by Gaelen Foley
“In good time, my dear, all shall come to light.” Bel’s white-haired father smiled, his unlit cob pipe clamped between his teeth.
Just then, Lucien’s wife, Alice, strode to the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”
“Hear, hear!” Lucien chimed in, quieting everyone for her announcement.
With a smile, Alice turned toward the bridal table and gave a small curtsy. “Lord and Lady Rackford, in honor of your nuptials, we will now present the entertainment. Aunt Miranda,” she added, “we’ll need your voice.”
The tall, raven-haired beauty got up out of her chair and strode lightly across the room to Alice’s side. The twins’ wives waited amid much cheering and applause from the rowdy Knight brothers.
“Quiet, you ruffians,” Alice scolded. “You are going to scare our performers.” She nodded to the footman, who opened the door.
In came the nursery maids, escorting their charges: Alice’s nephew and ward, little Harry, Baron Glen-wood, who was nearly five. Harry held hands with Bel and Robert’s two-year-old, the earl of Morley, known to his mama as Bobby. The two diminutive lordlings advanced shyly into the center of the room. Their hair was neatly combed, and they were dressed in tiny tailcoats, trousers, and cravats.
At Alice’s cue, Harry bowed; Morley followed suit, nearly toppling headlong. One of the uniformed nursery maids placed Alice and Lucien’s one-year-old daughter, Pippa, on the floor in front of her cousins. Then, with Miranda’s help, the children sang them a bon voyage song, wishing them off safely, though Pippa did little more than lean her bald head against Miranda’s bent knee and wave her arms in excitement.
Lucien, visibly smitten and laughing, shook his head, watching his daughter. Harry was struck with stage fright midway through the song. He popped his finger in his mouth and glanced uncertainly at his old nurse, Peg. Morley, a serious little fellow like his papa, gave his best effort, staring at Miranda and faintly echoing her words.
“Bravo!” Jacinda applauded when their song came to an end. The rest of the family did likewise.
Pippa beamed at everyone, though, in truth, she was applauded for every tiny thing she ever did; Harry rushed off to pounce on his favorite uncle, Alec; while Morley came over to Jacinda. He stood there regarding her thoughtfully until she picked him up and set him on her lap.
“That was a wonderful song, Morley! How handsome you look today. Do you know who this gentleman is?” Jacinda asked the tot, turning to her husband.
It was then that Jacinda noticed the wary, mystified way Rackford was watching her brothers playing with their children. If high society had been a strange world to him, his first experience of being a part of a loving, close-knit family appeared even more so. Her gaze softened at the impact it seemed to be having on him, of seeing the tender kindness of these young fathers to their little ones. Lucien had taught Pippa how to rub noses with her papa, a game that filled the baby with endless delight—and all the world knew she was the apple of her father’s eye. Miranda had given the nursemaids permission to bring down her lusty, squalling twins so that Jacinda could bid Edward and Andrew farewell before leaving on her journey. Lizzie asked if she might hold Andrew, while Damien came over to them and put his arm around Miranda, boasting proudly about how strong Edward’s tiny grip was on his finger.
When Rackford turned to Jacinda with a hundred questions in his eyes, her heart clenched to think of the dearth of love and affection he had known in his early life. She leaned toward him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
As the afternoon shadows grew long, it soon came time to leave Knight House. They would set out at once for Dover, where they would take the packet across the Channel with their entourage of three carriages—one for themselves, one for the servants, and one for the mountain of luggage they would require for so long an absence. Jacinda fully intended to show Rackford the pleasures of traveling in style.
Good-byes were always a long, drawn-out affair at holidays and other celebratory occasions, and this was no exception. It took them half an hour to get as far as the entrance hall. As Jacinda waited for Rackford to leave off joking around with Lucien and Alec, her nephews, Harry and Morley, came racing over to her.
“Auntie Jacinda! Auntie Jacinda!”
“Yes, darlings?” she asked, bending down to gather them near her.
“We found a note!” Morley shouted.
“You dropped it under your chair.” Harry handed her a piece of paper with an air of great self-importance.
“Thank you, boys.” Noticing the Truro seal embedded in the wax, she realized the letter must have fallen out of Rackford’s pocket.
“What does it say?” Harry asked solemnly.
“Well, it appears to be Lord Rackford’s. We wouldn’t want to pry….” On the other hand, he still had not confided in her about the night at Torcarrow, even though Reg and Justin knew about it. Besides, the children had already unfolded the letter.
She stole only a brief glance at the large, exquisitely formed handwriting that flowed urgently across the page, but upon reading the first line, she knew instantly that something was very wrong. Devil take his privacy, she thought; then she read the rest.
Dearest William,
Did you not receive my earlier letter? I have not had an answer from you yet. Please come. I know that you are angry, but if you have any pity for your mother, you must know I need you at this difficult time.
The physicians say your father will not live long. The apoplexy has taken the use of the left half of his body, and they fear a second attack is imminent. They are bleeding him and giving him all the best care, but he worsens by the day. Surely you can find it in your heart to come to us. Anxiously awaiting your arrival.
