“All right? Who’ll be the one to take the challenge?”
Shaking away the glimpse of such a horrific end, Gerrit stepped forward. The idea had seemed such a lark. He’d remembered Miss Leighton’s fright when he’d leaned over the edge, at first just to tease her.
Now, as he stared down at the gloomy abyss, the idea grew on him to test himself. His glance strayed to the darkening sky, the first stars beginning to twinkle. Perhaps, too, it was a direct challenge to whoever held the reins of life and death. How far must he go before his breath would be snuffed out like the thousands of young men buried in anonymous fields across the Continent?
The soldiers around him began to chant their huzzahs. It reminded him of leading a charge into battle. It seemed the louder the roar of their voices, the more they could dismiss their fear.
Giving himself no time to back down, Gerrit took the bottle of champagne offered him and lifted it to his lips. The sharp, fizzy liquid flowed down his throat, strengthening his resolve. When he’d drunk his fill, he flung the bottle over the side, and they heard it smash against the roof tiles far below. Would his body follow, arms and legs flailing like a rag doll?
With a nod to his lieutenant, he indicated he was ready. Edgar stepped forward and gave him a hand up.
A wave of lightheadedness swept over him. Gerrit remained crouched atop the stone balustrade, his hands gripping the rough surface, and cursed himself a fool. The huzzahs began again. Daring to look at the men on his left, he saw a ring of shiny faces, their cheeks exerted with their shouts. He might die a fool, but not a coward. Resolved to see it through, he took his hands away from their support. With one, he grasped Edgar’s.
Slowly Gerrit rose to his feet. Once standing, he waited a few seconds to steady his legs, which felt woozy from the champagne.
He let go of Edgar’s hand, knowing he was letting go of his last lifeline. At all accounts, he must not look down. He instead focused on the man who had gone to mark the end of the course. Taking a few deep breaths to clear his head, Gerrit stretched his arms out to keep his balance and took a step forward.
Only nineteen to go.
Easy, he told himself, just one foot in front of the other, just as he had done when scaling the walls of the French fortress at Ciudad Rodrigo. Only then, he hadn’t been drunk and his perception had been sharpened by the sense of mission.
The breeze pushed against him and he was aware once again how easy it would be to topple over. Images danced before his eyes. Battle explosions, lights of other cities, laughter, drinking companions, women, their faces all a blur. He struggled to maintain his focus on the man at the other end. One boot in front of the other. Only ten paces to go.
He breathed out. The image of falling over the side and ending up with his skull split against the roof like the champagne bottle hovered at the edge of his mind.
Five paces to go. Three, two…
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” broke out all around him when he reached the soldier.
“Double if you make it back!”
Repeat the insane feat? As he stood, another shouted, “Fifty quid!”
The men took up the chant. “Fifty quid for a return!”
He chanced a glance at Edgar, who shook his head. The gesture was enough to decide him. Once again Gerrit held out his hand and Edgar was forced to help him turn around on the narrow surface. Gerrit’s eyes swept the length of the return journey. One false step and it would be all over. Why should he risk it again?
Because he had nothing to live for, and every reason to die. With a deep breath, he took a step forward.
Fall. Fall. The chant sprang up in his mind. How far could his luck hold? The shouts of the men grew louder even as they seemed to be coming from farther and farther away. He was alone with the sky, the narrow ledge beneath him and a great chasm to one side.
Halfway to his destination, one foot slipped on the stone. For a timeless few seconds, Gerrit flailed his arms about, certain it was his end. But a part of him fought to live. Dear God, help me!
Blind panic crowded everything else. Then miraculously he regained his balance. He risked a glance to the side. Not one man spoke. Fear was written on every face. Edgar still held out his arms as if to catch him had he fallen. Gerrit managed a grin and small wave of his hand. The men broke out in wild shouts.
He began to walk again.
Hardly aware of crossing the remaining space, he found himself at the end. The men grabbed him up on their shoulders and marched him around the narrow walkway.
