but it was flaring now.
How dare they put her in such a hideous position!
She’d never been more embarrassed, and her mind was awhirl with trying to figure out what her next moves should be. Gregory and Uncle Samson were so determined she wed Gregory. Why? Their resolve made no sense.
Gregory was a rich bachelor from a landed family. He could marry practically any girl he liked. Why not search for her? Why harangue at Caroline when she was so reluctant? Why torment her like this?
She couldn’t remember ever being so angry, but she had to relax and focus on what was important. The two idiots had to be reined in, but she wouldn’t confront them when her fury was sparking. Nor would she chastise them while the vicar was still present.
She started to pace across her bedchamber, and she walked back and forth, back and forth, until she might have traveled for miles. She was actually tired and out of breath.
She wandered to the window and stared out, and it dawned on her that she hadn’t told Uncle Samson about Janet. Well, Janet’s problems would just have to wait. Caroline had other fish to fry.
After a bit, as she’d quieted sufficiently to head downstairs, there were footsteps in the hall. It was a male from the sound of it, and she braced, curious if it would be Gregory or Samson.
He halted, and she expected him to knock. There was a lengthy pause, then, to her stunned surprise, a key was stuck in the lock. It was turned! Then, whoever it had been, he continued on.
She gaped with dismay, then tiptoed over and tried the knob.
They’d locked her in! From the outside! Was she to be their prisoner? Was that it?
She began to pound on the wood, to shout for help. She kept on until her knuckles were bloody and her voice hoarse, but no one heard her. Or if they did, no one came to find out what was wrong.
“What are you looking at?”
“It’s an old drawing that was in the newspaper when I was little.”
Libby Carstairs peered over at her friend and companion, Edwina Fishburn, who was called Fish by everyone. They were in the house they were renting in London, in Libby’s bedchamber, and Libby was modeling a gown Fish had finished sewing.
Libby was famous as the Mystery Girl of the Caribbean, and Fish was her seamstress and costumer.
Libby had spent her life journeying across the kingdom, performing at fairs and in small playhouses. With her duplicitous Uncle Harry guiding her way, she’d regaled rural audiences with monologues and ballads about her ordeal at age five when she, Caro, and Joanna, had survived their shipwreck.
In recent months, after Harry’s untimely demise—he’d been shot dead by a jealous husband after he’d seduced the fellow’s wife—she’d come to London and had taken the city by storm. She appeared nightly at London’s most prestigious theater where she brought even the most hardened cynics to tears.
Two decades had passed since they’d been found by Captain Miles Ralston, but people still couldn’t get enough of her. It was the twentieth anniversary of the rescue, and she remained more fascinating than ever.
Harry had hired Fish when Libby was sixteen and had needed to be dressing like an adult rather than the orphaned waif she’d pretended to be. She and Fish were thick as thieves. They existed beyond the bounds of civilized society and pretty much carried on however they pleased.
She held up the tattered page from the newspaper and asked Fish, “Haven’t I ever showed this to you?”
“No. Let me see.”
“When Caro, Joanna, and I first returned to England, there was a desperate push to figure out who we were. The authorities had an artist sketch a picture of us, and it was distributed everywhere. I kept this copy.”
Fish took it from Libby. The paper was thin from Libby caressing it over the years. Fish studied the three cherubic faces, tracing her finger over them. “You were so tiny. I forget how young you were when it happened.”
“I’m a walking miracle. I still can’t explain how or why I lived through it.”
