The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Oh, she likes nothing better than to have a few projects going at the same time. This time last year she was busy fixing up one of my elder brothers with his wife, as well as a cousin of ours.”

  “Was she successful?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. My clergy brother was hooked up with a very proper young lady worth five thousand. She’ll make an admirable curate’s wife. And my cousin was matched with a widower with two children. At eight-and-twenty she was in danger of being left on the shelf, and he was sorely in need of a mother for his babes, so the two should suit.”

  “It sounds as if you need to have a good eye for a person’s financial needs and situation in life to make a good matchmaker here in England.”

  He looked down at her with an indulgent smile, glad for the renewal of the camaraderie he had experienced with her in London. He felt on much safer ground. “I hope you don’t let the prospects tempt you. I assure you the results can be disastrous. My sister’s successes were pure luck.”

  “Oh, never fear. I would never want to play matchmaker with someone.”

  “How are matches made in America?” he asked, curious about the world she came from.

  “Mainly, people just fall in love.”

  He smiled. “How deucedly simple.”

  She laughed. “It would appear rather simple, wouldn’t it?”

  “No concerns over whether a man can provide adequately for his wife, or whether a woman’s lack of fortune will weigh a man down?”

  “Well, as there is work for any able-bodied man, and a woman as his helpmate provides a home for him, it works out quite advantageously for both.”

  “No idle gentlemen there?”

  “I have never seen one.”

  He gazed up at the mansion before him. “Tell me, are your parties in Maine anything like this?”

  She smiled in the semidarkness. “Nothing like this.”

  “What would you be doing this evening in Bangor?”

  “Let’s see. Some young people might drop by.” She folded her hands on the rail. “Both gentlemen and ladies. We’d roast popcorn over the fire, depending on the time of the year. We’d play music and sing. In summer I’d walk to singing class held once a week. Those are always fun. If the party were at my house, we might open up some room and have a little dancing. Papa and Mama would bring out refreshments.”

  He listened to her, soothed by her description of a land where everything sounded so wholesome and simple.

  “Sometimes we tell stories,” she continued. “I love hearing Papa’s stories of when he was a young man in England. He was quite poor, you know.”

  “I surmised something of the sort.”

  “Why did you become a soldier?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a change of topic.”

  “You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

  He shrugged. “What’s to talk about? As a younger son, there were only two or three avenues open to me—the military, the cloth or the law. My oldest brother inherits my parents’ estate, you see. My next older brother chose the church and he’s found a living up in Nottinghamshire. That left only two roads for me. Having no head nor patience for the law, I chose the more active career.”

  “You certainly have made a successful soldier.”

  He looked at her steadily. “I’ve been trained to kill people. It’s my only skill.”

  She drew in her breath, and he could tell he had shocked her with the terse words. To lighten the mood, he added, “By this afternoon’s performance, I wouldn’t be surprised if you doubted even that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. You wouldn’t have been awarded those medals nor reached your rank if you weren’t.”

  He looked up at the dark sky. “Oh, everything in England can be bought.”

  She shook her head at him. “There you go again. You refuse to take credit for any good in you.”

  “If there is any good in me, I haven’t found it yet.”

  He turned to her and found her staring at him, a look of sadness in her eyes.

  He gave an abrupt laugh. “Don’t pity me, sweet Miss Leighton. I’m not worthy of even that.”

  Giving her no chance to reply, he shoved himself off the balustrade. “Come, let me take you back inside. The night’s grown chilly.”

  Why had he told her those things? The next thing he knew, she’d have him opening up completely, letting her see how vile he really was.

  Hester wondered what kept Major Hawkes at his sister’s house party. His laconic attitude, his careless stance all denoted boredom. He participated in the games—horse races, shooting and all kinds of feats of prowess, and excelled at them all, convincing her he had indeed been tired that first afternoon. She was certain he would have won the archery competition otherwise. But though he was in the thick of things, he gave the impression of being on the fringes of the company.

  Hester cheered him on whenever she herself did not participate. She was glad Mrs. Bellows knew little of her athletic activities. With the weather so hot Mrs. Bellows rarely ventured out, for which Hester was ever thankful.

  She couldn’t forget their conversation the first evening on the terrace. She wanted to reach the man who’d revealed a quiet desperation beneath the humorous facade, but with the same dexterity he displayed on the playing field, he deflected any further attempts she made. She noticed he never talked of the war, no matter how often it came up in the conversation around them.

  She looked forward at each day’s end to those few moments when he met her outside the drawing room as she was about to retire. As he had the first evening after his arrival, sometimes he invited her for a stroll upon the terrace. Other evenings he merely walked her to her room and bid her a brief goodnight.

  As she had the first evening, she always sensed he’d been waiting for her when she exited the drawing room, but she was afraid to ask, lest by her question she break the tenuous connection they had in those few moments alone. For she felt the connection was indeed fragile. Perhaps because the major had no romantic inclinations toward her, Hester thought his reasons for seeking her company might be more complicated.

  Hester hadn’t told a soul about these brief interludes, except in her letters to her mother, where she’d asked her to pray for the major. She instinctively knew few would understand. They would construe their friendship as romantic and warn her of the dangers, as Mrs. Bellows had the night of the dance.

