"But how did my father get them?"
"He didn't. Before I jumped ship with Cumberland, my brother's dying words were to take the Laborde jewels. I was able to escape with the necklace but not the comb. Spense then gave the comb to your mother as a wedding present and as partial proof of his false title. But my guess is that when you turned four or five, your mother realized she had married an imposter. She took you and the comb and fled."
"The title is rightfully yours, Avenel. I'm happy for you. I
only wish I could take back my words when I insisted you call me Lady Brienne. I feel quite foolish." Her cheeks turned pink.
"Spense was not your father. You're no commoner," he said adamantly.
"There is the miniature, I suppose, but that's my only proof."
"The miniature?"
"Yes." She leaned to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Holding the priceless slip of ivory, she took a long, wishful look at the portrait and then handed it to him. Avenel studied the handsome young man.
"There's your father." He tossed the miniature onto the bed. The young man stared back at them with bright green eyes. He was dressed in a simple linen shin and bottle green topcoat. His hair remained undressed, and his deep auburn locks appeared so dark as to be shot with magenta highlights.
"He must be. But I'll never be sure. All three people who knew the truth are dead." She chewed her lip anxiously. "Believing I was the earl's daughter was terrible. But now I have no heritage at all, and no name. Am I to be called Brienne Spense now?"
"I think Brienne Morrow suits you quite well," he said softly, watching for her reacdon.
Brienne paused. "Avenel, are you asking me to marry you? Do you mean—?"
"I mean that you need to rest for now. But I shall not let you go without a ride for more than a few more days. How does a week suit you, my countess?"
"I think a week is a very long time to wait." She laughed and hugged him tightly, her eyes shining with happiness and love.
EPILOGUE
In a dream it did seem—
But alas, dreams do pass
as do shadows—
I did walk, I did talk
With my love, with my
dove through fair meadows.
Still we passed till at last
We sat to repose us for our
pleasure.
Being set, lips met,
Arms twined, and did bind
my heart's treasure.
—Attributed to Shakespeare
The long gallery was silent except for the clinking of French porcelain and silver. As Mrs. Whitsome set up for tea, a pair of beautiful, haunted eyes looked down upon the scene from the mantel, where the portrait of Quentin Spense had hung for more than a decade. The girl in the Gainsborough portrait looked regal in the hyacinth' brocaded dress she wore, and she smiled an enigmatic smile that spoke of love lost and love found.
Outside, laughter rang from the Temple of Pan underneath the spray of falling cherry blossoms. Summer was upon- Osterley. Brienne sat on a brocade cushion, having just fed Lord William Cumberland Morrow. Now on her lap, the babe slept. She tried to relace herself, but her husband intervened.
"No pap for my child, I see," he mocked.
"I was not fed pap—nor I wager, were you," she said, smiling.
"Aye, no pap for this Colonial beast. But what of this one?" He stroked the child's fragile head.
"Are you saying I'm not a good mother?" Her hand went to her chest in mock denial.
"No pap, no swaddling. The babe enjoys too much freedom. Already he appears far too healthy."
"Yes. He is too much like his father. Lusty, spoiled, and self- indulgent."
"Aye, that and more." Avenel placed the sleeping dark- haired boy on a pillow near them, then sat down next to her, claiming her mouth in a possessive kiss.
Giggling, she tried to push him away, but it was of no use. He was too demanding, just like the babe, she thought. Closing her eyes, she relived the birth of their son.
Avenel and Cumberland had sat on the steps of the great staircase like two bandy urchins, orphaned from their cause by their very masculinity. They had listened to Brienne's cries all through the morning. But by the afternoon her cries had ceased, replaced by the throaty yell of their son.
"Please, is it a son?" she had whispered, exhausted from the ordeal of giving birth.
"He is a son, my lady!" Vivie and Mrs. Whitsome had gasped as Rose held the babe in her arms.
"Is he beautiful?" Brienne smiled weakly. In the moments following, Avenel burst into the room as pale as she had ever ' seen him. He rushed over to the bed, as if to assure himself that she was all right.
"It's a son, Avenel. But does he look like you?" Brienne had pulled on his waistcoat.
"Hush, hush." He placed a bittersweet kiss on her lips.
"We must change those damp linens, love, before you catch your death." Mrs. Whitsome scurried over to her.
Slowly she was raised in Avenel's arms as they bathed her and changed her bedclothes. Her legs shaking from the strain, she had been placed back in the bed. But still she was adamant.
"Avenel, go see your son. Tell me if you approve."
Cumberland was allowed to enter the room next. As the older man walked over to the child, he gave a gasp of amazement.
"Oh, what is it? Is he ugly?" Brienne had cried, becoming distraught.
"Come along, Avenel. I'm afraid this is something you must see." Cumberland shook his head. "I never thought I'd see the day."
Avenel had stood and walked over to the crib near the Etruscan room. The elaborate baby's bed was swathed in blue silk, and the child cried from among the folds.
"Lord Avenel, your son." Rose had presented the infant to him. Peering into the crib, Avenel had blinked to hide the emotion that roiled within him.
"My lord, what is it? Is the child flawed?" Brienne had cried desperately from the bed, unable to hide her disappointment.
"His only flaw is that he takes after his father. He will be a handful, no doubt." Cumberland laughed and patted Avenel on the back.
"He pleases you then?" Brienne rested back on the pillows thoroughly exhausted.
"Aye, he pleases me, wildflower."
With this, she had promptly fallen asleep, so great was her need for rest. Her dreams had been pleasant, full of blue silk and baby's laughter. She had yet to see the child that she had borne. But she already knew what he looked like. Just as she imagined—a baby with hair as dark as coal lay in the Linnell crib, and he stared back at the world with crystalline blue-gray eyes.
Opening her eyes, now at the Temple of Pan, she sought out her son, who slept on the cushion.
"Lady Brienne, you have too much need to be a doting mother," Avenel said gruffly when she left him.
"He is so precious. Our only son—how can I not spoil him?" She returned to her husband's arms.
"Methinks he needs some competition." Intently, he opened her loosened bodice and touched her breasts. He kissed the top of one that peeked out from her shift, and raising his head, he grinned. Six months had passed since the boy was born. Brienne had let him treat her like a madonna ever since then. But with his touch today, she knew she didn't want to be one any longer.
"Are you saying we should provide him with a sister?" She ran a finger down the length of his thigh.
Watching his hand as he slid it beneath her petticoat, he answered her question without saying a word. There among the soft summer breezes and the scent of orange blossoms, he showed her exactly what he thought. Brienne's happy laughter floated out among the gardens and to the far reaches of the Park. She simply couldn't have agreed more.
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No Choice But Surrender Page 36
