by Jo Beverley
Then she’d marry Brand and have other children.
It would be enough.
The men of her family arrived—uncles, brothers, and brothers-in-law, as well as her father. She felt bulwarked and secure, but couldn’t help wondering how they would treat Brand in the future. Because he was an executor, she’d had to tell her father that her child was not Digby’s. He’d not condemned her—she was sure he understood—but he’d sighed and shaken his head, clearly seeing the problems as she did.
Accepting her part in it didn’t mean that he’d accept Brand’s, but it didn’t matter if there was coldness. Once married, she’d live in the south. Looking out over the dales, she flinched under a raw new loss.
But she’d have Brand. It would be enough.
Digby was nailed into his coffin. Rosamunde put the flower garland she had made on top, and eight men took up the burden for the first stage down the dale. Rosamunde and Diana rode with the men behind. Her mother drove Mrs. Monkton in her chair, the bells removed for this journey.
All along the way, people came from cottage, field, and inn to bend their heads at the passing of a good man of Wensleydale, and as they approached Wensley in the afternoon, the church bell began to toll. When they entered the cool church, it was packed. Tears fell, but not really of sorrow. This was almost a celebration of Digby’s warm-hearted, honest self.
She wept during the service, and as she watched him lowered into the ground, but he was already elsewhere, in a better place. She felt sure that the peace around her was his gift.
Brand was doubtless among the mourners, but she hadn’t looked. As people passed by to give their personal condolences, however, she knew he would eventually be one of them and worried a little. It passed without incident. He simply bowed and said, “I am honored to have been of some small service to you and Sir Digby, Lady Overton.”
She did not let her eyes follow him. Their time would come. It was not now.
Having paid his respects to the widow, Brand hovered, chatting to the various people he’d met at Arradale, but really standing guard in case anything should happen to disturb Rosa’s peace. He hoped he wasn’t giving anything away.
It was hard to stand here as a mere acquaintance, to leave her care and comfort to others. They’d had so little time together, and none of it peaceful.
He wanted more.
He couldn’t have what he wanted, however, and he was, as he’d told her, a patient man. He was used to starting land development and breeding programs that would take years to show results. He had ordered the planting of trees that would buy the pleasures of future generations.
A year was not so long.
At the moment, however, it seemed a damned long time, especially when they must hide their feelings for most of it. At least he could watch her, as long as he was careful not to let his heart show in his eyes.
It was the first time he’d seen her with people, almost the first time he’d seen her out of doors. What a strange relationship theirs had been. She was a little shy, he saw, even with neighbors. A little reserved. She tended to tuck her head down sometimes, perhaps from a habit of hiding her scars, though the paint made them hardly visible now.
At some point in the past they must have been a terrible burden to her. He wished he’d been there for her then.
Despite shyness, she was kind and gracious to all, and clearly well loved.
He observed her family around her, pleased at the obvious closeness. Three tall, strong men were probably her brothers, and he’d liked Mr. and Mrs. Ellington when he’d met them at Arradale. Solid, sensible people who’d care for her well.
In fact, he liked the people of Wensleydale. They could be taciturn and sparing with their smiles, but there was a rootedness in them, a strength formed by one of England’s harsher climates.
With a start, he realized how much this was Rosa’s place on earth. She’d said her roots ran deep as rose trees, and it was true. He didn’t know what that was like. He was used to a wandering life, living in almost constant circuit of Bey’s properties.
The idea of roots was strangely pleasant. ‘Struth, but Bey was likely to be put out if the plans forming in his mind came to anything!
Realizing his eyes had rested on her too long, he headed toward the inn’s stables. His control was faltering, so he’d better leave. He was paying the groom and preparing to mount when a voice said, “Young man.”
Brand turned and found Rosa’s father there, hands clasped behind him, weathered face bland.
“Mr. Ellington?” Brand wondered uneasily if Rosa’s brothers were nearby.
“I’d appreciate a word with you, if you don’t mind, my lord.”
Brand tethered his horse and moved into a more private spot. “Yes?”
Mr. Ellington eyed him like a farmer eyeing a bull at a sale. Or one at the slaughtering block. “Not to wrap it in silk, my lord, I gather my daughter is carrying your child.”
A hint of Malloren pride made Brand want to give a cool response, but instead he said, “So I gather.”
“Yet you seem to be leaving.”
Brand suspected those stalwart dalesmen brothers of hers were hovering nearby, possibly with cudgels in hand. “Rosa prefers it this way.”
“Women sometimes don’t know what’s best for them.”
“Really? I don’t find that. Are you saying you want me to marry Rosa now? I’m willing, but I don’t think it would be wise.”
The older man relaxed a bit. “Ah.”
“Mr. Ellington, Rosa and I will marry. However, the situation is delicate, as I’m sure you can appreciate. I ask you to trust me to arrange matters.”
The man relaxed even more. Slumped even. “It’s hard to see how it can be arranged, and that’s the truth, my lord. Perhaps if you marry her quietly and take her away.”
“I hope to do better than that. Tell me one thing. Some people may suspect that she carries a child. A few know I spent time with her. If given another story to match the facts, will they keep knowledge and suspicion to themselves?”
