by Joan Vincent
“When this wretched war ends there will be France and Italy—perhaps even Greece. Mr. Hale says the Greeks were among the first to write about herbal medicine.”
“Herbs,” Amabelle moaned. She walked towards the door, but turned before she reached it, prompted by a fear she had not experienced since she lost her father. “Why have you never spoken of your desire to travel?”
“It has been—a—a secret wish of mine. You know what your father would have said if I had mentioned it to him.”
“The same he said to me whenever I spoke of London.” Amabelle nodded. She mimicked her father. “Ladies are to go only where their husbands or fathers take them. I am not willing to leave my home.”
Sarah added, “‘You must get such foolishness out of your head at once.’”
Amabelle impetuously hugged Sarah. “Then you understand, Stepmama,” she exclaimed. “When shall we go to London?”
“No, Amabelle. I know no one there. I would not have the slightest idea how to go on in the city.”
“But Mr. Tarr could invite us.”
“That is impossible. When you marry, you can visit London during your wedding trip.”
Amabelle rolled her eyes; her lips curled with displeasure.
“I would advise you not to let Mr. Tarr see that expression.” Sarah laid down her spoon. “Nothing sets a gentleman against one as much as obstinacy.”
Amabelle refused to meet Sarah’s gaze. She spied a missive in Hale’s script on the cabinet to the right of her stepmother.
“Come, Amabelle, after Mr. Tarr leaves we shall go to Brighton for a few days,” Sarah cajoled.
Amabelle’s eyes narrowed. “You are going to marry me to some old man,” she accused, “and then wed Mr. Hale.”
Sarah swept up the letter and plunged it into her apron pocket. “Do not be foolish. The doctor and I are only friends who share an interest in medicines.”
Amabelle held out her hand. “Then there is no harm in permitting me to read his words.”
“Then you shall permit me to read the letters you receive from your school friends.”
Amabelle whirled away. At the door she turned, her chin raised, hurt and a challenge in her eyes. “I will not let you force me to marry an ancient country squire.”
“Amabelle,” protested Sarah, “you know I would never force you to wed.”
“Mr. Tarr said my eyes are the blue of the dainty brooklime flower,” Amabelle said. “I shall make Mr. Tarr fall in love with me.”
Sarah took a step toward her. “Amabelle—” Her stepdaughter’s unpleasant smile halted her.
“I shall not wed a man from Sussex, nor one double my age as you did,” Amabelle vowed. “I will wed a man who will take me to London whenever I wish.” Tossing her head, she strolled away.
“Amabelle,” Sarah whispered, “oh, Amabelle.”
Once in the long porch Amabelle’s bravado evaporated. Tears pricked her eyes. Fear, anger, and betrayal battled.
When she heard heavy footsteps, Amabelle ducked into the nearby sitting room. Seeing Cauley, she thought of Hadleigh. When the batman passed she dashed to the morning salon and threw herself on Hadleigh’s chest.
Half asleep, Hadleigh put his arms about the weeping young woman. Waking, he put his hands on Amabelle’s shoulders. “What is wrong? Come, why such a spate of tears?” Hadleigh asked. He put some distance between them.
Brushing away tears with one hand, Amabelle fumbled for her handkerchief with the other. “Stepmama has just—” She stopped, pulled the linen square free and blew her nose.
“I have discovered her plans,” the young woman said. Her bottom lip quivered, her face crumpled as tears flowed afresh.
Torn between irritation and sympathy, Hadleigh demanded, “What plans? What are you being so foolish about?”
Amabelle stiffened. “Foolish?! How can you say that when Stepmama means to make me wed some old man in the neighborhood so she shall be free to wed Mr. Hale?” she asked bitterly.
“Come, now, Amabelle,” Hadleigh scoffed. “You know Sarah would never force you to wed anyone.”
His defense of Sarah infuriated the young woman. She sniffed. “She has told you about Mr. Hale?”
“The physician who travels studying medical treatments?”
