“Stop, stop, stop,” she begged, muffling the plea into her skirts. Had she dreamed the letter? Why hadn’t she shown it to someone? No one had seen it but her, and now it was gone. Had somebody taken it? Why?
She lay in a tight ball of misery, alternating between despair and false confidence that everything would be all right, that Sebastian would return and tell her he’d made the nightmare go away. The room dimmed as afternoon shadows lengthened, darkened. At last she heard the sound of hooves on the stones below.
His horse was lathered and winded. He jumped from its back and handed the reins to Cory, speaking to him in a voice too low for her to hear. She couldn’t tell from his face what he was thinking.
She put her hands on her hot cheeks, wishing she’d thought to wash her face, comb her hair—he would worry if he saw her like this. No time. She hurried out of the room to find him.
***
Sebastian had his foot on the first step when he saw her, rounding the curve in the staircase above him, holding her skirts in one hand and the bannister in the other. Her face told him everything. He waited for her to come to him, and at the moment she reached him he took her in his arms. She was brittle with fear; he held her gently, half afraid she would crack. “It’s all right, Rachel, everything’s all right. I’ve arranged it with Carnock. You’re safe.”
She murmured something, a low, fervent, inarticulate thanks, sagging a little.
Someone was coming down the corridor toward them. The formal drawing room was closest; he took her hand and pulled her inside, and closed the door behind them. But he’d no sooner embraced her again when a knock sounded at the door.
It was Susan. “My lord,” she said, looking embarrassed—she must have seen them in the hall—“Reverend Morrell’s here to see you.”
“God rot it,” Sebastian muttered.
“I’ll go,” said Rachel.
“No, stay.” To the maid he said shortly, “Show him in,” and she curtsied herself out.
“Sebastian, I should go.”
“Why? Stay, Rachel, I want you here.” He touched her hand, and his reward was her slight smile.
Christy Morrell’s inopportune visit would have rankled if Sebastian hadn’t liked him so much. As it was, he greeted the vicar amiably and accepted his gentle sympathies in good part, unsurprised by now that news of the old earl’s death had reached his ears so quickly. Christy spoke kindly to Rachel, and if her presence at Sebastian’s side surprised him, he didn’t show it.
“So, my lord, you’ll go to Sussex for the funeral?” he asked, accepting a glass of claret Sebastian poured out himself.
“Yes, I’ll be leaving this evening. In about an hour, actually. No, it’s all right,” he protested when the vicar looked apologetic and set his glass down untouched.
“No, I’ve come at a bad time. I didn’t realize you’d have to go immediately.” He reached for his hat, which he’d set on a chair, and for half a minute he massaged the crown between his long fingers, looking as if he had more to say. He sent Rachel a level glance. “I’ve heard about the constables’ visit,” he said at last. “That they tried to arrest you, I mean.”
“The devil you have,” Sebastian exclaimed before Rachel could speak. “How did you hear of it? It only happened this afternoon.”
“Not much stays a secret for long in Wyckerley,” Christy said with a slight, apologetic smile.
Rachel had stepped away a little, distancing herself from them; she was squeezing her hands into fists at her sides, a subdued sign of distress Sebastian knew well. Going to her, he took one of her hands by force, pressing it flat between both of his, not giving a damn what the minister thought. He said, “Well, then you might as well know I’ve convinced Carnock to sign a writ countermanding Vanstone’s warrant. They’re saying she violated the conditions of her parole, but it’s a lie. If you want my opinion, the mayor’s up to something.”
“Vanstone? Oh, I doubt that,” Christy said seriously. “He’s not an easy man, and I know he can be hardheaded, but upholding the law means everything to him. I’ve never known him to do anything remotely dishonest.”
Sebastian grunted, unconvinced. Something was wrong with this whole business, but he didn’t confide in the vicar his true suspicions. “Carnock’s agreed to delay any proceedings against Rachel until I return. So she’s safe. For now.”
“Are you worried that they’ll try to arrest her again?”