The man nodded. “For one of their own, yes, my lord.”
Brand put out his hand. “Then I hope to be welcome in your family one day soon, Mr. Ellington. Myself, Rosa, and our child.”
After a moment, the other man shook it. “Well, if you can pull that off, it’ll be as good as a miracle, my lord, but it’s good of you to try.”
Brand found the Three Tuns in the organized chaos of his brother’s removal. Bey’s own rooms were orderly, of course, despite constant traffic and a flow of crisp orders. While his people prepared for his journey, he was organizing the last moves against the New Commonwealth.
“I’ve put Cotter in hiding,” Brand said in a moment of privacy. “He had no idea what his overenthusiastic followers were up to. He thought all the convenient deaths were God’s will.”
Bey read a note and put it with others. “He doubtless doesn’t know either that some of the cursed fools were planning treason. They intended to do away with the Crown.”
“The deuce! So the King was right.”
“I’ll make sure to compliment him. They’d never have pulled it off, but it makes Cotter’s situation impossible. He’ll face charges of treason.”
“Be hanged, drawn, and quartered? He’s a good man, Bey.”
“He’s a naive fool.”
“Look, he wants to take his message to America. Can we do that? Get him and his family away?”
His brother thought for a moment. “We don’t need any more heads on Temple Bar. Will he compromise enough to wear ordinary clothes?”
“I think so.”
“Very well. On your head be it if he ferments treason in the colonies, too. They’re restless enough as it is.”
Bey dealt with another report and issued instructions while agreeing in passing to some question from Fettler about his baggage.
“Get Cotter and his family to Liverpool,” he said when they were alone again. “Bryght should be able t
o find a safe ship. We have a number that sail that route. Then return here and pick up the agricultural pieces.”
At Brand’s silence, he looked up. “You object?”
“You didn’t notice my recent absence? I do have concerns of my own. Sir Digby Overton is dead, and Lady Arradale says he was poisoned by his nephew.”
Bey went still. “I’m sorry for it. I never thought he’d go that far. What does the countess have to do with it?” It seemed a strangely sharp question.
“She observed Lady Overton feed the remains of Sir Digby’s last meal to an old hound. It died.”
“So we have evidence if we need it.”
“You won’t. Edward Overton is dead, too. The countess shot him.”
Bey stared, clearly, for once, almost shocked. “What an interesting time you’ve been having.”
“Don’t be too impressed. She was aiming for me.”
“Is she admitting that?”
“We didn’t discuss it. Bey, Lady Overton is my mysterious lady.”
His brother was singularly unastonished. “I had put the pieces together. So, what are you going to do? She can’t keep Wenscote.”
It shouldn’t surprise him that his brother had the whole matter clear. “She doesn’t want to.”
“What does she plan for the child?”
“To bear it in secret and find it a good home.”
Bey looked at him. “And you agree to that?”
“No, but to preserve her husband’s memory, she insists that it never be known as hers. I have to agree with that.”
“I will raise it for you if you wish. A bastard, but a Malloren.”
Brand nodded. “Thank you, but I hope to do better. In fact, that gives me an idea.” He turned it in his mind for a while. “She plans to remove immediately to Harrogate to pass her early mourning there. Before the baby shows, however, she’ll need to go farther. I can’t play an obvious part. Will you see to her travel from there to some safe and quiet spot?”
Bey became suddenly interested in his ruby signet ring. “It would seem your lady is very discreet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bey looked up. “Is it likely that one day you will tell me the whole story of this mysterious affair? Having met Lady Overton—briefly, alas—I find it hard to imagine the details.”
“You’ve met her?”
“That is why I called her discreet. She hasn’t told you.”
Though Brand would trust his brother with his life, a chill crept down his spine. “Told me what?”
“I tried to take her into custody. Purely for her own safety, though I confess that the idea of restraining the woman who had brought you such suffering had its appeal.”
“You… And failed!”
“Lady Arradale summoned her forces and defeated me. I mention it, only because Lady Overton may not care to travel in my care.”
Brand could read his brother somewhat. “What did you do to her?”
“I seized her neatly and efficiently. However, despite the lessons Elf has taught me, I seem to be in the habit of underestimating apparently conventional young women. She made an excellent attempt at escape. I stopped her, and in the process I could have caused her an injury. I should have let her go.” He shrugged. “I was angry with her on your behalf.”
No wonder Rosa had seemed frightened of Bey, but it wasn’t Brand’s way to rant over matters past and done. “If she had come to harm, it would have driven a wedge between us. As it is, I’m sure she will forget it if you do.”
“A tolerant woman. You will suit.”
It was, in its way, a blessing. Brand wasn’t sure his brother would approve of all his plans, but he’d fight those battles later. They quickly arranged the details, agreeing that their sister Elf was the best one to handle Rosa’s affairs. No one could be afraid of Elf. No woman, at least.
After that, Brand settled to healing a small wound. Bey had, in his own way, confessed to mishandling a situation and apologized. He must be bleeding. Brand poured wine from the decanter and passed a glass to his brother. “As penance for abduction, relate to me exactly how Lady Arradale overwhelmed you.”
