by Jo Beverley
“Thank you,” she said, “but I believe it’s time for me to stand on my own feet. Or at least sit in my own chair.” She took the one opposite him. “Our task is complete, isn’t it?”
“Our part, yes. Alas, I doubt your brother has the spine to shoot himself, but as you once said, living with the world knowing the truth about him will be a form of hell. What will you do now?” he asked.
Of course he had no suggestion. No proposal.
She shrugged as if it were of no moment. “Continue as I was, living a quiet life.”
“A sad waste. Do you never seek out excitement?”
There was something behind that question.
A prelude to an invitation to become his mistress. It was the best she could hope for, but she knew she couldn’t do it.
“I think I’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime. You must need to return to your ship. It’s been most kind of you to spend so much time on this.”
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
But then he rose and turned away from her. “Dammit, you’re right. This is over.”
Though it had been her point, his words felt like a sword to the heart. Bella swallowed, but said, “Of course it is.”
He turned and came to kneel by her again. “Bella . . . Bella, I would . . . I need to return to my life.”
She took his hands, and this time she was offering comfort. “I said that, I think.”
His hands tightened on hers, almost as if they clung. “I’ve enjoyed our time together more than I could have imagined. I have been, I think, happy in a way I don’t remember before.”
A tiny bud of hope began to unfurl. Did he need some encouragement? She couldn’t imagine why, but perhaps being a sea captain’s wife was seen as arduous.
“I . . . I believe I wouldn’t mind being with you for longer. . . .”
Perhaps she would accept an invitation to be his mistress after all.
Yes, of course she would.
But his tight lips warned her before he rose and stepped back.
“Yes, you would mind. Don’t argue. I can’t explain. Please believe me, Bella: it isn’t possible. It simply isn’t possible to continue like this.”
No one could doubt that. She had to look away to try to hide her pain, though she was sure she failed.
“Very well,” she said at last. “I’m sure it will be for the best. Some of us aren’t made for peaks of excitement.” She found the courage to look at him, and even managed a slight smile, because she hoped it would ease his pain. “Having been deprived of a quiet, normal life for so long, I truly want it, and I see that you cannot provide it. I haven’t known how to create it, but I think I will be able to now, with my wound lanced, drained, and able to heal.”
He drew her to her feet. She hoped for a kiss on the lips, torture though it would be.
He kissed her hand. “I pray that is so. I truly only want what is best for you, Bella Barstowe. Always believe that.”
He stepped away and managed a casual tone that might fool many. “I should go below to rejoin the celebration. I won’t disturb you when I come up. I’ll sleep on the floor in the parlor.”
He took the coverlet and a pillow off the bed and left.
Bella stood there, tears flowing helplessly down her face, but she did not let herself sob until she was sure he was out of earshot.
Chapter 23
They left early the next morning to return to London with the excuse that the events of the night before had been a little too much for Mistress Rose’s nerves. The innkeeper was most apologetic, and from his manner he clearly believed that he’d had the Duke of Ithorne as his guest.
The general atmosphere around Upstone was decidedly jolly.
Tabitha must have felt neglected, for she seemed to be sulking, and the occasional sounds she made were almost growls.
As the coach rolled down the street someone spotted it, and there was a spontaneous cheer. Thorn waved, grinning, but then settled back into his corner. “We’d best not return here for a while.”
We.
There was no we.
Perhaps he realized that, for he fell into silence.
When he asked, “Would you like me to read to you?” it was a blessed relief. Events in Persia were safe.
After a while, she took over and read to him, and then they took turns. The book lasted the whole journey, until the coach drew up in front of her small house in Soho.
“What will you tell your benefactor?” he asked.
“My benefactor?” Bella asked. “Oh . . .” She couldn’t lie to him. Not now. “I live here alone. With three servants, but no one else. I have a small annuity.”
“Not so small,” he remarked, “if you can afford this. You’re young to be alone.”
“My housekeeper has known me from a child, and I have a solicitor who advises me when applied to.”
“But leaves you to your own mischief most of the time.”
“Mischief? You know why I embarked on this adventure.”
“Are you saying that other than our time together you’ve lived a quiet, blameless life?” There was an edge to that that might be suspicion. It stirred welcome anger.
“What are you accusing me of?”
He didn’t flinch and his lips were hard. “We have been together twice, Bella—in Dover four years ago and recently. Your actions don’t convince me that you spend all your time sewing handkerchiefs.”
“No, I also walk in the park. I sometimes attend lectures on art and history.”
His eyes demanded more.
“What?” she asked. “Tell me what you believe I’ve done.” Had he somehow learned about Bellona and Lady Fowler? Lord, had he recognized Kelano?
She’d have thought that impossible. She’d been so changed. . . .
He shook his head, relaxing, but still disapproving. “If you live so quietly, it’s wrong, Bella. Perhaps living with your sister wouldn’t be as impossible as you think.”
“You’re being completely illogical.” But he’d already left the carriage to walk around and open her door. She gathered her belongings into her valise and he lifted it out, then offered his hand.
