He didn’t take his responsibilities lightly, and suddenly the man who’d prided himself on never growing any roots into the ground had two immensely important responsibilities pulling him east and west. It was ironic, he supposed, but at the moment he couldn’t find the humor in it. He hadn’t expected to go back to Virginia or to hear from Lavinia again. He had to admit her letter had stunned him, taking him back to the darkest of times he’d vowed never to revisit. He had traveled straight through the night, afraid to sleep for what demons slumber would bring him.
Jesse finished his whiskey and stood, looking at his pocket watch. The time had come. He had to face the ghosts of his past, find his daughter, and bring her back to the home he wanted to create in England. He knew what he needed to do. He only prayed he’d find his way through it all with his sanity firmly intact. And he prayed that when he returned, Bella would be awaiting him with open arms.
The days collected with a morose tedium for Bella. She pressed her heated forehead to the cool glass of the library window, staring out into the gray early-winter afternoon. She still adored the quiet comfort of the library, but she no longer found solace in its familiar walls of books. She hadn’t been able to strike up enough enthusiasm to read in a very long time. Her heart simply wasn’t in it.
Much had changed at Marleigh Manor since Jesse’s departure. Lady Scarbrough’s husband had unexpectedly met an early demise, leaving her free to wed Thornton. Forgoing propriety and mourning periods, they had wed as soon as possible because the countess—now the marchioness—was enceinte. But while her brother’s wife’s condition was a cause for celebration, Bella’s was not. Only Smith knew.
She sighed, watching her breath fog the pane and obscure the view of the gardens below. Soon, she would no longer be able to hide her secret from her family. Her hand traveled to her midriff. She’d convinced Smith to continue tightlacing her into her corset despite the weight she’d gained. It was imperative that she keep her condition from the dowager for as long as possible.
Two months had passed. Still no word from Jesse. Still no battle plan. She was bereft, knowing now that she’d likely never hear from the man she loved or see him again, and that she was left with the herculean task of somehow raising his child. She was determined to keep the babe, for he or she was all she had left to give her hope.
“Darling daughter,” the dowager trilled from behind her, her voice tinged with uncharacteristic delight.
Bella turned to find her mother sweeping into the library, the ribbons of her cap flying about her head. Her ever-present gray silk skirts swished and frothed about her. To Bella’s eye, the effect was all quite silly. She’d never know why the dowager insisted upon remaining in half-mourning for the marquis when it seemed to Bella that she’d never even harbored the slightest bit of fondness toward him in his lifetime.
She sighed again, feeling quite dismal to have had her musings interrupted. “Yes, Maman?”
“I have correspondence for you from the Duke of Devonshire.” She held out a small missive bearing the duke’s seal, waving it as if it were a royal banner. “That’s three times in the last fortnight. I daresay he’s smitten!”
Bella accepted the letter without even a frisson of excitement. The duke was a dear man and had begun writing to her with increasing frequency. He was kind, steadfast, and everything Jesse Whitney was not. While the tone of his letters was always above reproach, he had begun hinting that his feelings for her were no longer platonic.
“I’m sure he’s no more smitten with me than I am with him,” she murmured, tucking the letter into the pocket of her day dress.
“What stuff.” The dowager waved her hand in the air dismissively. “I’ve asked Thornton to extend an invitation to Marleigh Manor. We have no way of knowing if he’ll choose to court you, given your brother’s disastrous decision to wed that woman. But I have every hope that he shall take into account our extensive familial history and your infinite suitability as his future duchess.”
Blessed angels. She didn’t want to wed the duke. Even if she did, there was no way she could go to him as his bride while carrying another man’s child. She hadn’t the heart for deceit, and soon she would no longer be able to cinch away her problems.
“I’ll not marry the Duke of Devonshire,” she told the dowager. “And you must cease referring to Cleo as ‘that woman’. She is Thornton’s wife and the Marchioness.”
