by Diane Gaston
Louisa stared up at a majestically high wall that must have once contained windows of coloured glass. “This place makes me feel peaceful.”
Claude frowned. “It is rubble. What happened to it?”
She glanced around. “Centuries ago, King Henry VIII seized all the abbeys and Cromwell sold the land to important men. That is how Lord Rappard’s ancestors came here. It has been their property ever since.”
Claude had heard of that English king who abolished the Roman Catholic religion so he could divorce one wife and marry another.
“They allowed it to fall down?”
The magnificent Notre-Dame had been preserved for the people as a Temple of Reason. These buildings had been left to crumble and decay.
“I suspect eventually the family wished for a modern house. In fact, many of the stones from the abbey were used to build Rappard Hall and its buildings.”
That explained why some walls had all but disappeared, their presence only marked by those remaining in the ground, like paving stones.
She sat on the sill of what once had been a window and gazed around. “Ghosts gather here at night, spirits of the slain monks. A lady in white has also been seen, wandering through the rooms. It is said she is waiting for her lover to return from the sea. Poor thing,” she added sombrely. “She cannot escape this place.”
She dropped her head into her hands and burst into tears.
Shocked, Claude rushed to her side and, without thinking, put his arm around her. “Miss? What distresses you? Why do you weep?”
She straightened, but did not move away. He handed her a folded handkerchief from his pocket, glad that it was clean. She wiped her eyes with it. “It is silly of me. I am not usually such a watering pot.”
It took him a moment to comprehend the meaning of watering pot.
She shook her head. “My life here is happy enough. I do not complain, but my—my cousin and his companions are so unpleasant. They yell and shout and run around. They are draining Lord Rappard’s wine stores and waste so much food. They have already broken some porcelain that Lady Rappard held dear.” She wiped her eyes again. “It is too awful. They talk like—like ruffians. Even in my presence. And I must keep the young maids away from them… I hate it all so dreadfully!” More tears poured from her eyes.
Something hardened in Claude at the mention of her cousin and his friends. His comfort turned to an effort to gain information. “Surely they will leave soon, will they not?”
“George whines that they are stuck here for a month until he receives his next quarterly portion.”
A month? Claude did not intend a whole month to go by before he performed his sworn duty. Although a month of working in the stable and riding with Louisa all day would be very pleasant.
“Where do they spend their time? Perhaps you can avoid them.” Where might he encounter Tranville? he meant.
She waved an exasperated hand. “They intrude everywhere. My only escape is to ride with you.”
Claude should have felt gratified that this young and pretty girl, who was perfection in his eyes, liked the time she spent with him and treated him like a friend, not a servant. Instead he felt annoyed that she told him nothing of use.
“Oh, Claude!” She threw herself into his arms and wept against his chest. He had no choice but to hold her. Her clean scent and her soft curves finally drove out his thoughts of vengeance.
When she broke away, her smile turned more genuine. “I feel better. Sometimes all it takes is a good cry. Shall we ride some more?”
He merely nodded, too overwhelmed with the pleasure of having held her in his arms to speak. They walked over to the horses. When he lifted her in the saddle, she smiled down at him and his body responded to her.
He quickly turned away so she would not see. In some discomfort, he mounted Apollo, and he had some time to recover as she led them up the hill on the other side of the valley from whence they had come. Claude looked down on some pretty farm buildings, smaller than those at Rappard Hall.
“This is the farm that borders the Rappard property,” she explained. “There is a road at the bottom of the hill. We can follow it back to our stables.”
She seemed more relaxed on the way back. Claude, on the other hand, was stirred up in many ways. By her. By seeing Tranville. By his purpose for being at Rappard Hall.
They rode into the stable. In the relative darkness, he helped her dismount and she gave him a quick hug before turning away and hurrying back to her dismal life.
That night in the room Claude shared with the other grooms, he tossed and turned on his cot. It was not their snoring that kept him awake this night, but rather thoughts of Louisa, the first girl who had ever stirred his senses.
How ironic that it was an English girl who so enraptured him. Even if there were égalité between them, as there would be in France, he would never court an English girl.
Alors. This was foolish thinking. He sat up in bed and rubbed his face. This was no time for romantic reverie. He had more important considerations.
Claude pulled on a shirt and trousers and carried his shoes out of the room, to put on before leaving the building. When he stepped out into the night, stars sparkled in the sky and the almost-full moon turned the grass to silver.
Lights shone from upper-floor windows at the Hall. As if he were a moth to those flames, he headed directly to the house, choosing a spot where he had a good view of the lighted windows, but could not be seen spying.