  Hester sensed the major needed something deeper from her and she was content to wait until it should be revealed.

  Chapter Nine

  A few days after Major Hawkes’s arrival, Lady Stanchfield organized an excursion to a nearby abbey. Some of the company rode on horseback; others, especially the women, went by carriage. Because Mrs. Bellows was to venture forth on this outing, Hester had to plead with her to allow her to go with those riding on horseback.

  “I’m used to riding long distances. I can’t bear the thought of being crowded in a stuffy carriage.”

  “It’s not done, a young lady without her chaperone.”

  “But it’s a whole party. There will be plenty of ladies with me.”

  “But they are all married ladies.”

  “They can be my chaperones,” Hester pointed out.

  “You won’t be able to wear one of your pretty frocks, but must don a habit. You’ll get there all mussed and hot.”

  Hester suppressed a groan. She couldn’t understand these British conventions. “I shall be more hot and uncomfortable if am confined in a closed carriage.”

  “But it’s so unseemly, cantering about when you can sit demurely in a carriage.”

  Finally, she enlisted Lady Stanchfield’s help to convince Mrs. Bellows to allow her to ride.

  It took about an hour to assemble the whole company by late morning. Hester stifled her impatience at the women who needed to fetch this and that. She wished the horseback riders could go ahead of the carriages, but Lady Stanchfield w
as the organizer of the event and would have no one start before the whole group was ready to move.

  Hester glanced back over her shoulder. Major Hawkes was in the rear on his beautiful mount, Royal. Once again she had the sense that he was there as an observer or watchman, and not a participant. His glance crossed hers and he acknowledged her with a brief touch of his fingers to the brim of his hat.

  He was so handsome in his uniform. He was the only soldier present. The other men seemed soft in comparison to him.

  “Miss Leighton, how glad I am that you chose to ride horseback.” Lord Billingsley brought his mount up alongside hers.

  She forced herself to smile. Although he was pleasant enough, she couldn’t help feeling hemmed in whenever he was about. He seemed to appear constantly at her side. She sometimes wondered if that was the reason Major Hawkes rarely approached. Did he think Lord Billingsley was courting her?

  She dearly hoped not. Nothing could be further from the truth. She’d never received a proposal of marriage and wondered how one turned a proposal down gracefully.

  “It’s too beautiful a day to be in a carriage, even an open one,” she replied to him now.

  “Too true. Tell me, Miss Leighton, have you ever been to an abbey before?”

  “No, we have no abbeys in America.”

  “You’re in for a treat. This one is a veritable ruin, sure to please any young lady addicted to gothic novels. You’ll be able to imagine every ghostly terror taking place in such a place after dark.”

  “Since I am not addicted to gothic novels, I doubt the abbey shall have any such effect upon me. Excuse me, Lord Billingsley, but I must address myself to Lady Stanchfield.” With those words, she nudged her horse toward the front of the line of riders where she saw Major Hawkes’s sister.

  When they arrived at the ruins an hour later, the party broke up into smaller groups to wander about the towering stone structure and its surrounding grounds.

  “This is truly the picturesque,” one of the ladies in Hester’s group exclaimed, stopping before an arched window. They admired the splendid view through it of sloping green lawns and scattered forests.

  “I would say rather it is the sublime,” one of the gentlemen countered.

  “Oh no, absolutely not.” She motioned with her hand. “Note the wild abandon of the greenery against the sky. I insist, it is nothing but the picturesque.”

  “Nay, my lady, the majestic effect of the sky and trees denotes the sublime.”

  The two continued to debate the merits of the scenery a while longer. Hester stopped listening to them.

  “And what do you think, Miss Leighton? The picturesque or the sublime?” Major Hawkes’s low voice asked behind her.

  She turned with a smile of delight. “I haven’t a clue.”

  Lord Billingsley was quick to edify her. “The picturesque refers to the resemblance of a landscape to a painted scene. The sublime to the transcendent greatness of the scene. I myself would vote for the picturesque, wouldn’t you say, Hawkes?”

  The major didn’t answer but cocked an eyebrow at Hester, who shrugged. “As for myself, I couldn’t tell you. We don’t call landscapes either picturesque or sublime in Maine. They are all quite magnificent without any need of labels.”

  “Are they perhaps all wild and savage?” Billingsley inquired. “I confess I am unfamiliar with that geographical area.”

  She raised her head toward the bright blue sky and puffy white clouds moving across it, trying to describe what was so familiar and yet so far from her now.

  “We have mountains and forests, rivers and the bluest lakes you can imagine. The ocean, too, but that is a little farther away.” She breathed deeply, remembering the scent of pine and fir. “The trees soar as high as spires to the sky.”

  “Are they anything like the forests you see before you?” Billingsley swept his arm over the panorama.

  She followed his gesture, comparing the lush, plump curve of trees in the hazy distance. “No, not at all alike. Our forests seem never ending. The trees cover the mountains, and if you are at a high point, you can see miles and miles of trees like waves upon the ocean.”