Maman shuddered, her disgust for her son’s choice of wife evident. “Do not dare take me to task, Lady Arabella de Vere. Whilst your brother has taken leave of his faculties, I have not. You are the sole hope of this family. Marrying the duke will go a long way toward repairing our reputation in the eyes of society.”
Bella frowned, most uncomfortable with the idea of herself as the de Vere family savior. If anything, she was bound to bring more shame and ruin upon the family than her brother had. They would forever be scandalous now. Her poor mother would have an apoplectic fit when she discovered the truth.
“The duke has hardly been courting me thus far,” she reminded her mother, attempting to blunt her expectations. “He’s merely become a friend, nothing more.”
Her mother sniffed. “Men and woman are not meant to be friends, daughter. He’s already written that he will come for a visit. Mark my words, he would never come to Marleigh Manor in the midst of the dreadful scandal in which we now find ourselves unless he could find it in his heart to desire you for his wife.”
The Duke of Devonshire was coming to see her? The mere thought rendered her weak. How was she to possibly smile and make merry as if she hadn’t a care? “When will he come?”
The dowager smiled, evidently pleased with her clandestine machinations. “He arrives in a fortnight, and he will stay until the following Saturday. More than enough time, I should think, to court you and ask your brother for your hand.”
“No.” Bella shook her head, distraught. “I won’t marry him, Maman, and I do not wish for him to travel to Marleigh Manor. You should not have orchestrated this on my behalf.”
“I am seeing to your well-being and securing your future. You will treat His Grace with all the welcome and kindness he deserves, my lady, and that is final.”
With that parting directive, the dowager took her regal leave of the room.
The trip from Buckinghamshire to London had proved monotonous but not nearly as much as the passage over the Atlantic. It was difficult to believe he was almost home. Of course, home had become something more of a murky dream and something less of a reality in the last fifteen years. Jesse winced. It was an irony indeed that a man who never put down his valise had made his fortune in the buying of property.
Then again, perhaps not. It was the selling of it that had earned his way in the world. He could never abide to stay in one place for very long. He was a nomad by circumstance, and he had to admit there was no pleasure in his return. The hired conveyance swayed over familiar roads. This was no great homecoming. He had been summoned for a purpose, and it was a grim one indeed.
His mind traveled again to Bella. God, how he missed her with a desperation that frightened him. She would have read his letter by now. She probably detested him after the way he’d disappeared. He wouldn’t blame her in the slightest. He’d been in a dark place the night he’d gone. His letter, he had no doubt, would not serve to ameliorate the confusion his abrupt departure would have caused her. What could he say for himself? What the hell had he been thinking? Perhaps that was the crux of it. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He had compromised his best friend’s sister and then walked away from her to chase old demons.
If he could relive the night he’d received word from Lavinia, he would tear down every hall of Marleigh Manor until he found Bella. He should have simply tossed her over his shoulder and taken her with him. She hadn’t deserved his callous treatment of her. But he’d wanted to protect her, love her, keep her as sweet and innocent as ever. He hadn’t wanted to drag her into the labyrinth of his past. Ah,
his past. Just the thought of seeing Lavinia again was enough to make his entire body feel like a tightly wound pocket watch.
The carriage slowed outside a modest-looking townhouse. Richmond showed fewer signs now of the rampage that had reduced it to ruins. He could still recall the ravaged shells of grand buildings after the city fell in flames. The process of resurrection was, he suspected, as ongoing for the South as it was for the war’s soldiers.
With a weary sigh for the upcoming interview, he stepped down from the carriage. After he thanked and paid the driver, he stood on the walk, remembering. It had been a long time. Suddenly, the onslaught of memories hit him with the precision of a minié ball. Though time could pass, the nightmares of battle would never fade.
Nor would what had come after.
But now was not the time for dwelling in the past’s heavy muck. He strode up the walk, uncertain of what he would find waiting for him inside. A servant greeted him at the door. He was expected. The home was furnished in a surprisingly elegant style. It appeared Lavinia had done well for herself despite the war’s toll.