Chapter 25
After the funeral, Rosamunde found herself more shaken and exhausted than she’d expected, perhaps because of her pregnancy. She left Wenscote immediately, smothering the sense of bitter loss. After a few days with her family, she moved with Millie to Harrogate and truly did relish the rest and calm.
She longed for Brand, however, for even a word, a letter, but knew they must not reveal their connection. He hadn’t said yet what plans he’d formed. She assumed he was coming to realize that everything wasn’t possible.
A year, and then they could be together. It stretched before her like an endless empty road, with the painful valley of her child’s loss still to be traveled. But it was not endless. And in the end there would be Brand, at least. It would be enough.
Then, one day, a maidservant passed her a letter. She opened it to find it was from Brand. This was too risky! But the middle-aged maid touched her nose. “With a Malloren,” she said quietly, “all things are possible. If you want to reply, milady, just give it to me. Name’s Dora.”
Hurrying to the quiet of her room to savor the letter, Rosamunde knew the Malloren in charge of this was the marquess. He’d kept out of her way, but she knew Brand was right. Nothing would stop him from interfering. This interference was a heavenly blessing!
Not a love letter in the usual sense, but she read the account of harvest and the sowing of rye and winter wheat in that way. She commiserated with him over the tangle of Cotterite affairs, and rejoiced at his successes. He even included some stories that made her laugh.
As soon as she’d finished, she hurried to her desk to write a long letter back, one similar in tone to his, but about the characters of Harrogate and her lazy days.
Weeks drifted by, made precious by almost daily letters, but increasingly painful because he was so tantalizingly close. How easy to make the short journey to Thirsk. Why couldn’t she bump into her husband’s friend, Lord Brand Malloren, and at least see him, talk to him…?
Kiss him.
Love him.
Then, one day, in a Harrogate street, he was there. He bowed and said, “Lady Overton. I’m pleased to see you looking so well.”
Rosamunde hastily told Millie to sit on a nearby bench and moved some distance away. “What are you doing here? This is too risky!”
“One visit won’t start a scandal. You are looking well.”
“I am.”
“And the baby?”
“Well. Brand…”
“Don’t look at me like that, or we will start a scandal.” He tucked her hand in his arm, and strolled down the street. “I came because I have something important to discuss.”
“Trouble?”
He glanced at her, shaking his head. “No. A plan. I want you to leave here and travel to Wales. Apparently you have an aunt living in quite a remote spot there, and you are going to stay with her.”
“I’m to have the baby there?”
“No. We’ll make the connection more tenuous. You’ll only appear to travel there. In reality you’ll live in a village in Herefordshire as a captain’s wife.”
“Expecting a child? No one will believe that old tale.”
“They’ll pretend to, if given to understand that you are, in fact, mistress to a lord, bearing his child.”
She looked at him. “I’m to live there as a wicked woman?”
“Is it too much?”
After a moment, she laughed. “No. I’ll just think like Lady Gillsett.”
“I thought perhaps you could use the blander name—Mrs. Richardson.”
They laughed together over that, but then she asked, “And this might mean we can keep the baby?”
“But yes. Who do you think is the lord in question? That’s the beauty,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “I’m going to accept the responsibility of my o
wn child. I’m hoping,” he said, with a special smile, “that my future wife will be forgiving, and take it into our household.”
Fragile hope swelled. “Can it work? Can it?”
“I don’t see why not. You’ll have to give up the child for a little while after the birth, but once Lady Overton arrives at Rothgar Abbey and becomes my betrothed, you will be together again.” He sobered. “It means you will not openly be your child’s mother, but—”
“But I’m resigned to that. Brand, this is perfect! Truly, I believe in Mallorens. We have everything.”
“Perhaps we can have more.”
“What? What could possibly be more?”
But he refused to answer that question. He took her to have tea and cakes, and they caught up on news in person, struggling all the time not to tumble headlong into betraying delight. This at last, however, was real. This was ordinary days. This was their future.
Truly, it would be enough.
Brand had to tear himself away from Harrogate, and their brief glorious hours there only made torment worse. He could only be relieved when Rosa’s move was accomplished, and she was days away instead of hours.
The letters had to cease, too. No way to disguise daily messengers in a sleepy village, and no one would believe a lord would take that much interest in an ex-mistress, even one who carried his child. Bey found a carter who traveled through Waltham Green, however, and who would deliver and take messages. For all Brand knew, he was already one of his brother’s people, gathering information as he traveled.
Thus he heard about a comfortable cottage, and the first time she felt the baby move, and she heard that his duties were coming to an end.
Fired by mischief, and since the village knew of her noble ruin, he arranged delivery of a lavish basket of fruit from the hothouses at Rothgar Abbey, along with extravagant quantities of flowers.
In her next letter, she chided him for extravagance, and he was shortly embarrassed by three enormous potted palms delivered from York. They were so large, they could not fit up the stairs in the Three Tuns and had to decorate the entrance hall. He laughed himself silly over them, and set everyone to clear up his work.