He waited, his limbs stiffening from the cool, damp air and from fatigue. His lids grew heavy and he struggled not to doze on his feet.
A silhouette appeared in the window, a man raising a bottle to his mouth and drinking from it. Tranville? Claude held his breath and waited to be sure.
The man disappeared for a moment then carried a candle to the window. For a brief moment the candle illuminated the man’s face.
It was indeed Tranville, jagged scar and all.
And now Claude knew exactly which room was his.
Chapter Fifteen
Gabe awoke in yet another posting inn. He blinked his eyes and struggled to remember exactly where they were.
Clitheroe.
They’d been headed north towards Lancaster to see if Edwin and his friends were bound for the Lake District, but it had soon been clear the route was again wrong. Next Gabe chose for them to go west, deciding to circle back to Blackburn on different roads, ones that were far less travelled. It was no real surprise that the young gentlemen had not been seen by anyone Gabe and Emmaline encountered.
Where the devil had they gone?
It was as if they’d fallen off the edge of the world. Of course, it was entirely possible that Gabe had just missed the certain road, certain inn, or one person who would have remembered seeing them.
He rolled over in the lumpy bed and gazed at Emmaline. God help him, she looked worried and fretful even in sleep. Tendrils of hair had escaped her plait and he fought the urge to brush them away from her face.
His heart twisted. How he had utterly failed her!
His bones ached from countless bumps in the road and he pined to stretch his weary muscles. He might wake her by doing so. The least he could do was allow her to sleep.
What a contrast these last three days had been from their lazy days in Brussels, where being together had been so easy, so full of peace and pleasure. Now each hour in his company merely increased the tension he sensed inside her. When they’d first lain next to each other in this bed, she’d been like cracked crystal. Gabe feared a mere touch would shatter her.
She’d wept in her despair for her son; Gabe had held her so close he could feel her damp lashes on his skin. There had been no words he could speak to console her. No such words existed. He’d merely held her until she’d fallen into exhausted sleep.
How confident she’d been of his ability to find Edwin and stop Claude from murdering him. He remembered her earnest entreaty
in London, her surety that he alone could succeed in saving her son. Again. She’d staked her whole future on it.
Well, at least if he failed she would no longer feel obligated to marry him. Perhaps that thought consoled her.
Gabe grimaced. How churlish to even think of it. The pain of her misguided promise to marry him seemed inconsequential in comparison to the pain he sensed inside her.
At his failure.
He’d missed something, Gabe was convinced. Some piece of information that should have told him where to search. Something. Again he went over everything they’d learned, every place they searched, trying to find that missing piece of information.
If only he knew what it was.
No longer able to lie still, Gabe slipped out of the bed and stretched to finally ease his stiff muscles. As quietly as he could, he walked over to the bureau and poured some water from the pitcher into the basin. He dampened a cloth and wiped his skin, letting the bracing morning air dry him. Making lather from a piece of soap, he scraped his razor along his cheek. In the mirror, he glanced back at Emmaline. She raised herself on one elbow, before sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
Their gazes caught in the mirror, a silent communication of hopelessness.
He finished shaving and emptied his soapy water so the basin would be clean for her. As he began to dress, she padded across the room, naked. They’d slept together naked, as they had each of these nights, nights spent in passionate oblivion.
Except this past night. They’d not made love this past night.
If she had wanted it, he would have willingly complied. Anything she wanted he would have done for her. Anything to give her solace. If she gave any sign this morning of needing the scant comfort of his body, he would offer it. All he desired was to ease the pain he sensed inside her, the sheer despair that her son was lost.
And Gabe had done nothing to save him.
But she asked nothing of him. What he saw reflected in the mirror was her anguish.
She turned away again. Even in her despair her movement was graceful, so perfectly womanly his senses were aroused. He drank in her flawless skin, her pleasing curves and narrow waist. He knew from memory how it felt to trace his fingers down the length of her spine, how warm and willing she was to his touch.
It would be difficult to part from her. Again.
Gabe’s anger at her had been erased by her misery and his failure to ease it. What did his vanity matter when she was so thoroughly unhappy? He could not detest her for loving her son, for wanting to do anything to save her son’s life.
He tried to imagine his own mother feeling that way about him.
Impossible.
His mother had many children and grandchildren to fill any small place in her heart she might have once reserved for him. Emmaline had only Claude.
Or, rather, she so filled her heart with love for Claude that there was no room in it to spare for anyone else. Not even for Gabe.