The servant led him up a staircase in complete silence. The only sound to be heard was their carpet-muffled footfalls and ticking clocks. All the drapes were drawn over the windows. It seemed to be a home in mourning, as if Lavinia had already passed.
She had not. He entered an equally darkened chamber to find the youthful beauty he recalled had withered into a wan, pale creature. There was only the meager light of a gas lamp to illuminate the room. Lavinia lay in bed, her frail body propped up with what seemed to be dozens of pillows. Her once glossy black hair was dull, her skin ashen, her eyes flat. She looked like a corpse.
“Jesse.” Even her voice sounded brittle. “You’ve come to me.”
He stopped a few feet from her sickbed to look down upon her. “You knew I would. I’m amazed you were able to find me.”
“I tracked you down by your man of business in New York, and from there, it was not terribly difficult at all.” A faint semblance of a smile curved her mouth. “It is your daughter you’ve come for, not me. I may be dying but I’m no fool.”
“I’ve always credited you with being sly as a coyote.” He couldn’t hide the bitterness he felt toward her. It didn’t matter that she had been lowered to a husk of her former beautiful self. Her death wouldn’t expiate her sins. He suspected she knew as much.
“You won’t grant me forgiveness? Not even now?” A racking cough punctuated her questions. She held a lace handkerchief to her mouth and when she pulled it away, blood bloomed over the pristine white of the fabric.
If she wanted his pity, she would not receive it. Nor would she receive his mercy. He felt nothing for her except disdain. “Does it matter, Lavinia?”
She fidgeted with the handkerchief. “Perhaps it does. I don’t wish to die with a burdened soul.”
Jesse raised a brow. “I would swear you didn’t have a soul.”
“I suppose I deserve your harsh words.” She closed her eyes.
“You deserve worse, but I will leave you to the suffering God has imposed upon you.”
“I didn’t know he was trying to send you to prison camp, Jesse.”
The breath fled from his lungs. The mere words were enough to cause a visceral reaction in him. For the last decade and a half, he had done his damndest to forget the horrors of his final months of battle. He’d been shot by his fellow soldier, nearly killed in the process, and had just barely avoided being captured that day. Only luck had saved him. In her desperation to run away with her lover, Lavinia had proven herself the ultimate Judas. Her actions had cured him of any notion he’d ever loved her, nor she him.
“Forgive me if I don’t believe a word you say,” he bit out. “I haven’t returned to reminisce. I’ve come to collect my daughter. Where is she?”
She coughed again, this time more violently than the last. “Maybe I shall change my mind. If you insist on being nasty, you won’t have her.”
It was to be a power struggle with her to the last. He wanted to throttle her. He clenched his fists and desperately fought to maintain a shred of calm. “Where the hell is she?”
Lavinia, it seemed, wasn’t about to relinquish her control over him. She tilted her head, giving the impression of a drab sparrow when once she had been a vivid canary. “Have you ever thought of me, Jesse?”
“Never,” he lied. The truth was, she had lived in his nightmares for some time. But he had never intentionally allowed his mind to stray to either her or her betrayal. Some things were best left buried in the past.
“I never wanted you to be harmed, you know.”
He suspected she suffered from a guilty conscience, but for him it was too little, too late. “You seem to think I can absolve your sins but you’re sadly mistaken.”
“I don’t want an absolution.” She coughed again and dabbed at her mouth before proceeding, as though she were doing nothing more than holding afternoon tea. “I am sorry for your suffering, whether you believe it or not.”
“Your contrition is suspect at this point.” He didn’t bother to hide his disgust for her. “I was almost killed.”
There it was, the brutal reality. He’d taken a bullet to his back. The mere recollection brought the taste of blood to his mouth.
“I didn’t want you dead.”
“Lavinia, I’d sooner believe you could sprout wings and fly.”
“I see you’re determined to be unpleasant.” She closed her eyes and her weariness was almost palpable. He knew she would soon pass. He’d seen death many times before. That she would no longer walk the earth didn’t give him as much pleasure as he’d thought it would.