Surprised Amabelle daubed at the corner of one eye. Glancing at Hadleigh she saw uncertainty in his eyes. “When Mr. Hale visited Mr. Crandall two years ago I thought he was only interested in Stepmama’s herbal receipts. Then I discovered they corresponded. Stepmama was most upset when I spoke to her about it.” Amabelle sniffed again. “She made me promise not to tell Aunt Elminda.”
“Of course she would not want that—your aunt to know.”
Amabelle pushed aside her conscience. “She just told me Mr. Hale means to offer for her when he returns to England.”
“That does not mean anything.”
Amabelle jumped to her feet. “I thought you would understand,” she accused. “I suppose you think I should sacrifice myself so that Stepmama does not lose the chance to wed a—a handsome man who can provide her with a comfortable life.” Sobbing, Amabelle ran from the room.
* * *
Driven by anger and a strong sense of ill-use, Amabelle ran until she came to the front door of Edgerton Manor. With a loud sniff she threw it open and strode out. Seeing no one about, the young woman’s shoulders slumped. She walked dejectedly along the path that led to the gardens, both floral and herbal. At first she sauntered among the flowers ignoring the beauty of the blooms. “I shall not wed some old buffoon. No matter what Stepmama says.” Amabelle looked toward the herbs. “I shall never need to learn about herbs and tisanes and all that—that nonsense.”
“Since when are herbal remedies nonsense?”
Amabelle froze. She turned slowly with an aristocratic air. “It is ungentlemanly to accost a lady when she is alone.”
Gilmar Crandall narrowed his eyes. “A lady? Alone? Is that not the gardener just o’er there?” he asked pointing to where an older man knelt weeding a bed of lavender.
“How dare you say I am not a lady, Mr. Crandall. Why I shall tell Stepmama—”
“That knowledge of herbs is nonsense,” he teased.
The smile the doctor tried to hide infuriated Amabelle. “Of course it is not—for Stepmama, that is. She needs the knowledge so she can help others.”
“And you do not?” Crandall asked gently.
“Of course not,” Amabelle said with a toss of her head. She turned on her heel and strode away.
Crandall fell into step beside her.
“Go away. I wish to be alone,” Amabelle said mournfully.
“What has happened?” he cajoled.
Amabelle halted and threw herself against Crandall’s chest. “It is so horrible,” she half sobbed.
The doctor stiffened. He put his hands on her upper arms. “Surely it cannot be that bad?”
She sniffed loudly. “You don’t know what Stepmama is demanding.”
“But you will tell me,” he coaxed. “What does Sarah wish you to do? Visit the cottagers?”
“No, well, I suppose she does but that isn’t what she demanded this afternoon,” Amabelle said. She raised her head, tears welling. The compassion in Crandall’s eyes warmed her
“It must be something truly horrible. What is it, sweetling?”
“I knew you would understand,” she said eagerly and wondered at the amused glint in the physician’s eyes.
“Understand what?” Crandall asked.
“Why I have to refuse to wed the man Stepmama wishes to fob me off on.” The tightening of Crandall’s hands on her arms, his stiffening pleased her.
“And who is that?” he asked tersely.
Waving a hand airily, Amabelle shook her head. “She did not give his name.”
A grin began to curve the doctor’s lips.
Pouting, Amabelle sniffed. “It doesn’t matter whom it is. I shall not marry some old infirm buffoon just so Stepma
ma can go traipsing around the world.”
“What do you mean? Where does Sarah mean to go?” demanded Crandall.
“I do not know,” the young woman snapped as she stepped back. Astonished that the doctor did not take her side she said, “Have you no care about me? About my being forced to marry an ancient creature.” When he said nothing, astonished realization dawned. “You know about it, do you not? It is a plot between you and Stepmama.”
“What are you talking about, Amabelle? Please, you make no sense.”
“It is you she intends to force me to marry.” She threw her hands up in the air and strode a few steps away saying, “That is why I must learn about herbs and all that nonsense. So I can be a sensible wife for a physician.” Amabelle whirled to face him. “Do you deny it?”
“What? That I am a decrepit old man?” He stalked toward her. “That I need to force myself on an unwilling woman?” Crandall halted in front of her. “Of all the addlepated notions!”