“Our hero! Hawkes! Waterloo’s finest!” A champagne cork popped off and Gerrit grabbed the neck of the bottle handed up to him, its white foam spilling over his fingers. He gulped down the liquid, experiencing the heady victory and relief of surviving another battle.
One more bloody massacre of human flesh. Once again, he’d cheated death of its grasp.
When would his luck turn? he asked the night sky again. How many challenges would be too many?
Chapter Seven
Hester arrived at Thistleworth Park on a Friday afternoon with Mrs. Bellows. Her father had been unable to attend the house party but had met with Lady Stanchfield and her husband to ensure that his daughter would be well looked after.
A few miles beyond the village of Sunbury, they came to the lodge and gates of Thistleworth. Hester peered down the long tree-lined drive, seeing no house in sight.
Their hired chaise-and-four rode over the dirt lane for what seemed a long time. She glimpsed lush green pastures sprinkled with sheep and cows through the thin line of trees. At last they turned on to a gravel drive and began to cross a small bridge.
“How delightful. Look at the swans!” Hester craned her neck out the window and pointed. Willow trees draped their fronds into a large pond with a small island at its center.
“My dear, we’ve arrived.”
Hester turned to look out Mrs. Bellows’s side and drew in her breath at the sight of the large brick mansion fronted by tall white columns with a pointed turret at each corner. “It looks like a castle from a storybook!”
Mrs. Bellows agreed. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? One of the finest Tudor mansions in Middlesex. Oh, it’s been renovated extensively in the last century and is quite commodious, so you needn’t worry. You are fortunate that Major Hawkes took such a liking to you, dear. His sister is very well positioned.”
Hester ignored the older lady’s comment. She had heard or seen nothing of the major since their outing to the cathedral, although the next day the viscountess had called on her. Hester had taken a liking to the vivacious lady at once, and hid any disappointment she felt over the major’s absence.
A large fountain splashed a cascade of water in the center of the clipped front lawn as their coach drew to a stop in front of a wide set of stairs. A liveried footman came immediately to open the door and lower the step.
Several other carriages stood in the curved drive and confusion reigned over the next several minutes as footmen signaled the guests. They gave their names to one, who signaled them to follow a maid before turning to give instructions about their luggage. Hester didn’t see her hostess anywhere.
They followed the maid across a wide courtyard at the top of the steps.
“Is there always so much mayhem at a house party?” she whispered to Mrs. Bellows.
“Oh, dear yes. Lady Stanchfield’s are famous since she married the viscount. Though always an exclusive guest list. Of course, she’s known for her hospitality, so there will never be fewer than a dozen people, most likely more. You should see it during the hunting season when the viscount brings his friends along.”
Mrs. Bellows continued her description as they followed the maid across a wide room filled with marble statuary and sculpted ceilings, and up a carpeted staircase. Hester said nothing, too interested in looking about her.
Uniformed maids and footmen passed them, their young faces looking harried.
The maid opened a door and they followed her into a
room filled with gilt furniture. Soft thick carpet muffled their footsteps.
After an inspection, Mrs. Bellows nodded at the maid. “We’ll do very well here.”
As the older lady directed the girl to bring them some refreshment, Hester removed her bonnet and wandered to one of the windows. How soon before she could explore the grounds? She unlatched the window and leaned against the stone rail.
She breathed in the scent of mown grass, glad to be alone for a few moments, away from Mrs. Bellows’s chattering.
Lush forests edged the wide lawns. In the distance a flock of sheep grazed in one field, while in a grove of cedar trees she glimpsed a stone structure like a temple. Appealing shrubbery-edged walkways invited a person to wander through them.
She turned back into the room and picked up her bonnet. “I shall be back in a bit. I’m going for a walk.”
“But, my dear, you can’t—you mustn’t go alone.”
