by Amy Sandas
She recognized that her plan held a hint of cowardice, but told herself she wasn’t running away. She was regrouping, gathering her strength and developing a strategy.
Leif would someday soon have to face her and the emotions he tried to deny.
Chapter Thirty-One
Leif tested the last of the turn cranks set into the master panel near the back door of the orangery. Tilting his head back, he watched with a wide grin of satisfaction as the large section of lead-framed glass on the ceiling above him turned on its axis, allowing the cool autumn air to flow into the glass walled building. Once open to its fullest, he turned the crank in reverse to close the window once more.
All of the panels worked wonderfully.
The large octagon orangery was set back from the house in a secluded little copse of trees between the stables and the trout stream. He had saved this greenhouse for last as it had somehow become the most important of all that he had managed to accomplish at Dunwood Park during the last several months. The small building made of stone and lead and glass had come to represent the final culmination of his vision.
And it had to be perfect.
Before leaving, he looked around the empty space and visualized the finished picture.
The eight angled walls would all be lined with the low benches that were already built and waiting to be installed. Patterned cushions in blue, green and yellow would soften the seating. Three orange trees would create a shaded grotto in the center of the greenhouse. And then here and there, he planned for planted boxes of mixed wildflowers—thistle, cornflowers, orchids, gentians, forget-me-nots and more. The crisp scent of citrus would forever mingle with the subtle perfume born of Irish meadows.
He took the walk back to the house at a slow pace, not in much hurry to return to the empty mausoleum. Since the structural work on the house finished, the place had been far too quiet. Gone were the steady pings of metal hammers and the clomping of work boots through the halls. The only noise of the last week had been the twitter of his new staff as they set up the furniture and décor of each room to his specifications.
Unfortunately, without the distraction of extra noise and activity, his mind was apt to wander into territories he’d rather not go.
As soon as he stepped into the hall, Mrs. Helmstead came up from the back of the house as if she had been listening for him. Although he had hired several girls from the nearby villages to fill the needed roles of upstairs and downstairs maids and kitchen staff, he hadn’t gotten around to hiring any senior staff. Jack still acted as sometime valet, footman and all around personal servant and Mrs. Helmstead took on the role of housekeeper, cook and butler, when needed.
Seeing the square of white paper in her hand as she approached, Leif winced inwardly and wished he had entered by a back stair.
Waving the letter before her like a flag, the old woman was upon him before he had a chance to consider retreat.
“Another letter arrived from Sir Felix, my lord.” Jutting the missive beneath his nose, she forced him to take it in his hand.
His fingers tensed with the urge to close around it in a crushing fist.
Having one of her more lucid episodes, Mrs. Helmstead planted her hands on her thick hips and looked at him as if he were a recalcitrant child.
“Don’t you think it’s time for you to read all those letters and finally form a reply? You cannot ignore your father-in-law forever.” Her lips pursed. “Nor your wife.”
“She left,” Leif retorted sharply. “If she wanted to communicate with me, she would write me herself. Or better yet, she would come home.”
Turning away from the interfering servant, Leif marched across the hall and passed through the large double doors that led to the main tower. A dark and narrow hallway stretched several steps into the darkness before they reached another pair of heavy doors. Pushing through them, he entered a circular sitting room occupying the ground floor of the tower. He had managed to trace the sales of most of the Neville tapestries and artwork that had been sold by his grandfather and had been able to buy much of it back. Some of the tapestries hung in the main hall, the rest graced this tower room and the floors above that contained the lord and lady’s personal apartments.
Leif swept past the small antique writing desk set beneath one of the large eight windows and tossed the letter onto the growing pile of similar unopened envelopes. Flopping onto the sofa in front of the glowing fireplace, he let his head fall against the back. He closed his eyes and willed himself to ignore the tight twisting in his stomach.
It had been very late on the day after his wife’s momentous visit to his study when he learned of her departure. She had left a brief note in the center of his desk stating only that she had decided to take a small trip and that she would write him soon.
Inexplicably, he had been angered by her desertion. Even though it was exactly what he had expected, what he had hoped for. He had forced the anger aside knowing it was best this way. For her and for himself. He needed to be free of the sight, scent and sound of her if he were to get through the monumental task he had set for himself. Everything he had ever dreamed of was within his reach. Every day he saw his plans for Dunwood Park coming to life, his vision taking shape, yet his focus was continuously averted to thoughts of his wife. Her sighs of pleasure intruded in the silence of his study, pulling forth memories of those unforgettable nights and days they spent enjoying each other in the narrow bed of his small corner bedroom in London.
He had known even then that the pure unadulterated pleasure could not last.
Even if Lady Carlisle had not reminded him of his background, his true nature, he would have understood soon enough that it was only a matter of time before his wife became dissatisfied and disillusioned.
He had promised her children. But he could never be the husband she had wanted.