  She turned to find Major Hawkes observing her. “It sounds truly sublime, indeed,” he said softly.

  She nodded. “I suppose it is. The way God created it and little touched by man. That is changing, however. Men are constantly going into that forest and cutting down the tallest trees and transporting them over the lakes and rivers and shipping them across the ocean to places like England.”

  “Come along everyone,” Lady Stanchfield called to them. “The servants have laid out a luncheon beneath the trees.”

  Hester walked with Lord Billingsley on one side and Major Hawkes on the other. Soon some other gentlemen joined them and they sat together on a rug. Hester had never attended such a luxurious picnic. Waiters bent down with silver trays to offer her delectable sandwiches, their crusts trimmed off; golden pastries, their edges perfectly crimped; and fruit tarts, their colors vibrant against the pale china.

  Her father could probably buy all these luxuries ten times over, and yet it would never occur to her family to put on such a display.

  After the sumptuous meal, they walked some more. Hester swallowed a sense of disappointment when Major Hawkes wandered off by himself. A short while later, she saw him walking with one of the older women, and she felt a moment’s twinge, thinking how sophisticated this titled lady from London undoubtedly was. She would surely know how to distinguish the sublime from the merely picturesque. She would know how to date this ancient ruin looming over them.

  Hester was left to evade Lord Billingsley. She jumped at the chance when a party of young gentlemen proposed hiking to a nearby creek. They ended up taking off their shoes and stockings and wading in the cool running water.

  “Let’s see who can cross the rapids without falling in,” one of the men proposed.

  Hester joined those attempting the crossing, while the rest lined the creek bank, shouting their encouragement.

  Hester made it halfway across with no problem. As she hesitated a few seconds, looking for a foothold, she glanced back to the bank. Major Hawkes, the lady at his side, stood high on a ridge by the abbey, watching them. How juvenile she must appear to them.

  Well, she hadn’t come here to try and hook Major Hawkes, so she might as well enjoy the day, she chided herself. She gave them a quick wave before turning her attention back to the stones.

  There was a shout ahead of her as one man lost his foothold and fell in. Uproarious laughter greeted his mishap.

  “You clodpole!” shouted Billingsley.

  Soon more had fallen in and they began to splash those who were still dry. By the time Hester made it back to the bank, she was more than a little damp, but she was laughing as hard as the rest. The water felt refreshing on such a warm day and she knew her habit would soon dry in the sun. She looked around for the major, but he was no longer to be seen. She stifled the sense of regret, realizing she mustn’t let foolish notions get the better of her.

  Gerrit felt worn out. For days, he’d been doing his best to keep his eye on Miss Leighton, while trying to keep his vigilance from becoming apparent to anyone else, least of all Miss Leighton herself. He’d observed her in all kinds of antics a respectable young English miss would never dream of—from climbing trees to galloping astride—but through it all, she retained an innocence he knew wasn’t feigned. He could see how the other men thought otherwise, however, and he knew it was only a matter of time before one of them crossed the bounds of propriety.

  Although Billingsley no longer referred to his wager, Gerrit knew it wasn’t forgotten by him or any of the other gentlemen. He knew enough about how these things worked to know Billingsley must act soon before the others began ribbing him for his failure.

  But keeping Miss Leighton constantly in sight without hanging around her like one of her puppies, was wearing work. The most crucial times came in the evenings. If Gerrit had be
en in his lordship’s shoes, that would be when he’d make his move, after dark when Miss Leighton made her solitary way up to her room.

  But it was like playing ring-a-rosy, trying to anticipate when she’d retire. Gerrit drank little, needing to keep a cool head about his shoulders.

  The worst part was the temptation to prolong his evening strolls with her. He fought this urge, knowing to give in would be dangerous. The last thing he desired was to join the ranks of Miss Leighton’s admirers, much less have her develop a fondness for him. Thus he permitted himself only a short stroll on the most pleasant evenings and kept her busy with questions about her own life in America, offering little about himself.

  Was his reticence out of pride or fear? He preferred not to analyze it, knowing only he didn’t want Miss Leighton discovering the real Gerrit Hawkes.

  Gerrit surveyed the guests around him. It seemed everyone had turned out to watch the footrace.

  The young gentlemen were milling about in a group near the starting line. Among them stood Miss Leighton. After his first moment of shock, seeing her in a pair of men’s breeches, he’d found it hard not to smile. From a distance she looked like a slim lad, until she turned and he saw the braid down her back, reaching almost to her hips.

  “Gerrit, why aren’t you here amongst us? Not scared of being beaten, are you?” Astley called out.

  “I wanted to give you a sporting chance,” he called back.

  Amidst their shouts of derision, he only smiled and waved.

  His sister came up to him. “Seriously, Gerrit, why aren’t you running? I know you could easily beat any of them out there.”

  “I have no inclination to be part of a stampede.”

  “I suppose you have nothing to prove to any of the company here?”

  “You suppose correctly.”

  “Did you see Miss Leighton?” she asked with a smile, directing her gaze to the young woman. “I don’t know how she gets away with such scandalous behavior. I know of no other young lady of the ton who could undertake the activities she has and come out seeming even more pure and innocent than any of us.”