By the time Nathanial Harrington returned home, he had heard the news of Daniel's remarkable resurrection from the dead. His footsteps were heavy as he walked across the veranda and into the kitchen.
Clara and Abigail worked together in companionable silence, preparing the evening meal. The older woman knew, by the look on his face, there was no need for explanations. Raising a finger to her lips, she glanced at Abigail.
"Where is she?" Harrington asked.
"Upstairs," answered Clara. "The poor child has had quite a time of it. She's dreadfully thin."
His fist came down on the table, rattling the neatly stacked cups. "I told her not to go," he exploded. "The damned British! How could they have made such a mistake?"
"Papa?" Abigail's shocked face stared up at him.
"Try and remember the child," Clara admonished him.
Nathanial Harrington ran callused fingers through his thick, greying hair. "She'll know soon enough, anyway. The story is all over Annapolis." He looked down at his youngest daughter and his eyes softened. "Your sister has gotten herself into quite a mess, Abby. Do you understand any of it?"
Abigail considered the matter. "I know that Daniel was supposed to be dead and that Tess married an English duke. Now, Daniel has come back." She tilted her head to one side. "I can't see that any of it is Tess's fault, Papa. It seems to me that she should stay married to whichever one makes her happier." Her forehead puckered thoughtfully. "I hope she takes Daniel because I've missed her dreadfully."
Nathanial Harrington's voice, even when gentled to the point of tenderness, was loud enough to rattle the windowpanes. When it was raised in anger, it was deafening. "It isn't as simple as that," he roared. "Where do you come up with such notions?"
The child stared back at him in stubborn defiance. "Tess is sick. We won't let you bully her. Will we, Clara?"
"Indeed we won't," the housekeeper said, a martial light in her eye.
"What do you mean Tess is sick?" The blustery voice softened. He was suddenly all concern. "If those blasted limeys have done anything to my daughter, there will be hell to pay."
"Watch your language," Clara warned him. "Tess is waiting to see you. There is nothing wrong with her that a week in bed and three full meals a day won't cure." She put one hand on her hip and wagged her finger at him. "I don't think we can blame the British for her condition. From the way I see it, she and Daniel aren't on the best of terms."
With a thoughtful look on his face, Harrington climbed the stairs to face his daughter. Wishing, for the thousandth time, that the late Mrs. Harrington were there to take this burden from his shoulders, he took a deep breath and opened the door to Tess's room.
The sight of her, sitting up in bed staring out the window, shocked him into silence. His carefully prepared speech was forgotten. She looked terribly like her mother in the last days of her illness. Pain twisted his heart.
"Hello, Papa," she said, formally.
The purple shadows around her eyes gave her a bruised, defeated look. Could this be the same young woman, who seven short months ago, was the acclaimed beauty of the county?
"I've made quite a mull of things, haven't I?" she said.
His throat worked. Saying nothing, he strode to her side and sitting on the bed, took her in his arms.
"Don't worry, child. Nothing is so bad that we can't find a solution."
"Oh, Papa," the tears began to flow. "Are you angry with me?"
His arms tightened around her. He cleared his throat and held her away from him. "I am angry, but not at you. I know you better than you know yourself, lass. No one in the world could convince me you would intentionally do anything improper."
She wiped the tears from under her eyes with her hand. "I'm married to two men at the same time. I can't think of anything more improper than that."
"Nor can I," he agreed, a humorous glint lighting the penetrating grey of his eyes.
"It isn't funny, Papa. Daniel hates me."
"Nonsense," Nathanial Harrington protested. "The boy is in pain. He's had a terrible shock. He'll get over it. In time, the whole incident will be forgotten." He patted her hand. "You'll have to convince him that Devereaux meant little to you, that you were so besotted with grief that nothing mattered any more. You're a clever girl. You'll figure it out."
"It isn't that simple."
"Why not?" The hopeless look in her eyes frightened him. He had a dreadful premonition that he wasn't going to like her answer.