Before she could utter more protests, Hester opened the door and stepped into the hallway. At the look of shock on the older lady’s face, Hester almost relented. “I shan’t be gone above half an hour. You needn’t worry.”
“My dear, wait. It’s simply not done—”
Leaving the older woman’s words floating behind her, Hester closed the door and hurried down the hall, trying to retrace her steps.
It wasn’t as difficult as she’d supposed. She simply walked against the trail of footmen, maids and guests making their way upstairs. Finally, she was outside and away from the confusion of the arriving guests. She circled the house and made her way to the gardens she’d seen from her room.
She needed to be alone before facing the other guests that evening. If they were anything like the ones she’d met in London up to now, it would be like braving the first snowstorm in winter, feeling the sting of snowflakes against her exposed cheeks. Only Major Hawkes and his sister had expressed any warmth to a Yankee. As soon as anyone else had perceived she was from the former Colonies, their aristocratic bearing became as cold and hard as one of the thick icicles hanging from the eaves of her house. She needed to remember who she was and what her life was about, she reminded herself.
Raising her face in the warm afternoon sun and closing her eyes, she prayed. Dear Lord, You are my all in all. You give my life purpose and meaning. I thank You that You’ve brought me so far and shown me so many things. Help me remember I am Your vessel. I am here neither to awe this company of the fashionable world nor to be awed by them. I am here to reflect Your glory alone.
Feeling better, she followed a gravel path which led her to the small lake she’d spotted from the coach. She entered the shadowy area under the willows and stood there watching the swans swim silently by. She sat down on a stone bench. Her thoughts returned to Major Hawkes. Despite his offer of friendship, he had not called.
Perhaps he’d proven his friendship by sending his sister instead. Hester smiled, remembering the hard time her father had had in the face of Lady Stanchfield’s charm. In the end, he hadn’t been able to refuse his permission for Hester to come to Thistleworth. She wondered whether it had been easier for him when he’d asked pointblank if Major Hawkes would be in attendance and had been told that Gerrit would remain in London because he found house parties “dull.”
Hester sighed. Try as she would, she had not been able to erase the major from her thoughts. He remained an enigma to her. He was more dashing and handsome than any man she’d ever met. The young men of her acquaintance, although not much younger in years, seemed boys in comparison. Was it his admitted sophistication with women? Or was it his years in combat, facing death each day?
When in his company, she sometimes felt she was merely an amusing girl…and yet she sensed he needed amusing. She had caught glimpses of another man behind the laughing blue eyes, a man who was trying to flee something or forget something.
She would gladly do anything in her power to make him laugh. And she desired with all her heart to be the friend he needed. But it didn’t seem she would be given the chance. She bowed her head and began to pray for him, the way she had been praying for him since the night they’d met. Most of all, she prayed for his soul. She sensed he needed to be made whole.
She breathed in deeply, praying for herself as well. Lord, give me the grace to be only a friend and nothing more.
That evening, after an interminably long dinner, in which Hester was seated between two of the most empty-headed young gentlemen she’d ever met and across from Mrs. Bellows, she sighed with relief when the ladies at last rose from the table, leaving the gentlemen to their port.
Her relief was short-lived. Once in the drawing room, she found no lady approached her. Those she gave a tentative smile to turned away as if they hadn’t seen her. She finally found a vacant chair by Mrs. Bellows. But the woman was already in conversation with the only other elderly lady present. Most of the guests seemed to be married women Lady Stanchfield’s age.
At home this would not have presented a problem. The conversation would span generations. Hester would probably be helping to watch their children as the married women talked. Here, not a child was to be seen. She wondered where they were all hidden, and she spent a few minutes amusing herself conjecturing their whereabouts. Maybe they were all bound up in one of the towers at either corner of the great house, fed only bread and water until they turned eighteen and were then presented fully grown to the company.
Or perhaps they had all been kidnapped and were being held for ransom by an evil ogre in some dark cave.