That was reality, not something for self-pity. Gabe had known about her love for her son from the moment he’d looked into her eyes at Badajoz. He’d made the decision to love her for it then; he could not stop now.
He finished dressing.
Emmaline slipped on her shift and undid the plait in her hair. With long graceful strokes she brushed out the tangles as if trying at the same time to soothe herself.
Gabe put on his boots. “Shall I see if there is a newspaper to be found?”
She flinched as if struck by a rod. “Can it wait a little?”
“Of course.” He stood. “I could arrange for breakfast, then. Would you like to eat it in the room here?”
She shook her head. “Will you wait for me? I will dress quickly.”
He crossed the room to her and stood behind her. Gently he turned her around and held her against his chest. “Whatever you wish, Emmaline.”
She melted into him. “What do we do now? We’ve searched everywhere.”
“Make our way back to London.” He held her tightly. “Start all over again.”
Futile though it would be.
When they were on the road again Emmaline tried to cheer herself. They’d not found any news of Edwin’s murder in the papers, after all, and it was another fine day. She should be grateful for good weather. Their travel would have been slower and more miserable if it had rained.
She ought to be grateful to Gabriel, as well, for his tenacity, his willingness to drive all over the countryside, asking at inn after inn, for not giving up, not losing hope. In her heart, though, she knew all hope was gone.
Somewhere in England, Claude was near Edwin, planning Edwin’s murder. Or had already accomplished the deed and was arrested, awaiting hanging. Perhaps if a newspaper carried an account of the murder, she could still reach Claude in time to say goodbye.
Emmaline shook away that horrible thought and forced herself to gaze at the rolling hills of pasture and farmland that they passed. She let the steady pace of their intrepid horse lull her and ward off total despondency.
The land reminded her of Belgium, rolling grassy hills dotted with peacefully grazing sheep. She and Gabriel had once driven out into the Belgian countryside to similar scenes.
“This must be sheep-farming land,” she commented, to rid herself of the contrast between her happiness then and her misery now.
Gabriel shifted, as if surprised that she spoke. Their conversation had heretofore been less than perfunctory.
“It is.” He paused before adding, “I tended sheep on these very hills.”
It was her turn to be surprised. “Here?”
“The hill farm where my uncle is employed is close by.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “These pastures are part of it.”
“C’est vrai?” She glanced at the land again. “Truly? Is this the uncle you told your brother we would visit?”
“Yes.”
He’d said when they started out this morning that they were not far from Blackburn. His plan was to return the horse and gig there and secure passage back to London for the morrow.
She set aside her own worries for a moment. “Gabriel, is this the uncle you told me about in Brussels, the one with whom you spent happy days?”
“It is,” he responded, his voice remaining even.
“We should call upon him, should we not? We are so close and you told your brother you would.” What did an extra hour or two matter? They would still have time to reach Blackburn. There was no real need to hurry now. Claude was lost.
He looked at her carefully. “Are you certain?”
She nodded. “He is your family.” Her throat tightened at the word family and she turned away in case tears would burst from her eyes.
They quickly came upon an even narrower road leading up a gentle hill. He turned the gig on to it and, as they reached the crest, the farm and all its buildings could be seen in the valley below. A white-stucco farmhouse, three storeys high, with a shingled roof, was framed by large trees and a flower garden. Fanning out from the house was a series of outbuildings and beyond them half-a-dozen tiny cottages.
On their search for Claude they had passed many prosperous country estates with magnificent mansions and numerous farm buildings nearly as grand. This property was much more modest and, because of that, its appeal was greater. Emmaline could imagine a family running this farm, living happily in such a comfortable place.
As they descended into the valley Emmaline could see that the garden was tangled with weeds and the house was tightly shuttered. A dog crossed the path from one barn to another, followed by scampering chickens, the only signs of life. It made her sad. Why was such a lovely place neglected?
As if reading her thoughts, Gabriel said, “The farm is for sale, and the farmhouse is vacant. There are only enough workers left to tend to the sheep.”
“It is for sale? What happens to your uncle if it sells?” Would he be out of a job? Gabriel had told her that unemployment plagued the who
le country.
“My uncle ought to have been pensioned off, but he stays on to keep the farm running. I do not know what will happen to him.” He paused and added. “I once considered purchasing it.”
“You have so much money?” She was surprised. “Why did you not purchase it?”
He looked sad. “I lost my reason to. Besides, I am a soldier, not a farmer.”
She did not have a chance to ask him what he meant by losing his reason to purchase the farm. An old man emerged from what looked like a stable. He stopped and gazed at them for a moment, then hurried to greet their carriage.