With all my love,
Your Mother
Jacinda read it again, barely able to believe her eyes. Lord Truro was dying? What on earth had happened? she wondered. Then she turned her gaze slowly to her husband, who stood, laughing and talking, with her brothers. She couldn’t believe he had not seen fit to mention to her that his father was on his deathbed.
Quickly folding the letter, she grasped his hand, bid her guests and family a final, rather terse adieu, and led her husband to the waiting coach.
“Coachman, to Dover!” Rackford called merrily, waving one last time to everyone as he handed Jacinda into the festooned, beribboned carriage.
She suspected he was slightly foxed. She paused on the carriage step. “Belay that order. One moment, please. Husband, may I have a word with you?” She tugged him into the coach.
“Growing impatient, my love?” He sprang up into the coach and dropped into the opposite squab with a jaunty grin.
She pursed her lips and handed him the letter. “You dropped this. Care to tell me what the deuce is going on?”
Instantly, his smile faded. He took the letter from her and cast it aside, then gave her an insolent look. “Not really.”
“What happened?”
He rolled his eyes and looked away. “The old bastard collapsed in a fit of apoplexy. Something like that.”
“Rackford! When?”
“A week ago.” He gave a disgusted sigh. “My mother said Truro was in a foul temper for days after I wrote, informing him of our betrothal. Then one of the servants sparked his wrath with some insignificant mistake and he flew into a rage—drunk, of course. Mother said he was screaming at the footman when his fury brought on the apoplexy. He fell to the ground, convulsing, and lost consciousness for twenty-four hours. When he came to, the left half of his body was paralyzed.”
She stared wonderingly at him. “I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me this. Rackford.”
“Yes, Jacinda?” he asked in a bored tone.
She searched his eyes. “We must go to them.”
“Absolutely not. We are going to the Continent, my dear. I promised you we would. I’m not going to let that bastard ruin our honeymoon. Everything is arranged.”
�
��It can wait. This is more important, Rackford. We must go to Cornwall.”
“No, it isn’t. People die every day. So what?”
“But this is your father.”
“All the more reason.”
“Darling, I know you are deeply, deeply angry at the man. You have every reason to be, but think of your mother. We cannot leave her to face this on her own.”
“Why not? Many a time that woman left me to face that blackguard alone. I survived. So will she.”
“Rackford!”
“Jacinda, I am not going to Cornwall. Ever. They don’t deserve a visit from us. They insulted you. If he could have found it within him to be happy for us and come to the wedding, instead of working himself into a fit of rage over my choice of brides, this would not have happened to him. He did it to himself. The blackguard can go to the devil for all I care. Come, let us leave now for France.” He started to rap on the inside of the coach to signal the driver to go, but she stopped him.
“Be practical! If he is going to die, that means you are about to come into your inheritance. Don’t you think it might be wise to speak with him and make sure everything is in order? There may be items of business related to the marquisate of which you may need to be informed before it comes down to you.”
“Our solicitors will advise me of anything I need to know.”
“Weren’t you even going to answer your mother’s letter? The woman is frantic.”
“She is always frantic, Jacinda. She exaggerates everything to try to gain my pity. Every other day is a calamity.”
“This time, I daresay, it’s real. Rackford, this may be your last chance to make peace with your father.”
“He’s the one who needs to make peace with me,” he said bitterly.
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s exactly my point.”
“I vowed never to return to Cornwall.”
“Things are different now, sweeting. I don’t see how you can avoid it. When your father dies, you will be the marquess of Truro and St. Austell and the master of Torcarrow, as will your son after you. Your rank puts you in a position of responsibility that I know the man I love would never shirk.”
He closed his eyes and turned away. “You don’t know what you are asking of me.”
“Yes, I do.” She reached over and caressed his shoulder, pausing as she weighed her words. “Rackford, when are you going to confide in me? I know now that Reg and Justin were there the night you ran away.”
He turned back to her, paling slightly, his angular face etched with slowly deepening shock. “You know?”
She nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“God, no.”
She closed her eyes briefly, striving for patience. “I didn’t think so. Rackford, everything in me is certain that you must do this—if not for your father’s good, then for your own, and for the good of our children in the future. This poisonous hatred must end.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. She watched him warring with himself. His green eyes churned with bitter resentment, and his square jaw was taut.
“You won’t have to face it alone, darling,” she said softly, taking his hand. “I will be there with you every step of the way. Then we’ll go to Europe. I promise it will still be there.”
He searched her eyes in stormy defiance, but when she gave him an encouraging nod, he climbed out of the coach and gave the driver his new instructions—not east to Dover, but west.
To Cornwall.
With frequent changes of horses at the posting inns along the way, they made the journey in four grueling days, traveling each night until the summer light failed at around ten, taking to the road again at dawn. It was Rackford who set this booming pace, not from any eagerness to arrive, but merely because he wanted to get the whole ordeal over with. He was distant and moody for most of the journey, grumbling about the miserable food at the coaching inns, the heat, the dust, the incessant creaking of the coach springs, and his boredom with sitting in the carriage for so many hours on end.
“This is not,” he grumbled every few hours, “how I envisioned spending my honeymoon!”
