by Jane Godman
***
Sir Clive was no longer a happy man as he rode away from The Grange. It was not his habit to be particularly perceptive but he could not have failed to notice the change in Rosie. He had no hesitation in attributing this to her mysterious ‘cousin Jack’. She had always been a remarkably pretty girl but now her beauty seemed lit from within. There was a glow about her and Sir Clive did not care to speculate as to its cause. All he knew was that her eyes turned far too often to her supposed relative. When they rested on him, their expression could only be described as hungry. Who the devil was the fellow?
***
Christmas came and went and Jack’s health continued to improve steadily. The festive season provided Rosie with a momentary relief from her fears that the time for him to leave them would soon arrive. Christmas was a vibrant affair and Tom carried armfuls of greenery into the house for Rosie and Harry to use as decoration. Mrs Glover tolerated the boughs of evergreens which invaded her precious rooms but she drew the line at mistletoe, which – with its risqué encouragement of kissing games – she considered un-genteel, if not downright unholy. She fought a constant vigilante style battle, in between cooking a feast fit for a small army, against its introduction by the maidservants and footmen. On Christmas day a Yule Log was lit in the fireplace. The family and staff, indulged in a day of celebration, gift giving and general indulgence. Mr Delacourt, generally the most abstemious of hosts, made a bowl of punch which caused Jack, when called upon to sample a cup, to choke at its fiery effects. Harry laughed as Jack mopped his streaming eyes, but diplomatically pronounced it very fine. Tom joined the family for dinner being, as Rosie pointed out, more a family friend than an employee. Rosie wore a new gown of ruby damask silk over an underskirt of embroidered lace. The gentlemen were similarly fine in their full-skirted coats, snowy ruffles and knee breeches.
In the evening, Rosie played the piano and they sang carols. Jack, in a fine baritone voice, taught them a few Scottish ballads which his mother had sung to him when he was a child. Then Tom, with a skill no-one had ever suspected he possessed, took Rosie’s place and played a few country dances. Jack held out his hand to Rosie, who, blushing slightly, allowed him to lead her around the room while Mr Delacourt looked in approbation from a punch-induced haze. Her cheeks were becomingly pink, eyes shining and lips parted. She knew, from Jack’s appreciative looks when they faced each other to perform their steps, that the effects of the exertion suited her.
Later, Tom returned to his own quarters and Mr Delacourt, drowsy from the effects of over-indulgence, followed Harry upstairs to bed. Rosie gathered up the sheets of music and closed the piano lid and smiled at Jack who stood watching her.
“Dance with me again,” he held out his hand and, although she came to him, she laughed.
“We have no music, sir,” she said with a mocking little curtsey.
“We don’t need it,” he replied, drawing her close.
This was a very different dance. Jack demanded eye contact throughout the routine. This time, Rosie’s high colour and deeper breathing owed nothing to her physical activity and everything to the intense arousal caused by Jack’s nearness. As he drew her tantalisingly close and then whirled away as the convention of the dance dictated, she wanted to cry out with longing. She finally understood what Mrs Glover meant when she said that dancing was the devil’s way of getting a maiden to misbehave. If only Jack would allow her to misbehave!
Jack, a wicked glint in the sky-blue depths of his eyes, danced her out into the hall and paused under the chandelier. Rosie threw him an enquiring glance and he pointed up to where a solitary sprig of mistletoe nestled amidst the greenery above their heads.
“How on earth did you manage to smuggle that past Mrs Glover?” Rosie asked.
“She knows all about it,” Jack informed her smugly, “I have her blessing.”
“Good gracious, Jack,” Rosie regarded him quizzically, “Have you been flirting with Mrs Glover?”
His hand tightened convulsively on her waist.
“No, I have not, you abominable girl! Is flirting all you think me fit for?”
Rosie looked roguish, “Oh, no, I suspect you might have other … uses.”
“Come here and kiss me,” it was low, masculine growl.
“You are very imperious, my lord,” Rosie leaned back as his arms tightened around her.