No point in minimizing the danger; Rachel knew the risk as well as he did. “I think there’s a chance, yes. If she can’t show them a remittal letter, she’ll be in trouble. They’ll call her a liar. I can delay the consequences, but I don’t think . . .” He realized his candor had gone too far: Rachel’s hand felt like a claw in his and her face had lost all color.
Christy looked between them for a long moment, his sympathetic eyes measuring. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I can think of a way you could protect Mrs. Wade.”
“How?”
He smiled. “You could marry her.”
Sebastian didn’t move, even though it felt as if an explosion had gone off in his chest. “Marry her.” He forced a hearty laugh, stunned, and too shocked to think of anything clever to answer. “Marry her,” he repeated, stalling, filling his voice with wonder and amusement. He dropped Rachel’s hand and faced her, willing her to smile with him. “Why, what an extraordinary idea. Really, Vicar, you amaze me.”
“I beg your pardon.” The minister was blushing, realizing he’d blundered. “I thought—it occurred to me that you might see that as a solution. Excuse me. It’s just that, even if the mayor were up to something, as you suggest—which I doubt, my lord—I think he would lose his enthusiasm at the prospect of reimprisoning the wife of the Earl of Moreton. But I misspoke, I . . . misread the situation. I do beg your pardon.”
“Not at all,” Sebastian said meaninglessly. His mind had gone blank. When he glanced at Rachel, he saw her staring at him with a weird fixity, a red spot glowing dully in each cheek.
“If you need anything,” Christy was saying to her, “help of any sort, I hope you won’t hesitate to tell me, Mrs. Wade. Or my wife, if you should need a woman friend.”
She murmured, “Thank you,” and bowed her head.
“I’ll see you to the door,” Sebastian offered. His voice sounded stupid to him, foolishly light, almost jocular. Christy went out. Following, Sebastian stopped in the threshold and turned back to say quietly, “Wait for me,” to Rachel. Her colorless eyes were impenetrable. The first inkling of what he’d done began to seep in, like a cold rain down the back of his neck.
Christy’s horse was tied in the courtyard. Walking down the long passage to the door, he broke an awkward silence to say, “I apologize again if I’ve offended you. I can see I made a mistake.”
“No, no, you haven’t offended me.” Sebastian forced a chuckle. “Embarrased the hell out of me, perhaps, but . . .” He trailed off. Another joke gone flat. He ran a distracted hand through his hair, and finally said something true. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Rachel, Christy. I wish I did.”
“Maybe it will come to you when you’re in Rye,” he said kindly.
“Maybe.”
When they arrived at the courtyard door, the vicar said, “Did you know that Lydia Wade’s aunt died last night?”
“Mrs. Armstrong? No. I’m sorry to hear that. I knew she was ill. What will become of her niece?”
“That,” said Christy, frowning, “is a very good question.”
After he left, Sebastian hurried back to the drawing room, but Rachel was gone. She had chores, duties; a servant could have come for her to solve some household dilemma. Otherwise she’d have waited for him. Of course she would have. They had things to talk about, Carnock’s compromise, his trip to Rye, her—
“My lord?”
“What is it, Preest?”
“My lord, I’ve been informed by the maid that a light repast awaits you in the dining room, and by the gr
oom that the carriage will be ready in the courtyard in exactly half an hour.”
“Yes, all right.” He glanced at his watch. “Am I packed?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where’s Mrs. Wade?”
“I believe she’s in her room, my lord.”
In her room. That meant nothing; she could have gone there for any number of reasons. “Go and get her, will you? I have to change clothes. Ask her to join me in the dining room in ten minutes.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in his place at the table, debating whether to begin eating or wait a little longer. He sipped his wine; it tasted bitter, he could hardly swallow it. Five more minutes passed. He said to the maid serving him his soup, “Clara, leave that and go and fetch Mrs. Wade, will you? I think she’s in her room.”