He had assumed when she left that she had simply returned to London. But when the Blackbournes came for a visit nearly five weeks after her departure, he discovered they hadn’t seen her nor heard from her. When he questioned the driver, he found out she had gone to London but had gone directly to the docks where she booked passage on the first ship bound for Dublin.
The news that she had returned to Ireland eased the panic that had claimed him when he discovered she hadn’t been in contact with the Blackbournes. But it gave rise to the understanding that apparently London hadn’t been quite far enough away.
Throwing himself into the restoration of Dunwood Park with the dedication of one obsessed, Leif tried to distract himself from thoughts of his wife. He spent hours in his study pouring over plans and even more time working beside the laborers so that when he finally found his bed it was to be greeted by a dreamless sleep.
Still he could not dispel the ghost of her presence. And every day his first thought in the morning and his last before sleeping were of her.
Abbigael had been gone more than two months when the first letter arrived from Sir Felix Granger.
Leif had not been in the mood to hear unwanted censure from his father-in-law. Nor had he been particularly interested in what the man had to say a month later when the next letter came. Or the next, or the next. Each letter came closer on the heels of the last with this latest, coming only two weeks from the prior.
Lifting his head from the back of the sofa, Leif looked askance at the writing desk and scowled at the pile of unopened envelopes. He should have thrown them out as soon as they arrived. Now, with no more work to occupy his time, the letters called to him with strident persistence.
A rough growl of annoyance issued from the back of his throat as he pushed himself forward to sit with his elbows braced on his spread knees. He glared at the letters with so much ire it was a wonder the paper didn’t ignite into flames. Shoving his hands back through his hair, he pushed to his feet and stalked to the desk. Gathering the stack in one angry sweep of his hand, he returned to the sofa.
It took a moment to put the letters in order of delivery and
then he sat back and began to read.
Dear Lord Neville,
I trust all is well in Sussex. I understand you have been making great progress on Dunwood Park.
As I am sure you are quite aware, Lady Neville arrived here in Dublin several weeks ago for an extended visit. I imagine you plan to join her at some point. Please advise when you expect to arrive as I imagine you will wish to engage in some socializing while you are here.
Sincerely,
The Right Honorable
Sir Felix Granger
Right, Leif mentally scoffed as he tossed the letter aside. He wondered how long it took for Abbigael to explain to her father that she had left him.
Dear Lord Neville,
Since I have not heard from you, I must assume my previous letter did not reach you. The post can be quite unpredictable at times.
Abbigael has been in residence here in Dublin for a few months now and has not yet joined the social scene beyond a few small parties with close friends. I can only assume she is waiting for your arrival before making her debut as the Viscountess Neville.
Please send word on when you plan to travel and I will have a carriage waiting for you.
Sincerely,
The Right Honorable
Sir Felix Granger
The second letter joined the first and Leif reached for the next one, breaking the seal with some impatience. A strange sense of foreboding started to settle in his awareness. Abbigael wasn’t going out. Sir Felix would have said if she were unwell, wouldn’t he?
Lord Neville,
Abbigael has relocated to my country estate in Wexford.
Unfortunately, I must remain in Dublin for a few more weeks.
I had thought you and Abbigael were at least in communication, but as I now understand, that has not been the case. Your absence these past months and lack of response to my letters is very disconcerting. It is not the behavior I would expect from a new husband and one who had gone to such lengths to ensure the hand of my daughter.
I understand something must have happened to force this distance, but Abbigael will not speak of it. In fact, she does not talk much at all these days.
Hopefully, the country air will restore her to a more pleasant state of mind, though it is my opinion she would be best served by returning to her husband.
Sir Felix
Leif ignored the criticizing tone of the letter to focus on the parts that mentioned Abbigael. She was not happy. Leif knew it for certain. She was retreating again into the self-contained little existence she had kept before they met.
Leif rose from the couch and paced to the window. He stared out at the lawn that sloped down from the back of the house before being swallowed by the line of dark trees. There was just enough room for a small garden, something he had once thought Abbigael might like to tend to.
He lifted the letter and re-read it.
Sir Felix was practically ordering him, in his non-committal way, to come and take Abbigael off his hands. Leif scowled. The man really had no idea how to relate to his daughter.
Returning to the sofa, Leif reached for the next letter.
Lord Neville,
This impasse is ridiculous and since my daughter refuses to contact you, I find I must do so one more time on her behalf.
Her spirits have continued to decline and I should not need to stress to you how much this concerns me, especially considering her delicate condition. It is vital that you come to Ireland and fix whatever rift has formed in your marriage and take your wife home before travel is no longer a safe option.
Sir Felix
Sir Felix was being frustratingly cryptic. Why couldn’t the man just come out and state his concerns clearly. Leif sensed there was something implied in the language of the letter he wasn’t quite getting. He read it through two more times. He tensed over the reference to Abbigael’s delicate condition. Surely by now, Sir Felix was able to recognize that his daughter was not the fragile child she had once been. And why on earth would travel be unsafe? It was a short trip from Ireland to England and the weather was not so cold as to be a hindrance.