“Not I,” he laughed back, “’Tis the mistletoe … do you not know that legend demands you cannot refuse a kiss while standing directly under it? And, if a maiden should remain un-kissed while there is mistletoe in the house, she will not find herself a love in the coming twelvemonth. I am doing you a kindness, sweetheart. I could not bear to see you unloved …”
“Oh, well … in that case …” and, pressing close up against him, Rosie happily lifted her face to his.
She wanted to freeze this precious time and shut out the rest of the world.
News filtered through of the Jacobite withdrawal, skirmishes in Cumbria and the loss of Carlisle marking their passage to Scotland. The new year – 1746 – arrived and the unspoken knowledge that Jack must soon leave hung heavy over them all. Tom joked that it wasn’t just Miss Rosie who had fallen in love with him. Jack had cast a spell over the whole household.
***
Sir Clive spent an hour with Mr Delacourt on his next visit to The Grange. However, despite careful questioning, he failed to discover any more about the mysterious visitor. Rosie joined them briefly. Although her beauty struck her would-be suitor afresh with its vibrancy and she smiled as sweetly as ever, she was distant and distracted. She evaded his efforts to speak to her alone, and he resisted the impulse to drag her by her hair to the nearest bedchamber and teach her a woman’s place. Of ‘my cousin Jack’ there was no sign.
Disgruntled, Sir Clive took his leave and walked round to the stables to collect his horse. The stables were built in three blocks around a central courtyard, and he hesitated as he realised that Jack, Harry and Tom were there. Beau had stretched himself out nearby and was gnawing contentedly on a marrowbone he had inveigled from Mrs Glover. Jack, stripped to the waist - an ugly, very fresh scar marring the smooth sinews of his left shoulder - lifted and lowered a bag of feed in his left hand. Harry, seated on a barrel, encouraged him to keep going and push his muscles further and harder. Tom supervised the feeding of the horses and interpolated an occasional word of advice.
“Damn it, Tom!” Jack laughed, showing even, white teeth, “I’m still as weak as a kitten.”
“Give over, my lord, it is only a few short weeks since I took the King’s bullet out of you. These things take time,” Tom chided.
Beau noticed Sir Clive first and gave a single warning bark. Unsure of how much he had heard, Tom cursed under his breath. Jack bowed slightly in the visitor’s direction before slipping his shirt back over his head and Harry rose to busy himself with the curry comb.
It was too late, however. Sir Clive now knew exactly who ‘my cousin Jack’ was. There had been rumours a-plenty in Derby since the invasion, but one story bandied about freely in the taproom of The Crown came back to him now. Hoskins, the landlord, had been holding forth to a group of his regular customers, “Aye, I have it on good authority that a fine lord, friend to the prince himself, no less, was left for dead by a young redcoat right there on Swarkestone Bridge,” he had turned to refill Clive’s glass, “The Guard’s captain said he cannot have left the area so badly wounded as he was. ‘Tis a certainty he is either dead in a ditch from his wounds, or holed up nearby with rebel sympathisers. I’d not want to be in their shoes should he be found …” Hoskins intruded briefly into another conversation, “Mr Cartwright thought his horse was gone for good – vanished without a trace, it did – and then the be-knighted creature strolled back into its stable a full se’ennight later! Not that I’d give you tuppence for the old bag of bones meself …”
Sir Clive now knew exactly what he must do to ensure that this dangerous fugitive from justice did n
ot upset his carefully laid plans for Rosie’s future.
***
The six soldiers approached The Grange from across the fields so that their arrival was not seen by anyone in the house. Fortunately, Joseph, feeding the horses, spied the splash of colour of their red coats against the winter landscape. He was able to warn the household so that Jack could be smuggled away to the barn.
Mr Delacourt received the Captain in his study, enquiring courteously about the reason for the visit. The young man was patently embarrassed at his errand,
“Your pardon, sir,” he bowed, “We have been given information that a dangerous fugitive, a Jacobite lord, has taken refuge in your home.”
“Dear me,” Mr Delacourt remarked mildly, “Where do you suppose this person is hiding?”
