“You are in love with her!” said Will. “I thought as much.”
“Then you knew more than I.” Why had it taken him so long to see it? Perhaps he’d been too frightened by the intensity of his feelings to own them for what they were.
“Does she love you?”
“I told you she turned me down twice when I proposed to her. I reckon that speaks for itself.”
He wished his friend could say something to convince him otherwise, but Will’s subdued reply disappointed him. “I suppose it does. She bade me tell you on no account to come down to the harbor tomorrow. She does not want to give Wye a scrap of ammunition to use against you.”
Jocelyn could have come to care for him. In spite of everything that had happened, Robert knew it with a strange, unshakeable certainty. But how could he stand in the way of her duty after harping upon his all this time? Neither did he wish to prevent her reconciling with her father. Beneath her bitterness toward the marquess and her desire for independence, he had sensed her unspoken regret over their estrangement.
Somehow he rallied his composure enough to return to his desk and take up his pen. “Tell Mrs. Finch I shall honor her wishes. And tell her I believe she has chosen the proper course.”
When he had finished scribbling a few words on the paper, he sanded it quickly to dry the ink. “Tell her I will always treasure my memories of this summer and that I wish her every possible happiness.”
He folded and sealed the tiny note. Then he rose and thrust it into Will Carmont’s hands. “Give her this.”
In spite of what she had instructed Colonel Carmont to tell Sir Robert, Jocelyn still found herself scanning the small crowd assembled at Power’s Wharf with restless anticipation. But the governor was not among them.
She stifled a contrary pang of disappointment. What had she expected, after all? For the man to do the opposite of what she’d bidden him? To show up this morning in front of witnesses to see her off? Risking the possibility that one or the other of them might lose control of their feelings in a shocking public display that would well and truly wreck his career?
“Goodbye, Sally!” Jocelyn clasped her friend to her. “It was the best of good fortune to find you here. Do not let us lose touch again, I beg you! Write to me and come to visit me at Breckland whenever you find yourself in England.”
“Indeed I shall, my dear.” Sally clung to her. “I wish you were coming back next spring!”
“May I write you, too, Mrs. Finch?” asked Lily Duckworth when Jocelyn turned to her.
“May?” she cried. “Why you must! I will expect all the news from you of my bride-ship girls. I hope there will be many happy events to announce before the year is out.”
Though she dared not say it, she also hoped Lily might include the occasional scrap of news from Government House.
Miz Ada stepped forward and thrust a small basket into Jocelyn’s hands. “There’s a crock of preserved limes in that and a cake. It’s soaked in plenty of rum, so it should keep good. You take care of yourself, now. And come back to see us when you can.”
Would that day ever come?
“How kind of you!” Jocelyn blinked furiously. She must not start weeping or she might never stop. “I have so many fond memories of our time at Prince’s Lodge. If I should see the Duke of Kent when I return to England, I will be sure to remember you to him.”
She gave a start when the editor of the Gazette stepped forward and bowed to her.
“Mr. Wye.” She bobbed a brief curtsy. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“Yes…well…” He held out a packet of letters. “If you would be so good as to see these delivered to the newspapers in London. They have not been sealed, so you may read them first if you wish. I hope they may help to set the record straight about certain events.”
If he had entrusted the letters to her and was willing to let her read them, they must hold messages of support for her and the governor. That came as a most welcome relief. “Thank you, sir. I promise I shall make sure they get into the proper hands.”
When she had finished taking leave of her friends, Jocelyn glanced one more time around the wharf, then boarded the Hestia and found a quiet spot on the deck from which to wave farewell to Halifax. Tucking Mr. Wye’s letters into Miz Ada’s basket, she set it on the deck at her feet and fished in her reticule for the note Will Carmont had brought her from Government House. She had refused to open it until the Hestia weighed anchor, in case it held a message that might demolish her resolve to do what she knew she must.