He reached for the last letter. The one that had arrived today.
Neville,
I must insist that you come and fetch your wife.
She has become a termagant in the last week (much like her mother was during her confinement). My staff is becoming reluctant to tend her…and I am not ashamed to admit that I am at a terrible loss on how to handle her rapid shifts in mood and emotional outbursts.
As her husband, it is your responsibility and duty to be with her for the approaching event. Aside from physically forcing her onto a ship back to England, I am at a loss.
Sir Felix
P.S. I am not above begging you to heed this final request.
Leif dropped the letter to the floor, his fingers going numb.
Confinement.
Approaching event.
The numbness traveled up his arms and afflicted his legs. He turned and dropped back onto the sofa.
How long had Abbigael been gone?
He counted back the months and weeks.
Holy hell! Irish was pregnant. And would likely give birth within the next month or so.
A child.
His child.
Leif’s legs gave out and he slid off the sofa to the floor, his legs splayed out before him, and he lowered his head heavily into his hands.
He felt sick.
He had no idea how to be a father. His own had been a horrific example. How the hell was he going to manage this? His only experiences with children were his brief encounters with Anna’s son.
He lifted his head, thinking of how Anna had been at the end of her pregnancy. He had seen her only once in the last month of her confinement and remembered how uncomfortable she had appeared. Anna had never been one to complain over minor discomforts, but she had launched into a frank monologue describing every ache and pain she was experiencing during her final weeks. He remembered glancing at the earl and seeing him roll his eyes gently even as he smiled indulgently at his wife.
Leif had been amazed at the earl’s relaxed attitude. He could tell just by looking at Anna’s bloated belly and labored movements that she was not exaggerating her symptoms in the slightest. He hadn’t been able to escape their company quickly enough. The idea of his best friend enduring such difficulties made his chest feel tight and uncomfortable.
Now, he pictured his pale delicate wife heavy with child, essentially alone in the wilds of the Irish countryside.
He pushed to his feet and staggered toward the bell pull to call for Jack.
Then he paced. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants, eyes cast toward the floor, heart beating swift and strong like the wings of a peregrine falcon.
And beneath the panic, bubbling up slowly, was a feeling that took him quite a while to recognize. It was not until he glanced into a wall mirror as he passed by and saw the stupid grin on his face that he realized the strange consuming emotion was pure, effervescent joy.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The low rolling clouds of the storm that had just passed were still visible hovering over distant sheep dotted hills. The ground was wet and soft beneath the hooves of Leif’s rented horse and moisture shimmered over the grasses and trees, turning the green to glistening silver.
Keeping his mount to a slow and relaxing pace, Leif tilted his face into the breeze that wafted in from the meadow stretching high and thick alongside the deeply rutted country lane. The scent of the fresh air caused a familiar stirring within him.
He expected to reach Sir Felix’s estate in County Wexford by midday.
And what a glorious day, he thought.
Unbidden, a smile lightened his expression and he began to hum a lively Irish tune that had been running circles in his head since he had arrived in Dublin the day before. He took in the gentle rolling hills and dales and couldn’t help but admire the picturesque charm of the countryside. The ancient landscape pu
t him in the mind of the fairy-folk his old nurse had talked about when he had been a young boy who still believed in such things.
His father had at least done him one good turn, he thought. A rueful twist marred the previous joy of his smile. Leif had learned unequivocally how not to be a father.
The idea of being responsible for the care and well-being of a tiny little person completely dependent on him filled him with unexpected wonder and humility. He had never considered the full impact of what it would mean to have children. He had agreed readily enough to Abbigael when she included it as a condition of their marriage. Children typically resulted from the union between man and woman and the idea that they would eventually have them was not a surprising thought. But at the time, the concept had been a distant one.
Now, it was all too real and Leif was astounded by how much the thought of having a child filled him with a fine sense of purpose, greater even than his desire to see Dunwood Park restored had ever been. More than bricks and stone or tapestries and artwork, progeny was what made a lasting legacy.
The narrow road curved gently to the left around a stand of large oak trees and up ahead he saw a woman walking along with a large basket slung over one arm. He could not tell her age since she was headed in the same direction as he was, but she was dressed simply in a blue dress with a woolen shawl wrapped about her shoulders and a wide-brimmed straw bonnet set atop her head.
The picture she presented fit perfectly into the bucolic scene that Leif wished for a second he some talent as an artist. Then he shook his head at his fanciful thought. He was having a lot of fanciful thoughts lately. He daydreamed of children running like hoydens through the forests of Dunwood Park and family picnics in the orangery. Abbigael next to him, her hand in his.
As his horse approached, the woman stepped farther to the side of the road to allow him more room to pass. Leif was nearly alongside her when she paused and turned toward him. Tipping her head back, she gave him a smile of greeting from beneath the shadow of her hat.