He looked around the room distractedly, as though expecting to see the rebel lurking behind the bookcase or under the desk.
The Captain, already feeling that he had been sent on a fool’s errand, explained further,
“I would like to speak to a man named Jack who, I believe, has been staying with you recently?”
“Ah, you are referring to a kinsman of mine, Jack Brown, who was travelling in the area when he became unwell. He spent a few weeks here recovering from his malaise. Sadly, you have missed him. He left yesterday and has now resumed his travels.” Mr Delacourt frowned in confusion, “Do you think he might know the whereabouts of the fugitive you seek?”
The Captain sighed, “Our information was that this man was not a relative of yours. That he was, in fact the high ranking Jacobite who was injured in the skirmish at Swarkestone Bridge.”
“Not a relative of mine? I have known Jack Brown since he was in his cradle!”
Mr Delacourt was pleased at the way the lie tripped off his tongue so easily. His feigned confusion deepened, “I had thought that the prince turned back before the king’s troops arrived at the bridge?”
“That is correct, sir, but there was some fierce fighting at Swarkestone. Apparently one of the advance guard of rebels sent by the prince to hold the bridge was injured with a shot to the shoulder. Quite an important member of the Jacobite forces and a friend of the prince himself, no less. We have reason to believe the injured man is none other than Lord St Anton.”
He could not have known, from Mr Delacourt’s calm aspect, how his words made that gentleman’s heart sink. If Jack’s identity was known, it was possible he could be recognised. Getting him out of the country was now a matter of urgency.
“Not only high ranking, but in possession of abnormal powers as well?” Mr Delacourt appeared mildly amused at the thought.To have sustained a mortal injury, but still have escaped from your men. Then travelled thus far and persuaded complete strangers to hide him would imply something other than mere humanity, Captain!”
His words exactly echoed the Captain’s own thoughts on the matter. He was a meticulous young man, however, and he wanted to be able to assure his superiors that he had conducted a thorough job. With that in mind, he rose and bowed to Mr Delacourt, thanking him for his time,
“We will check the surrounding area including the farm before we leave, sir, and will remain in the area in case Mr Brown should come back again.”
Mr Delacourt returned the bow courteously, his countenance neutral, while his mind raced with plans for Jack’s escape. He would give the world to spare Rosie the pain of Jack’s capture. He would also do all he could on Jack’s own behalf. He had come to admire and respect him as much for his own sake as for Rosie’s. Assuring himself that the soldiers had indeed left the house, Mr Delacourt sent for Tom and then set about finding out where his son was. He had a nasty vision of Harry trying to help Jack’s cause by attempting to rout the soldiers with his wooden sword.
***
Night had fallen and there were only a few hours left until Jack and Tom were to ride out for the border. Jack sat by the window of his bedchamber and stared out into the enveloping darkness reflecting on how much his life had changed since he came to this house. The door clicked open and he glanced up quickly to see Rosie regarding him steadily. Rising without a word – there was simply nothing more left to say – he held his arms wide and she walked into them, lifting her face to his. A shudder of pleasure ran through her as he kissed her hungrily.
“Make love to me, Jack,” she whispered against his lips.
He took her face in his hands and studied her face intently, “Rosie ... my love, are you sure?”
She nodded emphatically. “I may never see you again after this night,” she murmured, spreading her hands across his chest. “Jack, I love you more than life itself. Tonight may be all we ever have, let us seal our love while we can.”
With a groan he drew her close again, pressing his lips to the base of her neck and sighing words of love against her skin. Gently he carried her over to the bed and placed her down upon it. Slowly he removed her clothing and anointed her exposed flesh with soft, fluttering kisses. Finally, she lay naked and he devoured her with his eyes while he removed his own clothes. There was a sweet poignancy to their movements as he joined her. They surged together with a sense of finality and completion that went deeper than words.
“I want all of you, Jack,” she whispered unsteadily and he entered her in one swift motion.
