by Anne O'Brien
Dear Thomas. Her lips curled sadly at the memory. His compassion and kindness had been overwhelming as he led her to a seat, helping her mop up her tears with his own handkerchief. She could not have expected such concern for her broken heart, but he had been open in his generosity.
And Thomas had married her. He knew that she loved Hal. Yet he had still married her.
Oh, Thomas. How unfair I was to you! She rocked the baby against her. I gave you friendship and companionship, but I could not give you my heart. I never pretended otherwise, but I pray that you were satisfied. I think you deserved more. Perhaps you did love Octavia…but I can never accept that you would have treated me—or her—with such lack of respect. It was simply not in your nature to dissemble and hide the truth. We were always honest with each other.
She brushed away the dampness from her eyes, determinedly refusing to let her thoughts return to her troubled relationship with Hal and his imminent departure. She cradled the sleeping babe more comfortably, humming softly, her cheek resting against his hair.
‘You are so very young, still so unaware,’ she murmured. ‘And so you can never know your father—it will never be possible for you to grow up to experience for yourself his love and care. But I will tell you all about him when you are old enough to understand. I will never let you forget how splendid a man sired you, even though you will never be able to keep his image in your memory, and he will not know you as you grow to manhood.’ Turning her face into the soft curls, she hid the anguish. ‘And neither shall I forget. I shall remember him until the day I die.’ Her voice was soft, even if the words were fierce. The baby snuffled and burrowed against her. ‘You do not understand, but one day you will.’
Henry stood in the open doorway to the parlour. He had been standing there for some little time, having been dispatched by Mrs Stamford with an urgent request to her daughter. He could not help but listen and watch, uncomfortable at eavesdropping on so private a moment, but caught up in the situation. She was so loving, so tender with the child. The picture they made together, bathed in bright sunshine, gave them the glowing mysticism of a holy picture. Otherworldly. Beyond time. He would have liked to have walked in, enfolded them both in his arms in a symbol of love and possession, but could not, dare not, break the spell. He was shut out from this relationship by present circumstances and past history. His throat dried, his heart beat with a heavy pulse as he controlled the wave of regret and longing that compromised him with its intensity. Into his mind came the memory of the woman and the babe as he had once seen them, when Eleanor had leaned over the crib in candlelight and crooned a lullaby to a restless infant. The image was sharp, clear as the faceted crystals in the chandelier, and it rocked him to his very soul. Such love and tenderness between them. Henry was forced to turn his face away from the brightness before him, to close his eyes momentarily to shut out the promise of what might have been, and yet could never be. He would have retreated, leaving her undisturbed. After all, he did not know what to say to her and in that moment could not trust his composure.
Then, as he would have stepped back, she became aware and turned her head, a little startled. He had no choice but to continue with his errand.
‘I did not mean to disturb you, my lady.’ Eleanor apparently did not notice his hesitation. But his voice sounded strained, even to his own ears.
‘You have not.’ What was he thinking? His expression was bleak, the flat planes of his face stark with an emotion held in check. She hid her own discomfort behind a polite exterior, but could not look at him.
‘Your mother seems to feel that there is urgent need for you below stairs. She accosted me in the hall. Some disagreement, I believe. She would not explain, but she is not happy.’
‘Oh. My mother tends to see household catastrophes where they do not exist.’ Eleanor managed a slight smile as she sighed.
‘I dare not suggest such a thing. I think you had better go.’ Henry’s appraising glance took in her discomfort, her lack of ease in his presence. He wished that he knew why.
‘It will be some trivial matter that Marcle will be able to solve without difficulty. My mama has a need to interfere!’
‘I am aware. But dare not say that either!’
Now she laughed, the atmosphere lightened, as had been his intent. ‘If you would ring the bell for Jennie to take Tom…’
‘No matter. I can watch my nephew for a few moments without danger to him or myself, I expect.’
‘Are you sure?’ He did not know whether he saw amusement or uncertainty on her face as her eyes finally lifted to his, but either was better than her previous withdrawal.
‘No. I can but try.’
She laughed again as she walked to the door, quickly turning her face away. How much had he heard of her foolish conversation with Tom? She was intensely aware of the hot colour that stained her cheeks, embarrassed by her vivid memories of a few moments before.
‘Eleanor.’ His voice stopped her. ‘Will you return when you have dealt with the crisis? There is a matter that I need to discuss with you.’
‘Of course.’ She frowned. ‘Should I be worried?’
‘No. Not a matter of concern—rather one of hope. But there is something you should know that Nicholas has discovered.’
‘Very well.’ Eleanor tucked the child securely into the corner of a chair, supported by a cushion and, with the brief instruction to watch her son, left in the direction of her mother’s raised voice.
‘So.’ Henry eyed the child with some disquiet. ‘What do we do? I know nothing of babes. I suppose I can talk to you. Or perhaps I simply leave you to sit there until your mother returns. And pray that it will not be long!’
A whimper at the loss of his mother was the only response.
