by Mary Balogh
There was a short silence while everyone digested that fact, but then everyone was speaking at once again, asking questions, making suggestions, offering consolation, wanting to know how Lord Alleyne had discovered his identity if he still could not remember much.
It was Flossie who suggested another toast.
“To Lord Alleyne Bedwyn,” they all said.
He was to leave in the morning for Lindsey Hall. He said so in response to a question from Geraldine.
It was the question and the answer that somehow brought silence down upon all of them. Looking about the table, Rachel discovered that everyone had stopped smiling. Perhaps, she thought, she was not the only one feeling mortally depressed.
“I will miss the kitchen at Chesbury,” Phyllis said, “and cooking for his lordship. I was happier there than I think I have ever been in my life. In fact, I know I was.”
“I never did give Mr. Drummond an answer,” Flossie said with a sigh. “It didn’t seem right to say yes when he is a gentleman born and I am what I am. But he knew about me and said he did not care a fig for my past. And I miss him something terrible.”
“I never did properly finish organizing the household at Chesbury,” Geraldine said, “and doing an inventory. I could have done a good job as housekeeper there if I could only read and write.”
“I could teach you, Gerry,” Bridget said. “But not yet. You had all better go on to London ahead of me. I had better stay with Rachel. She is going to need a companion and chaperon and it won’t be any hardship to go back to Chesbury with her for a while. I have friends there.”
The other three ladies gazed wistfully at her while Uncle Richard cleared his throat.
“I am in desperate need of a housekeeper and a cook,” he said. “And I fear that if my steward cannot find himself a decent wife soon, loneliness may well drive him from my service. I would hate that. He is a good man. Rachel will certainly need a lady companion. Now far be it from me to destroy anyone’s dream, but if you all wish to postpone it or even to change it entirely, then I would suggest that we all return to Chesbury together.”
There was a great clamor of voices then as all the ladies spoke together. It was almost impossible to distinguish individual comments, but they were all summed up, it seemed, when Phyllis rose from her place, swept around to the head of the table, wrapped her arms about Uncle Richard’s neck from behind, and kissed his cheek.
The general laughter this time was a great deal merrier than it had been earlier.
“I suppose,” Uncle Richard said, “that for the sake of my neighbors, Mrs. Leavey, we had better kill off Colonel Leavey in Paris. And I suppose we had better have him die impoverished, thus forcing you into taking employment as my cook.”
“And we are going to have to make up a story for Rache too,” Geraldine said. “We will have to say that she has been abandoned by that monstrous, philandering husband of hers, I suppose. Unless someone can think of a way of making her single again so that she can receive suitors. Any suggestions?”
But no one had any. And melancholy descended upon the whole company again.
Tomorrow Alleyne would be going home to Lindsey Hall.
CHAPTER XXII
ALLEYNE DID NOT TAKE A PRIVATE FAREWELL of Rachel. He could have, perhaps, if he had knocked on the door of her room early, even though Bridget shared the room with her. Bridget would have taken herself tactfully off out of the way.
Instead he went down to breakfast in the public dining room only a little earlier than usual and then went strolling outside until he saw all the bustle of the Chesbury carriages being drawn out into the street and loaded up with baggage.
Weston had decided last evening to return home without further delay. Alleyne guessed that he was overjoyed to be taking his niece back with him, and only slightly less so to have the other ladies going with them. Chesbury Park was going to be a far more cheerful place for him to live out his life than it had been just a little over a month ago.
Perhaps good had come of his wild scheme after all, Alleyne thought, though he hoped he had learned his lesson that lies and deception were not the way to go about achieving any goal.
He had decided to see them all on their way before leaving himself. Another delaying tactic? he wondered. But he would be on his way well before noon—to Lindsey Hall in Hampshire. He had remembered last night that there was a magnificent medieval banqueting hall just beyond the front doors, complete with carved wooden screen and minstrel gallery, huge oak table, and weapons and coats of arms on the walls.
Geraldine came out first. Strickland was with her, carrying a bag that must be hers. He was looking stoic, and she was looking like a Latin tragic queen. The other ladies followed them out into the yard, and then came Rachel with Weston.
He ought to have gone to the Pump Room, or, better, yet, on a long walk, Alleyne thought. Farewells were an abomination. Nobody ever wanted them, yet they seemed a necessary evil.
Weston shook his hand, bade him a hearty good day and good wishes for his own journey, and was helped into the first carriage by his valet. Bridget hugged him and followed the baron inside, and then it was the turn of Flossie and Phyllis, who was weeping copious tears. Geraldine was huddled with the sergeant outside the second carriage, which she entered after the other two were already inside.
That left Rachel. She did not hug him. Neither did she scramble to get into the carriage with her uncle and Bridget. She stood pale and dry-eyed and unsmiling until he looked at her, sorry then that he had not gone to her earlier. But when his eyes met hers, she smiled brightly, took a few steps forward, and held out both hands to him.
“Alleyne,” she said, “good-bye. Have a good journey later. And don’t fear. Once you have arrived at Lindsey Hall, once you have seen the Duke of Bewcastle and the rest of your family again, everything will come back to you. It may take a little time, but give yourself that time. Good-bye.”