She’d been reading too many of those gothic novels Mrs. Bellows had given her. She glanced at her chaperone, glad the older woman at least had found a companion of similar age. Hester half-listened to their conversation.
“My dear, they say he sleeps with a pair of pistols beside him,” the heavily jeweled lady said.
“Loaded pistols,” Mrs. Bellows added with a significant nod.
“Think of the danger to poor Annabella. And now that she’s enceinte, to the child!”
“It’s unthinkable. He may write beautiful poetry but he is mad.”
“But Miss Milbanke was even madder to marry him. She was after Lord Byron for years and was not satisfied till she had landed him.”
Another group of ladies talked on the other side of Hester.
“The case has gone to assizes!”
Shocked gazes turned to the speaker, an elegantly dressed woman only a few years older than Hester. “He’s brought a crim. con suit against the Earl of Glastonbury. Think of it, my dear, a poor curate accusing an earl!”
The women laughed at the absurdity of such a thing. “What cheek! What does he hope, aside from the scandal? He’ll probably lose his living and his wife in the process.”
“I’m sure Glastonbury will produce a whole flock of witnesses in his favor. He’ll outspend the curate before the month’s up.”
“Poor fool…but then no one likes to wear the horns…”
More laughter followed.
Hester rearranged her skirts, trying to appear as if she couldn’t hear every word. She had no idea what crim.con meant but it certainly appeared to involve gossip of the worst kind.
What would her mother do in her place? Like as not reprove them in the gentle way she had. Hester had seen her do it more than once when her visitors wanted to gossip about one of their acquaintances.
Seeing all the women around her deep in their conversations, Hester finally rose and took a turn about the room. There were certainly enough furnishings and ornaments to claim her attention for a while.
After inspecting every tapestry, painting and inlaid table the length of the room, she came to one of the French doors leading to the rear terrace. The half-opened door invited her. Torchlights had been placed all along the garden paths.
She debated the propriety of exiting into the warm night and following one of the paths. One foot was already out the door when she spotted a couple in the shadows of an arbor. Where had they come from if
all the gentlemen were still at the dinner table? The lady’s laughter floated up to her before the couple disappeared down one of the lanes. Hester turned away, unwilling to come upon anyone unawares.
She finally arrived at a pianoforte at one end of the room and began flipping the pages of a music book upon it.
Lady Stanchfield came up behind her. “Do you play, my dear?”
“Only passably,” she answered immediately, afraid she’d be asked to perform.
“What a pity.”
“It’s a lovely instrument.”
Lady Stanchfield’s face brightened. “It’s a Stein. From Austria,” she added when Hester said nothing.
“It’s beautiful,” she repeated, stroking the shiny cherry veneer and realizing how much she missed playing.
“Please feel free to indulge us in a song. Don’t worry if you’re not an expert. Most of the company are too preoccupied to pay you any mind. Lady Devon will probably sing us an aria or Mrs. Summerton play us something later in the evening when the gentlemen rejoin us, but for now we’re content to indulge in a good gossip.”
Hester hesitated, but as her gaze wandered over the large gathering of brightly gowned and plumed women, she realized Lady Stanchfield was right. No one was paying any attention. What if she played a song she was familiar with?
She sat down and asked the Lord for a song. As her fingers hovered over the keys, she thought about a tune she frequently performed at home. She touched the keys, playing the first bar. Then she began to sing.
O come and dwell in me, Spirit of Power within…
She forgot about the people around her and the hymn became her own prayer for the coming days.
I want the witness, Lord, that all I do is right, according to Thy mind and word, well-pleasing in Thy sight.
At the end of the piece, her hands came to rest and she looked up into the room, as if she had been away and was now reentering it. Everyone was still talking. No one even looked her way. Encouraged by the anonymity, she began to play another hymn. The words of the song refreshed and strengthened her, reminding her of what her life was about. She was transported back home, in the company of other believers and the work they had in common, bringing their witness to those in need.
The Rogue's Redemption Page 9