Jacinda was careful to treat him gently, aware that few things could have been more difficult for him than revisiting the setting where he had long ago fled such heartless cruelty. He seemed slightly happier when he rode on top of the coach, lying idly across the secured luggage with his coat off and the sun on his face. She knew he was mentally gathering himself to confront not merely his father, but the painful memories of his distant past. For her part, she wondered what sort of reception she would receive from her in-laws.
The weather remained cooperative, and the major coaching roads were smooth and fast as far as Exeter; but their progress slowed considerably when they ventured westward on smaller, regional byways. Through the rugged Dartmoor terrain they labored, at last crossing the River Tamar into Cornwall. The landscape’s reprieve was brief, for soon Bodmin Moor swallowed them up, in turn—a bleak, sweeping expanse of pensive beauty. Jacinda rode atop the coach with Rackford, watching the cloud shadows sculpt the broad valleys and windswept hills.
As they traveled down the center of the ever-narrowing peninsula, Rackford told her that St. Austell, one of the towns from which his father’s title had been taken, lay about ten miles east. It was famous, he said, for the excellence of its fine hard-paste clay, which was regularly shipped to the famous Midlands potteries to be used in the making of England’s most distinctive porcelain and fine china. Truro, the larger town with its grand, flamboyant cathedral, was situated about fifteen miles farther south.
At half-past seven in the evening of the fourth day, they neared the little fishing village of Perranporth and climbed the dramatic hillside until they could see the ominous, weather-beaten castle overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic.
She glanced at Rackford. He was staring at Torcarrow in brooding defiance, the wind rippling through his sandy hair.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jacinda’s presence beside him helped him stand firm against the hissing devils in his head that whispered, You’re worthless. He stared at Torcarrow in the distance with his fists clenched in long-nursed anger and a shocking degree of childlike fear. He did his best to hide the churning whirlpool of emotion that this homecoming had wrought in him. As their caravan of three carriages rolled up the long drive, she seemed to sense the rising tide of sadness in him.
She took his hand between her own, giving him her silent, sturdy comfort as he struggled to take the grief in stride. He did not wish anyone, not even her, to see the tears that he refused to shed for all that he had lost in this place.
Instead, he clung to bittersweet memories of the happy moments, pointing out the stand of trees where he and his brother had once had a long rope swing, the overgrown garden folly where they had found a nest of baby owls. He could feel the change in the air as they neared the ocean—the steady wind, the abrasive cleansing salt, the scent of which unfurled countless memories that he had deemed forever lost.
As they drove closer, he did not have the heart to point out the family crypt to Jacinda. The small building was modeled on a Grecian temple and sat amid a serene grove of oaks near the ornamental pond. Percy had been laid to rest there among their ancestors; Father, also, would be buried there if the old blighter indeed saw fit to pop off.
Rackford still doubted it, despite his mother’s vows that Truro the Terrible was dying. The man had always seemed to him a force of nature. How could a mighty, evil djinni die?
When they pulled up to the entrance, Jacinda glanced nervously at him. “They’re going to hate me, aren’t they?”
He kissed her hand. “It’s not you they hate, Jas. What they hate is the fact that they cannot control me. Don’t let them get to you.”
He realized that, despite his earlier refusal to come, his mother must have told the servants to expect him at any moment, for six footmen marched out at once and formed a waiting corridor to rec
eive them, while a butler and a heavyset older woman in an apron rushed out of the entrance.
“Oh, it’s Master Billy! Master Billy’s come home!” she called to the rest of the staff. More servants came hurrying out to the front of the house.
Rackford stared incredulously. “Why, it’s Mrs. Landry, our old cook! And Mr. Becket, the butler! I can’t believe they’re still here!” He bounded out of the coach into their midst.
Jacinda fondly watched his exuberant reunion with the kindly old servants who had been with the family since before he was born.
“Dear old Cooky. You are the best part of coming home.” He hugged the plump old woman for a long moment, whispering his gratitude in her ear for the bag of coins she had secretly stowed away in his satchel for him the night he had run away. Her blue eyes twinkled with adoration as she patted his cheek.
“Now, then, Master Billy, I’ve made a special treat for your return to us.”
“Not clotted cream?” he exclaimed in anticipation.
“With black treacle,” she answered knowingly.
“Your favorite.”
With a short bark of laughter, he whirled around. “Jacinda! Come here, darling. Meet our cook, Mrs. Landry. You have not lived until you’ve had a proper Cornish cream, and Mrs. Landry’s treacle is the envy of the county.”
“Oh, hush. What a charmer you always were even as a boy, Master Billy,” she scolded with a blush of pleasure. “I can’t believe how big you’ve grown!”
He laughed and introduced each of the other servants to his beautiful young bride. They all seemed awed at first by Jacinda’s golden beauty and London-bred sophistication, but her warmth and the laughter in her merry brown eyes quickly put them at ease—and they seemed to have a similar effect on her.
Before long, Mr. Becket bustled them along into the house. “Your rooms have been made ready, Lord and Lady Rackford. This way. The marchioness awaits you.”
They tarried in their rooms just long enough to freshen up and steal a kiss; then they braced themselves and obediently went to pay their respects to Lady Truro.