The first mate bellowed orders and the ship’s deck swarmed with activity. Jocelyn waved to her small crowd of well-wishers on the wharf until she feared her arm would break. Once the Hestia had eased out into the channel and its sails were unfurled to catch the brisk west wind, she broke the seal on Sir Robert’s note and read it.
“I beg your pardon,” she called to a passing sailor. “Where should I look to see Point Pleasant?”
She had driven there with Sally once, but her sense of direction was so hopeless.
“That’s it there, ma’am.” The young fellow pointed to a spit of land on the eastern edge of town. “But you should get below. I felt a drop of rain just now and Cap’n says there’s a downpour coming.”
“Thank you,” said Jocelyn. “I shall…in a minute.”
“In a minute you could be soaked, ma’am.”
Jocelyn nodded, though she had no intention of heeding his warning. Instead she gazed toward Point Pleasant, wondering why Sir Robert had instructed her to look that way.
Then she glimpsed a mounted man poised on the shore, looking out into the harbor. Could he pick her out on the ship’s busy deck?
Fat drops of rain spattered on the holystoned boards of the deck as she stooped to pull the large white napkin off Miz Ada’s basket. Clutching one corner of it tightly in her fist, she waved it in the wind.
For a moment there was no response from the man on shore. Then he raised his arm and waved in wide sweeping arcs.
The rain quickly gathered force, beating down upon Jocelyn. When the captain sent another member of his crew to bid her go below, she handed the man her basket to take out of the rain. “I shall be along shortly.”
She continued to stare and wave at the horseman until the driving rain shrouded him from her view at last. Then the cold beads of moisture streaming down her face were joined by several warm ones.
Chapter Nineteen
To Jocelyn’s surprise, a soft mist of tears rose in her eyes when she spied the towering sixteenth-century gatehouse of Breckland Manor for the first time in three years. Nothing about the old place appeared to have changed. Not that she had expected it to.
The walls of rusty-brown brick had stood for almost three hundred years, even against a roundhead assault during the Civil War. The crenellated towers with their cross-shaped arrow slots dated from the days when great houses might also have needed to be fortresses. Ten generations of DeLaceys had looked out those tall, slender windows, sat for magnificent portraits that hung in the dark, paneled galleries and eventually been laid to rest in a vault beneath the family chapel.
From her perch aboard the small gig she’d hired in the village, Jocelyn craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Ladywood, where she and her brother had often played as children. Save for a few cultivated evergreens, the trees had shed their leaves in preparation for their winter slumber. High overhead a flock of small clouds chased each other across the wide, blue Norfolk sky.
Jocelyn resisted the urge to compare its hue with a pair of beloved eyes. She’d had all the weeks of her journey to mope and pine for Sir Robert Kerr. Now she must begin a new phase of her life. Not as some living martyrdom for her past mistakes, but as a course she had freely chosen. One in which she hoped to find fulfilment and eventually, perhaps, happiness.
A young footman and an under gardener were talking together when the gig pulled into Breckland’s courtyard. The pair cast curious glances Jocelyn’s way.
Then, as the gig drew nearer, the footman cried, “My word! If it ain’t Lady Jocelyn! It’s me, ma’am—Ralph Thatcher.”
“Ralph? Well, haven’t you grown into a big, handsome fellow! You’re just the man I need to help me unload my luggage.”
“Happy to, ma’am.” He helped her down from the gig then called to his friend the gardener, “Joe, go spread the word. Lady Jocelyn’s come home!”
“That’s Mrs. Finch, if you please, Ralph.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”
It would probably take many awkward reminders before the servants became accustomed to calling her by a different name than the one by which they’d known her for so many years. Lady Jocelyn would be a good deal easier for them, and perhaps for her as well. But she could not let her marriage to Ned Finch go unacknowledged, as if it had never been. Or, worse yet, as if she were ashamed of it. Having fallen in love with Sir Robert Kerr had not made her care any less for Ned—though her memories of him were becoming less misty and rose tinted.