‘Don’t cry. Not that. I shall have failed and have to face your mama’s wrath. Come here.’ He bent and lifted the child with definite lack of expertise, but carefully enough, to carry him to the window as Eleanor had done. ‘There—that is far more interesting.’ He looked at the child, noting the features, his heart suddenly clenching in his chest. ‘Oh, God! Thomas. I wish you had not died. You should see your son. So much like you.’ He smiled as the baby blinked owlishly at him. ‘Even to that innocent stare when there is mischief afoot. I predict he will be a handful as he grows—but with all the charm in the world.’ The smile faded, his features taking on an austere cast. ‘And his mother is exactly what you would have wished. I will care for your son—and Eleanor, if she will allow it. For both of them, as you would have done.’
Eleanor returned, the matter of responsibilities for ordering both household and kitchen candles quickly smoothed over, to see Henry in the window, holding the child. She came to an abrupt halt, much as Henry had done earlier. The breath caught in her throat at the unexpected scene. Both dark heads close together, some ridiculous conversation going on, which had caused the child to focus on Lord Faringdon with determined concentration and an instantly recognisable Faringdon frown. The object under discussion appeared to be Henry’s half-hunter repeater watch, which he had opened to chime the hours and the quarters. Tom’s frown suddenly replaced by a grin in which teeth were just beginning to emerge. He giggled at the bell-like tones.
She could weep for what might have been as Henry turned his head at her approaching footsteps.
‘Eleanor.’ The relief was palpable. ‘As you see, I am entertaining your son. Not a tear in sight.’
‘Thank you.’ She was unintentionally abrupt, to hide the emotion that threatened her composure.
‘You had better take him. I might drop him.’
‘You look very competent.’ She held out her arms, then turned her back, concentrating on the child, struggling to keep her voice light. Her heart ached. ‘You said you had something to tell me.’
‘Yes. It will interest you inordinately to know that Octavia’s name is not Baxendale. It is Broughton. Aunt Beatrice remembered.’
‘Broughton!’ Eleanor became very still
as enlightenment came to her, her eyes widening. The unexpected news overrode her wayward emotions and her discomfort in Henry’s presence. She now turned to face him, features vivid with renewed hope, but still kept her gaze fixed on Tom’s face. ‘And so her brother? The Reverend Julius, I presume.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then…’ she shook her head ‘…why did Sir Edward claim to be her brother? Why did the Reverend Broughton lie to us?’
‘The details are not yet clear. But tomorrow Nick and I will go back to Whitchurch. The Reverend has an unsavoury reputation, it would appear. Nick has traced him to some of his London haunts. Debt is an issue. It might explain why he was willing to put his hand to documents so obviously fraudulent.’
‘And you do not want me there.’ She nodded once in quick understanding, but still disappointment.
Henry walked to the other side of the room, to put as much distance between them as was possible. He did not want to see the wild hope in her eyes. It was difficult enough to hear traces of it in her voice without surrendering to a need to hold and comfort her—in case their investigation came to nought.
‘It would serve no purpose, Nell.’ His words sounded cold, unfeeling.
‘I understand. Whatever you wish, of course.’
‘You amaze me, Eleanor.’ Those well-marked Faringdon brows arched.
‘Did you expect me to demand that I accompany you?’
‘Yes. Nick and I thought we would have to lock you in your room.’
‘I see. So you have already discussed the possibility!’ And clearly not something that he wished for. Against her will, she was touched by amusement and decided to be charitable. ‘No, I shall not be so difficult and uncooperative.’
‘We could have the key to the whole secret by tomorrow night.’ He tried to be encouraging.
‘Yes. It will be a relief.’ Her voice was colourless, disguising the thoughts that jostled in her mind, destroying the hope that should have been ignited by his words. It will all be over. I should be overjoyed. My son’s inheritance is safe. She looked at the handsome man standing by the door. Noting the distance between them. Recognising his deliberate intent. And then he can go back. Back to Rosalind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything but the benefit for your son. Don’t hope for the impossible. He did not want you before. He will not want you now. It is finished.
Henry was shattered by the stricken look on her face, a fleeting expression of despair, seemingly incongruous with the news he had just brought her. Perhaps he misread it. Perhaps she was simply tired. But he doubted it.
He bowed and left. There was nothing he could do for her but unmask Edward Baxendale and Julius Broughton as the villains that they undoubtedly were.
He would do that, if he could do nothing else.
Lord Henry made the journey once more by curricle to the tranquil village where a malicious plot had been conceived and put into motion, accompanied as planned by his brother. It had to be admitted that he was not sorry; it was a more relaxed journey without the tensions and enticements of Eleanor’s presence. But he had been more than a little surprised by her compliant willingness to remain in London, her uncharacteristically placid acceptance of his decision. Or perhaps it had not been placid but edgy, withdrawn, an unwillingness to be in his company, and he said as much to Nicholas as the miles sped past.
‘She did not wish to come.’
‘She seemed very calm about the whole affair at breakfast.’ So Nicholas had sensed nothing untoward. ‘You did not then have to lock her in her room.’
‘No.’
Nicholas thought about it. ‘You can’t blame her. This will not be a pleasant interview and she would learn nothing that we cannot report back, after all.’
‘No.’