Thrown off stride by the doctor’s reaction, she said defensively, “I mean to wed Hadleigh.”
“The man is neither rich enough nor handsome enough for your schemes,” he said sharply.
Chagrin filled Amabelle. What he said was true and it shamed her to think Crandall had reason to think ill of her. “I did not mean—”
“You never think before you speak,” Crandall said woodenly. “But do so and apologize to Sarah or so help me I shall take a brush to your backside.”
“Dr. Crandall!” squealed Amabelle. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”
“Do not test me, Amabelle,” he said curtly. “I thought better of you. It is time you become the young lady Sarah raised you to be and that I know you can be.” He turned on his heel and strode away.
Amabelle stared after him and stamped her foot. His highhandedness infuriated her. It was only later that night that another word he had said echoed faintly. Sweetling, she thought. He called me sweetling. How dare he? She tried to summon anger. His hands on her arms, the snap of anger in his eyes as well as his voice. Amabelle drifted to sleep with the realization that Mr. Crandall was neither feeble nor as old as she had thought.
* * *
Thursday May 25th
Sarah rubbed her aching head as reluctant steps took her towards the morning salon. The past two sleepless nights had brought no solution to the problem of Amabelle. Her stepdaughter remained icy with both her and Hadleigh.
Engrossed in this quandary, Sarah did not hear the sounds of a struggle until she was quite close to the morning salon’s door. She put her ear and listened.
“Wake up, Mr. Tarr. ‘Tis only a dream.”
She rapped sharply on the door. “May I come in?”
“I don’t think this’d be a good time,” Cauley answered. “Put it down, sir.”
A table fell and glass shattered. Sarah pushed open the door. The bed linens were wildly askew and the bed table lay on the floor.
The valet looked over his shoulder. “Best leave, m’lady. ‘Twas only a nightmare.”
Sarah walked further into the room.
“No, m’lady,” Cauley cautioned.
“Get out, Sarah. Stay away from me,” Hadleigh cried.
“But your feet. You may have—”
“Damme my feet,” he swore. “Damme you. Damme everything. Get out!”
“Best go, m’lady. He won’t hear ye now.” Cauley nodded towards the door.
Sarah retreated from the fierce darkness of Hadleigh’s glare. She drew in breath. He did not mean it.
An hour later Sarah looked up to see Cauley framed in the stillroom door. She thought back to the first time she had seen him there. This time she saw a friend. “How is he? Did he injure his feet?”
Cauley laid his hand on her arm. “Calmly, Lady Edgerton.”
“Why did you not tell me of the nightmares?”
“He didn’t wish it.” Cauley sighed. “There’s little he’s been able ta keep private-like. The nightmares’d gotten better, I swear.”
Sarah frowned. “What happened this afternoon?”
“He’d been restless, tossing and mumbling. When I touched his arm, he gave a shout. Before I knew it, he tried to throw a blanket over me. Then he grabbed the branch of candles beside the bed. That’s when you knocked. It distracted him and I got the candle branch but knocked over the table.”
Cauley leaned against the doorjamb. “He won’t hear of laudanum. Fears it because o’ some friend misusin’ it. He hates to ask even for the sleeping potion. His pride be bruised. He feels guilty about having been caught. About the torture.”
“I know,” Sarah said. Her heart ached for Hadleigh. “If only he could see how admirable his conduct has been during his treatments.” She pressed a bottle into the valet’s hand.
“Give him ten drops in wine when he retires. He will not taste it.”
The valet cast a dubious eye at the bottle.
“It is a tincture of hops with a touch of valerian and passionflower. Let me know if it does not help.”
* * *
June 1st Thursday
Amabelle’s adamant refusal to accompany her into Lewes this morning had almost kept Sarah home. Her stepdaughter had apologized and had striven to return to their earlier easy relations but all was not yet well between them.
Hadleigh’s haughty politeness convinced her she needed time away. Ever since she had intruded after his nightmare, he had withdrawn from her company. When Sarah stopped at the cobbler’s and found that the special shoes she had ordered for Hadleigh exceeded her expectations, her spirits rose.