Word of Jocelyn’s unexpected return spread quickly through the manor. Soon she found herself surrounded by Breckland’s domestic staff, many of whom she remembered fondly. Young Ralph took it upon himself to advise the other servants of her wish to be addressed by her married name.
“Is it true you sailed all the way to Nova Scotia, ma’am?” asked one of the parlor maids. “With a shipload of brides for the settlers?”
“I did, Hannah.” Jocelyn smiled at the girl, wondering if she might like a berth on a future bride ship. “It was a vastly romantic summer.”
Only when an embarrassed hush greeted her words did she realize what she’d said, and guess what the servant must think.
Before she could refute the falsehoods published in the London papers, her father’s voice rang out from the main entry. “My dear Jocelyn, welcome home!”
She could scarcely believe her eyes and ears. The marquess never came into the courtyard to welcome guests. But there he stood with his arms open to her.
Leaving the clutch of servants, Jocelyn advanced to greet her father. Unlike Breckland Manor, the marquess had changed a good deal since she’d seen him last. His dark hair had receded and acquired many threads of silver. His lean, hawkish features had become quite gaunt. His broad shoulders were bowed slightly, as if under the burdens of recent years.
She halted several steps away from him and sank into a deep formal curtsy. Part of her wanted to accept the embrace he offered, but the bitter grudge she had nursed for so long clung to her heart with stubborn strength.
“My lord, I have come in response to your letter.”
A flicker of disappointment softened his stern countenance, but he rallied at once. “I felt certain you would. For the sake of poor Thetford’s little sons.”
“Let us go inside and discuss the matter,” said Jocelyn.
She would not have the heart to abandon her young nephews, even if the marquess refused her conditions. For Robert’s sake and for her own peace of mind, she hoped her father would not guess.
“Of course.” The marquess ushered her toward the door. “You must be chilled from your drive. And starved, I daresay. Come into the drawing room. I will call for tea at once.”
As Jocelyn stepped into the imposing entry hall, her father issued a brisk series of orders. In no time she found herself seated opposite him in the drawing room, a fine tea spread on the table between them. A frosty tension hung in the air. It put Jocelyn in mind of her first vexing interview with Sir Robert at Government House.
Once the tea had been poured and they were alone, she wasted no time stating her terms. “I am prepared to remain at Breckland and take charge of the children, my lord, but there is something I require from you in return.”
“Is there something you require, Duckworth?” Sir Robert glanced up from a memorandum about the completion of a new assembly house. “Have my guests arrived for tea yet?”
For some minutes he had been aware of his aide hovering just outside the open door of his study. Twice it had looked as though Duckworth meant to enter the room. Both times he had retreated, though never going away entirely.
Now the governor’s questions drew him in. Or perhaps they gave him the excuse he’d been hoping for. “No sign of Mr. and Mrs. Stone yet, sir. I shall notify you as soon as they arrive.”
Mrs. Stone, the former Miss Turner, had been one of the young ladies from the bride ship. Sir Robert had taken to inviting Jocelyn’s former charges and their husbands around to tea in turn with other townsfolk. He found it helped keep him in touch with the concerns of the colonists, and promoted public support for his administration. It also whiled away an hour of his day that might otherwise have been rather lonely.
“Well then, if not our guests, what has you stalking the doorway? A flaming editorial in the Gazette?”
Throughout the autumn, Mr. Wye had been singularly temperate in his criticism of the government. Sir Robert knew better than to suppose it could last.
“Quite the contrary, sir,” said Duckworth. “Today’s editorial commends the council for voting funds to erect that lighthouse on Seal Island. It singles you out for praise, sir. Something about the qualities of compassion and leadership seldom being found together in one character and how Nova Scotia has been fortunate to secure a governor who possesses both.”
Sir Robert gave a wry chuckle and shook his head. “Perhaps after tea I ought to head down to the harbor and practice walking on the water.”