It was so perfect that Rosie felt her heart would burst as her body quivered with pleasure. She wanted to weep at the beauty of his fullness deep inside her, igniting her every nerve. Jack’s love for her added ferocity to his passion; he possessed her. Every undulating, urgent movement drove them rapidly towards the soul shattering ecstasy that was building within them. Rosie’s release gushed through her, a tidal wave of enormous pleasure that left her trembling on the edge of infinity. She cried out in unabashed abandon, the words unclear but the message unmistakable – she was his, in that instant and forever.
To Jack, the sounds she made were the most beautiful he had ever heard. He felt the first rush of his own release and his body jerked. He buried his face in her hair, his voice muffled to a groan, as he surrendered to the answering wildness that swept over him.
They lay cradled in each other’s arms, in the room they had shared so often but also in this world which, however briefly, belonged only to them. All too soon, Jack spoke the words neither wanted to hear,
“It is time.”
Tom was waiting with the horses. Rosie found her throat was too constricted to speak as Jack’s last, desperate embrace told her more clearly than words that he never wanted to let her go. It mattered not how much she wanted this moment to last – he must leave now or forfeit his life. With a trembling hand she touched his beloved face once more, imprinting his features on her memory,
“Ask me, Jack.”
He took her face between his hands with infinite gentleness.
“Rosie, my heart, my dearest love. I swear that, once I have secured the king’s pardon, I will come back for you and make you my wife. Will you wait for me?”
A single tear trickled down her cheek, but she smiled mistily up at him.
“If it takes forever, Jack, I will wait for you,” she vowed and was promptly caught up in a kiss of such ferocity that she struggled to maintain her balance. “Come back to me,” she whispered forlornly.
Jack’s expression was taut with pain.
“You have my promise, Rosie.” His voice cracked on the words.
He kissed her as if it really was for the last time. Then, throwing himself onto his horse, he rode away so swiftly that the hounds of hell might have been at his heels.
Chapter Three
Hearing the sound of horse’s hooves on the gravel drive, Mr Delacourt sighed and closed his book. An expression of weary resignation settled over his features. Sir Clive Sheridan had taken to paying them a daily morning visit.
“Haunting us,” Mrs Glover muttered crossly, throwing him a glowering look as she announced his arrival. In the past he had been a favourite of hers. On the other hand, since Jack’s depart
ure, he had been transformed, in that feisty little lady’s eyes, into the villain of the piece.
It was obvious that Sir Clive’s intention was to spend as much time as possible with Rosie. However the whole household, even Harry, who was not much given to perception, did their best to keep him away from her. Consequently, much of his time was spent with Mr Delacourt who found himself liking his neighbour less and less. This antipathy was compounded by the unshakable belief that Sir Clive was the person responsible for revealing Jack’s whereabouts to the redcoats. There was a new smugness about his demeanour which served to confirm this.
Sir Clive bowed as he entered the room and Mr Delacourt, resigning himself to a boring hour or two, returned the greeting and pulled forward a chair for his visitor.
“I will come straight to the point, sir,” the bombastic tone was more pronounced than ever. “I have come to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter.”
Mr Delacourt regarded him thoughtfully. The man must be even more short sighted than he had appreciated.
“Do you believe that Rosie returns your regard, Sir Clive?”
Sir Clive preened slightly, “I am sure that Miss Delacourt has sufficient good sense to be aware that marriage to me would be a most desirable outcome. I flatter myself that my name, my title and my lands must make an offer from me an acceptable and even – dare I say? – attractive proposition for any young lady.”
Mr Delacourt wisely kept his thoughts to himself. “Rosie must give you an answer herself, Sir Clive,” he said. “Her heart and hand are her own to bestow as she chooses.”
Sir Clive bowed, clearly anticipating that he would receive a favourable answer from Rosie, “And the matter of the dowry?” His affairs had become increasingly pressing, a circumstance which added fuel to his desire to secure Rosie’s hand as quickly as possible.
“Will be a matter for discussion between myself and my daughter’s affianced husband,” Mr Delacourt’s quiet dignity did not penetrate Sir Clive’s thick skin.