She ran her hand over the brown paper-wrapped package. Sarah hoped he would accept them despite his wounded feelings.
I must remember to give Cauley the receipt for the nettle soup which helps the swelling, she thought. Sarah shook her head. So much to teach the valet about the herbs she wished Hadleigh to use after they left. So little time remained. Sarah blinked back tears.
Crandall had warned her she could catch something from her charity work. “I have indeed caught something of which I cannot be cured. I love him.”
While Sarah was in town Hadleigh thumped his way toward the lake. The walk was torturous even with crutches but he wanted the pain to combat the image of Sarah’s face when he had yelled, damme you.
Every time Sarah came near, he tingled with anticipation. His body’s reaction baffled him. It would be inexcusable to give way to his inexplicable lust so he had lashed out at her.
Wracked with such thoughts, Hadleigh was caught unawares when one crutch sank into a rabbit burrow. He toppled over, fell heavily. Lying still, he waited for the pain to subside.
As it did, he saw insects among the blades of grass. He almost forgot the pain when he spotted a rose chafer—centonia aurata. He stretched out his hand and captured it. Sitting up, Hadleigh’s first thought was to hurry and show it to Sarah.
I dare not. She would come close, touch my hand. He thought of the electricity of her lips and shook his head.
“I must set you free.” He released the centonia. As he watched it crawl away, Hadleigh realized that he, too, must leave. Then he could salvage what respect Sarah still had for him. It was unbearable to think he might look into those warm brown eyes and see she no longer did.
* * *
London June 5, 1809 Monday
The Earl of Tretain caressed his wife and daughters’ initials emblazoned on his pocket watch. Opening it, he saw that over thirty minutes had passed since Castlereagh had been informed of their arrival. He snapped it shut and glanced at André who sat ramrod stiff beside him. This restraint surprised and worried the earl, for stark anger still burned under the guise of the dandy.
Two missives had brought them here. Delivered Saturday while they ate breakfast, de la Croix had read, then tossed the first to the earl before he continued with the second. Surprise, indignation, and violent anger had played across his features.
The betrayal of trust placed in Castlereagh, a trust never
shared by the earl, had cut deep. Not only had the Secretary kept Hadleigh’s letters, but he had not apprised either of them that Tarrant lived, not even when de la Croix had personally given his report on the escape of Porteur at Hawking.
Tretain, experienced with bureaucracy, had tried to warn André and Hadleigh. A memory of the two boys with his daughters tightened his hand on his cane. For Juliane, he thought, I must curb both of us. She could not deal with another tragedy.
“My lord.” Castlereagh’s appointment secretary cleared his throat. “The viscount will see you now.”
When both men rose, the secretary rubbed one palm against the other. “Only you, my Lord Tretain.”
André raised his quizzing glass. “I think not.”
But the secretary, accustomed to dealing with hot-tempered generals, moved to block the door.
“Sorry old fellow,” Tretain said. He pushed the secretary aside with his cane. The earl halted inside the office and set one foot slightly in front of André’s.
Castlereagh’s belligerent cast warned Tretain. He murmured, “Juliane.” The slight relaxation in de la Croix told him he heard and understood the caution.
The baron waited until Castlereagh’s gaze met his. “Why?”
“What?” blustered the Secretary at War. “I am very busy.”
Tretain, a regal bird of prey, asked with chilling calmness, “Why were we not informed at once?”
Castlereagh sat back in his chair. His eyes narrowed, flitted to one then the other. He clenched and unclenched his fist. “Tretain, you of all people, know the answer to that.”
Tretain raised his hand to prevent André from moving. Never doubting the outcome of this visit, he continued the disillusionment. “Say it.”
Again the viscount’s gaze settled on de la Croix. “I knew you would delay the investigation and go to Tarrant. All of the gold would have been lost.”
“And I?” Tretain insisted.
The two men stared at each other, both aware of the dangers of the moment.
From the corner of his eye, Tretain saw a muscle flex along André’s jaw. “Never endanger the mission,” Tretain said flatly, and took comfort in knowing he would settle this at another time when André was not present.