It was a cheerful, polite, rehearsed little speech.
He took her hands in his and bowed over them. He raised them one at a time to his lips. And suddenly he could not remember why he was allowing her to leave him like this—except that he had nothing to offer her, perhaps not even his freedom, and that after the life she had lived so far in her twenty-two years she deserved the chance to be Miss York of Chesbury, free to consider the suit of a wide range of gentlemen.
It was only natural that they feel sentimental and all choked up with emotion at a moment like this. They had been through a great deal together in the past two months. They had meant a great deal to each other.
“Be happy, Rachel,” he said. “It is all I wish for you.”
And he released one of her hands, helped her up into the carriage, watched her arrange her skirts about her before shutting the door, and stepped back so that the carriage could proceed on its way. He raised a hand in farewell and smiled.
There was a great deal of noise and bustle as the two carriages, followed by a baggage coach, moved out into the street, turned the corner, and disappeared from sight. There was a great deal of waving from inside the carriages—except for Rachel, who leaned back in her seat and did not even look out. Geraldine had rolled down the window of the second carriage and waved a handkerchief out of it, her eyes on Strickland. She was crying.
And deuce take it, he felt like crying too, Alleyne thought, deliberately not turning his head to look at his valet.
He loved her, damn it. He loved her.
“I’ll finish packing your things, sir,” the sergeant said after heaving a great, soulful sigh. “You got to love them all, haven’t you, sir? They have hearts as big as the sea no matter what they used to do. Not that I care about that. I never did look down on that sort of lady like some fellers do, even the fellers what uses their services. They got to earn their daily victuals the same as the rest of us. And I can’t say as killing for a living is any better. I’ll have the carriage come round in one hour’s time, shall I?”
“Yes,” All
eyne said. “No, make it noon. I need to take a walk and blow away some cobwebs. Better yet, leave it until I get back. There is no big hurry, is there?”
He did not even go back inside the hotel. He strode off down Milsom Street in the direction of the city center. Then he wove his way through the abbey yard, past the abbey itself, and onward to the river. He stood gazing down into its waters for a while, but then he walked along beside it past the weir until he reached the Pulteney Bridge. He crossed it and set out at a brisk pace along Great Pulteney Street, in the direction of Sydney Gardens.
At first his thoughts were all centered on Rachel. He wondered exactly where she was at every moment, whether she was cheerful and busy conversing with her uncle and Bridget, whether she missed him—whether her heart was back here with him.
And then without any warning that it was about to happen he remembered Morgan. His sister. The woman who had been waiting for him at the Namur Gates. She had been tending wounded soldiers there when he left Brussels, and he had been intent upon returning to her as soon as possible so that he could take her home to the safety of England.
At first he could not remember why she had been in Brussels in the first place or why she was there at the gates. And he could not remember why he had ridden through the gates away from her instead of taking her home without delay. But then he recalled that she was eighteen, that she had made her come-out in London back in the spring and had then gone to Brussels with a friend of hers and the friend’s parents. He could not recall their name—though the father was an earl. Then he had a flashing image of Morgan’s face, stopped walking in order to close his eyes, and brought it back into focus. It was a dark-complexioned, oval face with dark eyes—like his own—and dark hair. A beautiful face. She was the loveliest of them all. She was the only one who had not inherited the family nose.
How many of them were there?
Freyja must be one. She must be his sister. What had been said in the abbey yard yesterday morning?
That is the greatest excitement we have seen in Bath since Lady Freyja Bedwyn accused the Marquess of Hallmere right in the middle of the Pump Room of being a debaucher of innocence.
Freyja Bedwyn. The Marquess of Hallmere. Hallmere.
And then he remembered that they were married. He had been at their wedding not so long ago. Last summer? Yet Freyja had accused Hallmere quite publicly, in the middle of the Pump Room, of being a debaucher of innocence?
Quite unexpectedly Alleyne chuckled aloud. Yes, that sounded just like Freyja—good old Free, small and fierce and quite ready to use her sharp tongue or her fists or both at the least provocation. He could suddenly picture her, strangely handsome with her fair, unruly hair, her darker eyebrows, and her prominent nose.
He sat in Sydney Gardens for hours, absently watching the squirrels, occasionally nodding to other walkers, and slowly piecing together a few random pieces of his life. There were still huge chunks of it missing, but his panic was beginning to recede. If some things had come back to him, then obviously his memory had not been wiped out beyond recall. Other things would come back too—perhaps everything in time.
Was there a wife hidden away somewhere in the darkness of the memories that had not yet returned?
Where was Rachel now?
When he finally got to his feet to make his way back to George Street and the York House Hotel, he was amazed to see from the position of the sun that it must be late afternoon. Where had the day gone?
But it would be too late now, he thought, to set out for Hampshire today. He would wait until tomorrow. There was no real hurry. They all thought him dead. They had held a memorial service for him in London. One more day could not matter a great deal to them.
He could not bear to face them without knowing them.