Duckworth responded to his quip with a ready laugh. Either he was getting better at seeing a joke or Sir Robert was getting better at conveying levity. Perhaps a little of both.
“Not my guests…” Sir Robert counted off on his fingers the possible reasons for Duckworth haunting his doorway. “Not bad reports in the newspaper. How many guesses am I allowed?”
“Guesses, sir—very good.” This time Duckworth’s laugh sounded forced. What was wrong with the fellow today? “Ah! I believe I hear your guests now. I’ll just go make certain.”
When he had gone, the governor shook his head in puzzlement. Then he dipped his pen in the inkwell and jotted a note on the assembly memorandum about organizing a special levee to celebrate the official opening. After that he reread a letter he’d drafted to the Duke of Wellington.
His superiors had written recently, to him and to several prominent officials in the colony, confirming his appointment as governor and expressing their continued confidence in his administration. Certain the duke must have intervened on his behalf, Sir Robert had written to thank his old commander for his support.
He had just finished signing the letter when Duckworth returned. “It was Mr. and Mrs. Stone, sir. They’re in the drawing room now, chatting with Mrs. Duckworth. Whenever you would care to join them, sir.”
Sir Robert laid down his pen, then rose and headed across to the drawing room while Duckworth followed. As they passed one of the footmen, he said, “Tell Miz Ada we’ll take tea whenever it is ready. I believe I smell her plum cake.”
His guests and Mrs. Duckworth rose when he entered the drawing room. Was it his fancy or were both the ladies filling out their high-waisted gowns more than they had this summer?
After an exchange of bows and curtsies, they all sat down again, joined by the governor and Mr. Duckworth. Sir Robert inquired how the Stones were enjoying married life, then asked after Mr. Stone’s harness-making business. By the time the tea arrived, they had settled into two parallel discussions, which continued while Mrs. Duckworth poured tea and circulated plates of cake and sandwiches.
The two ladies talked mostly of domestic matters and exchanged news about mutual friends. Meanwhile the gentlemen discussed the weather, commerce and events in the colony at large. Duckworth and Mr. Stone soon launched into a spirited debate about whether Nova Scotia and its neighbor Cape Breton should continue to be administered as separate colonies or combined into one.
Sir Robert followed their discussion with in
terest and some amusement until he overheard Mrs. Stone ask Lily Duckworth, “Have you had any word from Mrs. Finch about how she is getting on? I do wish we could look forward to her return in the spring with another bride ship.”
“As a matter of fact,” replied Mrs. Duckworth, “I’ve had a letter from her this very morning.”
Sir Robert kept his focus on the two men, but his attention strayed to their wives. Was Jocelyn’s letter the reason Duckworth had been loitering outside his study earlier?
“She writes that Mrs. Beamish was pleased with the success of the venture and is already recruiting girls for a second party to come in the spring. Mrs. Finch persuaded her to hire no less than three chaperones to accompany them. More tea?”
“Yes, please.” Mrs. Stone held out her cup. “More chaperones and fewer troublemakers like Hetty and Vita would make the whole venture a good deal more pleasant for everyone. It still won’t be the same without Mrs. Finch, though.”
Sir Robert had to stuff a large slice of plum cake in his mouth to keep from voicing his agreement.
“Did she say how she is getting on looking after her nephews?”
“Very well by the sound of it.” Mrs. Duckworth took a sip of her tea. “She writes that they are very clever, good-natured little fellows, though rather boisterous. She sounds as if she has grown fond of them already. I should think after chaperoning forty girls, the charge of two small boys must feel like a holiday for her.”
Was he sorry or glad to hear that Jocelyn seemed content in her new life? Sir Robert wondered as he drank his tea and let the conversation of the two young couples swirl around him. Glad, he decided with no more than a flicker of hesitation. More than anything, he wanted her to be happy. He only wished events had unfolded differently so they could have been happy together.
Deborah Hale Page 25