She took it and descended, by which time Kitty had the door open, her face bright with relief.
“Thank you,” Bella said to Captain Rose, dropping a curtsy, fully on her dignity. “I wish you well.”
He bowed. “As I do you, Miss Barstowe.” He turned to the coach and put a foot on the step. But then he turned back. “If you ever have need of me again, a note to the Black Swan Inn in Stowting, Kent, will find me most speedily.”
Then he climbed into the coach and slammed the door. It moved off, and Bella did not indulge in watching it. She walked into her house, Kitty’s exclamations and questions washing over her. She climbed the stairs blindly, unpinning her hat. She’d done this before, she realized. When she’d returned from the Goat.
When she’d returned from Dover too. But then she’d had such dreams, such hopes.
She remembered the skull. She’d kept it safely in her right pocket ever since he’d said, Keep it. She considered it, tears falling. An excuse to write to that address in Stowting?
“Oh, miss, whatever’s that?”
Bella quickly closed her hand around it and smiled for Kitty. “Nothing. I’m all right, truly. Just tired from the journey and from some exhausting days.”
And nights.
Never forget the nights.
“So you’re safe, miss? You did what you needed to do?”
Bella sat to unpin the wig. “Yes and yes, Kitty. I need some good strong tea, please, and then I’m going to bed.”
One way to achieve peace and solitude.
“I’ll just get the warming pan, then, miss.”
Kitty left and Bella could let her face relax, seeing in the mirror the misery stamped into her features. She wouldn’t permit it to show in front of others. The last thing she wanted was pity. She tossed aside the wig but had to stand
and go to her valise for her brush.
Annie rushed in to thrust a warming pan into the bed. “Tea in a moment, miss!” she said in a gasp before running out again.
Bella brushed her hair, standing in front of the fire, watching the dancing flames. Would she ever be as alive? As alive as she had been for a few short days?
And nights.
She seemed unable to stop her mind from running over and over things. Perhaps if she allowed it, in the end it would run down like a clock. Then she would not wind it up again. It was over. Now she must decide what to do with the rest of her life. It felt like a void.
Kitty and Annie hauled in Bella’s trunk between them. They put it down and left, and a moment later Kitty, somewhat flushed, returned with the tea tray.
“Here you are, miss. Hot, strong, and sweet.”
She poured some, and Bella took the cup without a saucer, cradling it in her chilled hands as she sipped. “Oh, that is good. Thank you, Kitty.”
Not as subtle a taste as the tea he favored.
She’d never react to tea the same way again.
Kitty looked across from where she was hanging a fresh nightgown on the rack in front of the fire. “You do look tired, miss.”
Probably a polite description, but Bella said, “I am.”
“Shall I get you out of your stays now, miss, or get the hot water?”
Bella found a real smile. “I’m back to my jumps, Kitty, so the water, please.”
Kitty pulled a face, but it was mostly teasing. At the door she paused and said, “There’s a pile of letters in your parlor, miss. Do you want me to bring them up?”
“A pile of letters?” Bella asked, surprised.
“A couple are from Lady Fowler, miss. I couldn’t help but notice that on the front.”
Lord. She’d sent Lady Fowler a note to say she’d been called out of town, so what could be driving her to send letters here? Bella certainly couldn’t deal with them now.
“They’ll wait until tomorrow,” she said, and poured herself more tea. She nibbled one of Peg’s crisp biscuits. It was delicious and helped settle her mind. They’d eaten at an inn only a few hours ago, but when she thought about that, she wasn’t sure how much she’d consumed. She’d been trying so hard not to show how much pain she felt.
She took off her clothes and wrapped herself in her dressing gown, forcing her mind toward her blessings.
She’d achieved her victory over Augustus.
She was a fortunate lady with an independence.
She was young, and healthy, and had friends. . . .
No, she didn’t. She had two maids who would soon leave to marry. She had Peg, but though she felt almost as warmly toward her as a mother, Peg wasn’t a friend. A few of the women at Lady Fowler’s might be friends, but she was about to cut that connection.
Thorn. Their time together had felt like friendship, perhaps her first true friendship, and one she could never match. A woman couldn’t have a male friend except in marriage, however, and it seemed they could not marry.
When the water came, she discarded her dressing gown and washed thoroughly, soaping away as much of her recent adventure as she could. Bella Barstowe must be newborn. She must make a life for herself, and this time she wouldn’t run from prison to convent.
She would find a way to be truly free.
Resolved, she put on her nightgown, extinguished the candles, and went to bed.
As Thorn drove toward his house he resumed his ducal status as if putting on the ermine-trimmed robes and coronet. The more time he allowed himself away from his responsibilities, the greater the weight of them when he returned.
Having a wife to return to would make a difference.
Having Bella to return to.
But he was imagining returning to a cozy parlor, to sitting by the fireside, he reading, she sewing, sharing comfortable smiles.
His duchess would have her own suite of rooms, just as he had his. Their “parlors” would be drawing rooms, usually shared with dependents and guests. She would have a boudoir, and she would entertain her more intimate guests there. He had his study, where he did the same.