But it worried him. Did she dislike him so much, a renewal of the hatred and contempt that had flashed in her eyes when he had first returned to Burford Hall? And if so, what had precipitated it? Had their night together, however unwise it might have been, not been what he had thought? She had quite deliberately refused to meet his eyes when he had told her of Nick’s discovery, deliberately turning her back against him, when only the night after the Sefton soirée she had shivered in his arms. Arched her body against his and cried out his name with a fierce passion that had matched his own. And yet when she had returned to the parlour to take her son from his arms her response to him had been cold and aloof. He might as well have been a stranger to her. Women! How could a man ever be expected to follow their train of thought? He snapped his thoughts back to the present, tightening the reins, as one of the lively bays took it into its head to shy at a passing pheasant.
The minor skirmish and battle of wills over, his thoughts turned back to Eleanor whether he wished it or not. It was for the best. He could leave for New York with nothing to pull him back to England. No unfinished business, no untied ends, no tangled emotions. The bitterness might have dissipated from their relationship but, whatever Nick had intimated—and he was not perfectly sure that he understood his brother’s comments—Eleanor was more than willing to turn her back on him as if there had never been any passion between them. So be it. It would be better so. There were no alternatives open to them under the law and it would be irresponsible of him to even contemplate anything other than a distance between them. Time and space would allow them to forget. To heal. Memories would fade. He would settle in New York, marry, produce an heir—and think of Eleanor merely as a pleasant if complicated interlude in his past, with no power to hurt or move him to unbearable need.
Not that time and space had worked any such miracle in the past two years! But it would. It must!
What could he possibly hope for in a future with Eleanor? The law and the church forbade any relationship between them, other than that of brother and sister. He set his teeth and concentrated on his horses.
They approached the pretty village of Whitchurch once more with its Norman church and cluster of tidy cottages. Past the Great House, still shuttered, where Sir Edward Baxendale lived with a sister and a baby—a sister who was not Octavia Baxendale. Or Octavia Broughton. And on to the Red Lion where Jem Abbott welcomed them, remembered his lordship and his open-handedness, stabled their horses and offered them tankards of ale. Henry refused and they walked the village street to where the vicarage was tucked behind the church in its leafy glade. No funeral occupied the churchyard this day to take up the Reverend Julius Broughton’s time. It could be presumed that he would be at home to receive them.
The door to the vicarage was opened at their knock by the same village girl who had been present on Henry’s previous visit. Young and comely, dark haired and dark eyed, with a flash of vivacious spirit and interest as she cast a less than servant-like glance over the two visitors. Her lips curled in welcome, her eyes sparkled with a sly flirtatious intent. She was very young, as Henry remembered, an unlikely choice for a housekeeper—but the house was undoubtedly well kept. Perhaps the Reverend had discovered a jewel. And yet, Henry admitted cynically, in the light of their knowledge from Kingstone, and Jem Abbot’s knowing comments, perhaps housewifely duties had not been uppermost in the priest’s motives when employing her.
‘Come in, my lord.’ The girl stepped back. ‘The master is in the library.’
‘Molly, is it not?’
‘Yes, my lord. I remember you.’ She gave him an appraising stare again at odds with her apparent role in the household. ‘And could this be your brother? He has the look.’ She dropped a pert curtsy and then with a swing of her hips she preceded them down the corridor and into the front parlour. ‘I will see if the master is available to see you.’ And left them, closing the door quietly behind her.
Nick raised his brows. ‘I see what you mean.’ He grinned. ‘Not my first image of housekeeper in a vicarage. She is certainly nothing like Mrs Calke at Burford Hall.’
‘Nothing at all! Don’t let yourself be distracted, Nick!’
‘No. I would not dare! But I wager th
at the Reverend Julius is, between writing sermons and burying the dead. She must be a great solace to him. Especially on a cold night.’
Henry snorted in appreciation and agreement, when Molly returned to usher them into the library with the sweetest and most innocent of smiles for the two gentlemen.
The room was as Henry recalled it. Bright with sunshine, polished with the faint aroma of beeswax and lavender lingering in the air, the books arranged with neat precision on their shelves. What had he thought when he had first entered it? The room of a scholar and academic? How wrong he had been. The gentleman in question sat behind his desk, light falling on his fair hair and finely chiselled features. Appearances were deceptive—they had been well deceived by the Reverend Broughton! Lord Henry controlled the surge of bitterness that threatened to choke him when he considered the results of this man’s immoral meddling.
‘My lord.’ The priest rose from his chair, a faint but not unfriendly enquiry on his handsome face. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Reverend.’ Henry inclined his head in a cool acknowledgement. ‘Can I present to you my brother, Lord Nicholas Faringdon? Nick, this is the Reverend Julius Broughton.’
They bowed, manners impeccable.
‘I believed our business to be complete, my lord. I think I can give you no further information about the affairs of your late brother and Octavia Baxendale.’ The priest’s forehead creased in a slight frown, but the smile remained on his lips. He looked from one brother to the other for enlightenment, causing Henry to marvel at the man’s ability to pursue the charade. How could anyone suspect a gentleman of such well-bred appearance and deportment—and a priest—of deceit and trickery?