He remembered lying on the bed in his room yesterday afternoon with Rachel curled up beside him as he assimilated the knowledge that he was Lord Alleyne Bedwyn.
He missed her with an ache that felt like a real physical pain.
He doubted he had felt lonelier in his life than he felt at that moment.
RACHEL HAD BEEN HOME AT CHESBURY PARK FOR FIVE days. Home. It must be the most wonderful word in the English language, she thought. She belonged here. She could live here for the rest of her life if she wished. Even after Uncle Richard’s days were over it would be hers.
She hoped it would be a long time before that happened. He was tired after the journey home from Bath, though he recovered faster than he had after the journey there. He was, she realized, a happy man. He loved her. And his home had suddenly come alive around him again. Geraldine had been named officially as housekeeper and had thrown herself into the task with great energy. She seemed to be quite a favorite with the other servants, especially the men. Bridget had already started to teach her to read. Phyllis was permanently ensconced as cook and soon discovered what Uncle Richard’s favorite dishes were so that she could spoil him with them every few days. Mr. Drummond had announced his betrothal to Flossie and had been granted his employer’s blessing. Bridget had made the weeding and tending of the parterre gardens her personal project, and they were blooming gloriously despite the fact that the end of August was drawing near.
Rachel kept herself busy, reading and mending and embroidering and keeping her uncle company. On one rainy day she spent an afternoon alone in the portrait gallery, gazing again at the likenesses of all her ancestors on her mother’s side, reminding herself of the exact relationship of each to herself. She looked for ten whole minutes at the face and figure of the child who had been her mother. On the other, finer days she walked outdoors a great deal, sometimes with Bridget or Flossie, sometimes alone. She rode a couple of times, a groom a few paces behind her, and was proud that she could do it alone. She even took the boat out once, though she did not row anywhere close to the island.
Uncle Richard was determined to be well enough to take her to London next spring to be presented to the queen and to be given a come-out ball there before participating in some of the entertainments of the Season. She thought she would rather like that, old as she was to be making her debut into society.
She did not intend to hide away in seclusion merely because her heart was broken.
But that was a ridiculous, theatrical way of describing her condition. Her heart was not broken. It merely ached constantly, both night and day. She was sleeping in the same room as before. Although she had been in the other bedchamber only the once when Alleyne was there, when she had stayed for the whole night, it now seemed oppressively empty and silent. She avoided going into it, but she could feel it without having to go there. She wished there were a door she could close in order to shut it away from her memory.
She thought about him constantly. She wondered about his return to Lindsey Hall and tried to picture it in her mind. How would the Duke of Bewcastle have received him? Would there have been other family members there too? Would he have remembered them as soon as he saw them? Was he still struggling to retrieve his past?
Had there been a wife waiting there for him?
She supposed that she would hear of him again sometime, since it seemed that they now moved in the same world. Perhaps she would even see him again—perhaps next spring. Perhaps he would be in London.
She hoped not. Maybe in two or three years’ time she would be able to see him and feel nothing but pleasure and a very mild affection. But not next spring. It would be too soon.
She had been strolling around part of the lake, where there was a tree-shaded path that the gardeners had recently cleared and tidied. She had found some shade in which to sit for a while, since it was a particularly warm day. She had gazed about her, breathing in the heavy smells of summer vegetation, drinking in with her eyes the beauty of this particular part of the park, squinting against the sun sparkling on the water of the lake. From here she could just make out the slate roof of the folly at the crest of the island.
But seeing it made her sad and broke her mood of near-cont
entment. She walked back to the house, taking a shortcut diagonally across the lawn. She stopped halfway and shaded her eyes with her hand. The doors stood open, as they often did these days, and someone was standing at the top of the steps. She did not think it was her uncle. A visitor, then? They had not had visitors since their return from Bath, and so no explanation had yet been given to the neighbors about her changed name and status.
And then her hand dropped to her side, she felt a great welling of emotion that escaped from her lips in a wordless cry, and she caught up the sides of her skirts and broke into a run.
“Alleyne!” she cried, her heart so bursting with joy that it did not even occur to her to wonder why he was here.
He met her halfway and caught her up in his arms and swung her twice about before setting her back on her feet and putting enough distance between them that she could see he was grinning, his eyes alight with laughter.
“Dare I hope you are glad to see me?” he asked her. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Rachel, though there ought to be a better way of saying it than with that sad old cliché. I have missed you.”
Somehow she found that she was looking beyond his shoulder to the window of her uncle’s room. He was sitting there, looking down at them. She took a step back, and Alleyne looked over his shoulder and then back again.
“You were not here when I arrived,” he said. “I have had a word with your uncle.”
“But what are you doing here?” she asked him. And now that her mindless joy was past, she was sorry he had come. All that she had suffered during the past five days would have to be repeated when he went away again. “How could your family have been willing to let you go again so soon? Was it a happy return, Alleyne? Did you recognize them all? And remember everything?”
With every word she drank in the sight of him as if she had forgotten and would commit every detail to memory for future reference. He was hatless. The slight breeze was ruffling his hair and lifting that errant lock from his forehead.