He could have gone himself, but it seemed important to stay where he was, do nothing out of the ordinary. Take no initiative. Everything was fine.
Clara came back round-eyed. “Oh, sir,” she blurted.
“Well?”
“Mrs. Wade says she’s not coming.”
“What?”
“She says she’s not coming. She says—she says—”
“What?”
“She says to tell you to go hang!”
They stared at each other in utter astonishment, until Sebastian’s wits came back and he had the presence of mind to send the girl away. Alone, he stared blankly at his soup for ten more seconds. Then he threw down his napkin and stood up.
He’d gotten to the doorway when they nearly collided. He started to laugh with relief. “There you are. Rachel, what—”
“I changed my mind.” She kept moving; he had to walk backward to get out of her way. She went to the head of the table and stood beside his chair, as if waiting for him to resume it. Something told him it would be safer to keep his distance.
He leaned his hip against the edge of the table, twelve feet away, and folded his arms. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, which had an expression he’d never seen before. It wasn’t only angry—although it certainly was that, finely, superbly angry, her cheeks blazing crimson, her eyes shooting sparks of ire. But something else tempered the anger, dampening any satisfaction he might have taken in it. With a sinking feeling, he realized the other quality was disillusionment.
“What’s the matter?”
Her eyes narrowed on him in disbelief. “Do you have no idea? Not a single clue?”
“Why don’t you—”
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter. You laughed at me.” He started to deny it, but she lifted her fist and smacked it down on the table. “You laughed.” Dishes rattled; a glass toppled, sloshing water onto his plate. “Damn you.”
“Calm yourself. I wasn’t laughing at—”
“I don’t even want to marry you! I will not be laughed at.”
He could have kept on insisting she’d mistaken him, missed the point, taken it wrong—but the depth of the hurt he’d caused her wasn’t to be denied. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I wish I could take that back. It was stupid and I regret it. You deserve much, much better. I swear it will never happen again.”
He could have saved his breath, or given his apology to the wall. She sneered at him, and folded her own arms as if she were mimicking him. “No, you’re right, it won’t, because I won’t be here. And I’m glad it happened, because for the first time since we met, Sebastian, I’m seeing you clearly.”
He might have been alarmed, but her voice broke when she said his name, and her eyes glistened. He pushed away from the table. “Rachel. Listen to me.”
She held up her hands, warning him away. “There’s nothing you can say, nothing you’re capable of saying that will mean anything to me.”
“What do you want? Just tell me what you want.”
“If you think this is about marriage, you’re mistaken!”
“Then what is it about?”
She looked incredulous. “How can you ask me that?”
“How can I answer if you won’t—”
“How could you not know?” She raised her voice, as if speaking to a deaf person. “I understand why you won’t have me; you’re a viscount and I’m a convict. But once you said you loved me—were falling in love with me.”
“I—I—” He couldn’t finish.
Disgust turned her eyes a frigid shade of gray. “I feel sorry for you. I do, because you’re a coward. You laughed at me, and I can’t forgive you for that.”
He stared at her. “This is what you can’t forgive me for? This? After everything else I’ve—”
“I gave you credit for decency and human feelings, a heart. But you’ve only been using me in some kind of—experiment. ‘What an extraordinary idea,’ you said. ‘Really, Vicar, you amaze me!’”
“Rachel—”
“You make me feel cheap! You wanted to change me, and you have—but you don’t even have the courage to see it through, or the decency to take responsibility for what you’ve done to me. ‘What an extraordinary idea,’” she said again, mocking him.
“There’s something missing in you, Sebastian! I feel pity for you!
He clenched his jaws, but anger wouldn’t come to his rescue. “I thought you were happy,” he tried in a reasonable voice. “You told me you were. You seemed to be.”
“I am happy,” she said grimly, “and it has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s good. I’m glad.” He was anything but glad. He remembered the day he’d vowed to “resurrect” her, bring her back from the dead. He found it beyond ironic that he’d succeeded so well, she wanted to leave him now. He’d wanted her independent, but not this independent.