There could be days when they never met, even if under the same roof.
In Upstone he’d intended to attempt to woo Bella as the duke, perhaps simply by turning up on her doorstep and trying to explain the whole sorry mess. Now, in London, as he drew ever closer to his ducal state, the gulf between them widened.
The carriage was passing St. James’s Palace, where the Duchess of Ithorne would be expected to take her turn as lady- in-waiting to the queen. Not only could he not envision Bella in that role, but the stiff-rumped little queen would never accept someone so scandalous.
Yes, Robin’s and Christian’s wives would accept Bella, and perhaps some others, but many wouldn’t. She’d be uncomfortable and unhappy, which would infuriate him. He’d soon become a terrifying despot who took out his ill humor on innocents.
He must at least give this time before he did something that could make them both miserable for the rest of their lives.
On arrival, he put himself straight in Overstone’s hands. He wanted to be drowned in work.
Chapter 24
There was something to be said for waking up in one’s own bed in one’s own house, Bella thought when she opened her eyes the next morning. A great deal to be said. Even if it would be more pleasant to wake up with someone . . .
She slammed that door.
She savored the simple pleasures of familiar sounds from the street and the way the slit of daylight drew a line on the opposite wall, and began to grieve.
She liked this house. It was just large enough for her small household, and the neighbors seemed pleasant. Bellona Flint had probably seemed too stern for friendship, but they had always exchanged a good-day and bland comments about the weather. She couldn’t stay, however, because how could she explain to anyone the transformation from Bellona to Bella? How could she make a complete break from the Fowler flock when living a street away?
That reminded her of the pile of letters. She’d like to ignore them, but in the end it would be better to deal with them quickly. She rang the bell that stood at hand. Kitty soon arrived.
“You’re up bright and early, miss!” she said, putting down her coal scuttle and kneeling to make up the fire. “And looking all the better for a good night’s sleep. I hope you did sleep well, miss?”
“Yes,” Bella said, somewhat surprised. She’d expected to lie awake, tormented by memories. “I must have been more tired than I thought.”
“All that traveling, miss. Shall I bring your breakfast once this is going?”
“Yes, please. And the waiting letters.”
Kitty lit the fire and watched it a moment. When she was satisfied, she rose, wiping her hands on her apron. “Very well, miss. And what gown will you want?”
Bella made a firm decision. “None of Bellona’s. Bellona Flint is going to disappear.”
“Very good, miss!” Kitty said fervently.
Bella chuckled. “I’ve been a sad trial to you, haven’t I? And yes, I’ll wear stays.”
Kitty was grinning as she hurried away.
Bella did her best to keep her mind on simple things as she waited. For her new life she would need new gowns. Should she patronize Mistress Moray again, or visit a mantua maker? Here or elsewhere?
Perhaps she should leave London entirely. An idea crept into her mind. . . . But no, she would not move to Dover! Nor to any other port on the south coast where she might happen to encounter Captain Rose. She’d avoid the coast entirely. But apart from that, she might as well stick a pin in a map.
Breakfast was a welcome distraction. She took her first sip of chocolate and then considered the letters. All were from Lady Fowler’s house but not, in fact, from the lady herself. Two were from Mary Evesham and the rest from various ladies there.
She drank more chocolate and took a bite of warm buttered bread and then broke the seal on t
he first letter to arrive, one of the ones from Mary Evesham. She was a curate’s sister and both intelligent and wryly humorous.
My dear Miss Flint,
Your good sense is sorely missed here. Lady Fowler is most unwell. To be frank, she is sinking fast, but her mind is decomposing first, which is creating great alarm and disorder here. I myself am atremble as to what she might do or encourage. If you are avoiding this place out of wisdom, I am reluctant to encourage you to return, but I must.
With high regard, Mary Evesham
Bella blew out a breath. Alarming, but what exactly did it mean? Mary’s term “atremble” would be her humor, but she was clearly alarmed.
She fortified herself with more chocolate and opened the next to arrive. This was from Clara Ormond, an elderly lady who was both plump and nervous, living in dread of being forced out onto the street. She was one of the ones Bella desperately wanted to help, because she was clearly unable to help herself. She’d loved a loving husband, but had no children. Her husband had suffered business losses, and when he’d died, she’d found herself penniless. She had no true interest in Lady Fowler’s causes, but had simply thrown herself on the lady’s mercy.
The letter was a desperate plea for Bellona to return before disaster—underlined three times—befell them all.
The next was from Celia Pottersby along the same lines but with mention of the Drummond sisters playing on Lady Fowler’s degenerating mind.
Hortensia Sprott, thin and sharp, stated bluntly, “She’s mad but don’t know it. The sooner she dies the better. Pray it happens before she ruins us all.”
The final letter was the second from Mary.
My dear Bellona,
Out of pure selfishness I must beg you to return to us, if only for a little while. Matters are serious and I don’t know what to do for the best.
I know I would serve you better by recommending that you stay away, even that you leave London completely, but I must ask you to return.