He grew tired of their verbal sparring. “Let’s place our cards on the table. I didn’t travel across an ocean to have a match of words with you. I came because you had my child fifteen years ago and denied me the right to ever know her.”
The fact that he had a daughter somewhere, beneath the same roof, seemed surreal. His daughter. He hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate her. What if Lavinia was lying? What if she were as cold a bitch as Lavinia? Far too many questions lingered, questions he’d come very far to answer.
“James wouldn’t allow it of course,” Lavinia said matter-of-factly. “But he never loved her as a father. He always knew Clara wasn’t his.”
Clara. His daughter had a name. An odd sensation trickled through his chest, slow and sticky as treacle. “Does the girl know?”
“I told her after James died.” She paused. “It seemed right, but she didn’t take the news well.”
“And what of now?” For God’s sake, he didn’t know what to do with a daughter, let alone a daughter who didn’t appreciate a new father in her life.
“She’s had some time to acquaint herself with it.”
An ugly thought occurred to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lavinia was guilty of it and worse. “Does she know I’ve come for her?”
“Of course she does. I’m not entirely a monster. I do this for the good of our daughter. I haven’t any living family worthy of protecting her, and James’ family is little better.” She began another brutal series of coughing. “Would you please get me my laudanum?”
He strode to the table where a collection of bottles was strewn about and took up the one she’d indicated. “I want to see her now.” He needed to be satisfied that Clara was truly his. It would have been like Lavinia to lie solely to gain a more comfortable existence for her daughter.
“You don’t believe she’s yours,” Lavinia noted shrewdly. “I have no reason for prevarication. You were my only lover until I wed James.”
Jesse was shocked as hell to hear that. The scheming seductress he’d known had not come to him as an innocent. “I will judge for myself.”
“Very well.” She called for her servant, who had been hovering at the threshold. “Daisy, please fetch Miss Clara.”
It seemed an eternity before the servant returned with a diminutive blonde girl. Her hair was
worn in sweet ringlets around her angelic face. Her dress was a demure pale pink, its hem halfway up her calves as proper for a girl her age. She wore a locket at her neck but no other adornment. She met his gaze as she curtseyed. It was like looking into his own eyes.
“Mama,” she greeted in a girlish voice. “Mr. Whitney.”
Of course she did not call him “father” as he’d foolishly imagined she would. She was breathtaking, having the perfect combination of his blond features and her mother’s dark beauty. “Clara,” he offered in return, his voice hoarse with pent-up emotion. “It is a great pleasure to meet you at last.”
She was his daughter. There was no question of it in his mind.
“I wish I could say the same,” she murmured, startling him.
Not that he had expected she would treat him like her father, but he had not anticipated disdain. “I regret that our first meeting is due to the unfortunate circumstance of your mother’s ill health, but I certainly do not regret our meeting. Had I known of your existence, I surely would have hastened here before now.”
“My mother is dying,” she pronounced baldly.
“I am sorry for that,” he told her, at a loss.
“No you’re not,” she countered. “Mama says you hate her.”
He looked to Lavinia, who was nodding off under the influence of her laudanum. She would be no help. “That isn’t precisely true,” he fibbed.
“She said Papa nearly sent you to prison during the war.”
“Clara,” Lavinia at last snapped. “You were taught comportment. Please show it.”
It occurred to Jesse that he didn’t know the slightest thing about young girls. He had somehow envisioned a sweet, biddable girl overcome with happiness at finding her father. What an ass he’d been. The girl before him was as soft as the butt end of a carbine.
His daughter clasped her hands together at her waist and studied him the way a young child studies strangers while clinging to her mother’s dress. She remained silent. Judgmental, he supposed. She had deemed him unworthy of her. She blamed him for his absence. He could see that much. The road ahead was undoubtedly fraught with treacherous terrain.
Rebel Love (Heart's Temptation Book 2) Page 15