“I can’t stay here,” she was saying. “I could fool myself before that you felt something for me, but not anymore.”
“What the hell are you talking about? How could you possibly think I don’t feel something for you!”
At that moment Preest poked his head in the doorway. “The carriage is waiting, my lord,” he said tonelessly, and vanished.
Sebastian closed the gap between himself and Rachel. “I have to go,” he said, reaching for her stiff hand.
“How convenient.”
“Rachel, I have a train to catch.” He put a wounded note in his voice; he felt he’d finally caught her on lower moral ground, and he’d better take advantage of it. “My father’s dead; I’ve got to go to my family.”
“Oh, of course—the family you hold so dear to your heart—the father who meant so much to you. Go, Sebastian, no ones stopping you!”
He ground his teeth. “I don’t have time to talk about this. You can’t leave, and you know it.”
“Why not? I could be someone’s legitimate housekeeper. I’m grateful to you for that, at least—for making respectability mean something to me again.”
“Will you listen? I’m sorry I hurt you. I wish I could take it back.”
“I don’t. You’ve opened my eyes.” But the tears were back, mocking her bravado, and he was torn between compassion for her and gladness, because she didn’t mean what she was saying.
“I’m sorry. We’ll fix it,” he promised, trying to pull her into his arms. “When I come back, we’ll talk about everything. Some of the things you said—I can’t deny them. But we can make it right. At least give me a chance to do better. You’ve taken me unawares—give me a little time to think about the things you’ve said. That’s fair, isn’t it?” She turned her face away. “You can’t leave me. Say you won’t, Rachel. Come, say it.”
She took a deep, quavery breath. “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
He closed his eyes in relief, resting his forehead against her temple. She wouldn’t leave him. “I’ll miss you,” he told her, holding her narrow shoulders when she would’ve broken away. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. Sweetheart, won’t you kiss me good-bye?”
“No.”
&nb
sp; They sighed in unison. “Let me kiss you, then.” She craned away, but he held her and put his lips on her cheek. Her body was both stiff and yielding, ambivalent. That was the best he could hope for—but God, how he wanted her arms around him now. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?” he asked again, holding her, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“I don’t know.”
A thought occurred to him. “You have to stay—you’re in my legal custody now. That’s how I got Carnock to agree to a postponement of your arrest.” She didn’t answer, and finally he had to let her go. “Damn the train,” he muttered, trying to make her smile; he’d have settled for a rueful smile, even a bitter one, but she wouldn’t even look at him.
At the door, he glanced back. She was staring down at the hand she had gripped around the back of his chair, her eyes narrowed, her beautiful face taut. She seemed to be listening, not to the sound of his leave-taking but to something else. A voice in her own head, perhaps—probably the one telling her to go. A precarious second passed. The words that would have kept her for certain wavered on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t speak them. Couldn’t. Instead he said, “Wait for me.”
She didn’t look up.
XIX
I OUGHT TO feel something.
But he didn’t, even leaning over the open casket and staring intently into the Earl of Moreton’s lifeless face. The rigid features were sallow, not pale, and too sharp, as if the corpse were a soap-stone carving. Sebastian searched for something of himself in the still countenance, but there was nothing. In death as in life, father and son were strangers to each other.
Nothing? Really? What about that tight, unyielding look about the mouth? That looked familiar. Stubbornness, he supposed. Or maybe just a gritting of the teeth, a habit acquired from a determination to get through this business of life without feeling anything. If that had been the late Lord Moreton’s goal, he’d succeeded admirably. He never knew his son, might be his epitaph. And they both preferred it that way.
Sebastian straightened, stepped back. He hadn’t been that physically close to his father since . . . since ever. Every few years they ran into each other and shook hands. That was all. He had no memories of sitting on Dad’s knee, being carried in Papa’s arms; the idea seemed ludicrous, in fact, almost obscene.
Patricia Gaffney - [Wyckerley 02] Page 29