Tess wet her lips and tried to explain. "Daniel has seen James," she said.
He waited, patiently, for her to continue.
She rubbed her temples. "How can I make you see?" she said helplessly. "James isn't an ordinary man. He's very tall and dark and commands immediate attention. He has a presence, Papa, like no one else I've ever known. He's reasonable and terrifying and wonderful, all at the same time."
"Anything else?" asked her father.
"He's dreadfully handsome," she confessed, her voice very low.
He lifted her chin so that her eyes met his. "What you are trying to tell me is that you're in love with the man and Daniel knows it."
"Yes," replied Tess, pulling away and looking down at her hands. Taking a restoring breath, she said. "There is something else you should know, Papa."
"Well, out with it?" he demanded. "I may as well have it all."
She looked directly at him, no longer ashamed. "I'm carrying James Devereaux's child."
He stared at her for a long time. The bushy eyebrows meeting over his nose gave him a stern, almost forbidding expression.
"I see," he said, at last. "That does complicate the issue."
She nodded. "A life with Daniel is no longer possible."
"Does he know about the child?"
"Yes," she said. "I was sick on the ship. He would have known soon enough, anyway."
"Is there the slightest possibility the child could be his?"
She blushed. "No."
Nathanial rose and walked to the window. He looked out toward the bay. Grey-brown water lapped gently at the shoreline, calming the violence of his emotions. He was a large man, comfortable with his home, his family and his station in life. The times suited him. From next to nothing, he had wrested a fortune from the verdant soil of the eastern forests. He was known for his sharp wit, uncompromising honesty, and the powerful influence he wielded throughout the tidewater. He had married a woman of rare beauty and even rarer intelligence. She had given him six daughters and never, until this moment, had he doubted his ability to protect them with the strength of his love and the power of his reputation.
He turned to look at his fifth and loveliest daughter. Impotent rage reddened his face. He clenched his fists. She would not suffer for another's mistake. He would not allow it.
"It's a miserable state of affairs when a mere girl must suffer for the errors of a few feather-headed politicians," he remarked, gruffly. "If Daniel wishes to annul your marriage, so be it. This is your home. We will welcome your child as we have every new addition to our family. I'll not have you worried any longer." He smiled. "Clara is making sweet potato pie. She would be highly insulted if you didn't come down to dinner."
"I'll be down, Papa," Tess replied. "Thank you."
He paused on his way out the door. "This duke of Langley. How did he take the news?"
Her cheeks flushed a deep rose. "I didn't tell him," she whispered.
Nathanial Harrington frowned at his daughter. "Does he love you, lass?"
A smile crossed her lips. "He did," she answered. "I don't know how he'll feel when he finds out I've kept this from him."
"It sounds as if he intends to come after you."
Tess felt a pain deep within her. She turned her eyes away from him. "He said he would. Now he is on his way to join Wellington. It may be years before he returns. He'll not forgive me for raising his child as an American."
"Perhaps it won't come to that," her father suggested.
"Perhap
s not." She chewed the inside of her lip. "I'd rather not speak of him, if you don't mind." Her voice shook. "It's hard enough to bear."
Harrington nodded. Tess was not the same person who traveled to England seven months ago. He needed time to adjust to this stranger who was his daughter. He wasn't sure how he felt about the child she carried. Abby was almost grown. Just as peace had descended upon Harrington House, its quiet would again be interrupted by the squalling of a newborn infant.
He sighed. Life had taken an unpredictable turn and for Tess's sake, he would have to make the best of it. There was something else he must attend to for her sake.
Seating himself at the desk in his study, he opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of writing paper. Dipping his quill into a bottle of black ink, he wrote: "Dear Lady Devereaux,..."
The pen moved swiftly across the page. His message complete, he signed the letter and then, read it over again. Satisfied, he folded the paper and sealed it. Leonie Devereaux would know she had yet another grandchild living in America.
Chapter 25
Rain poured down relentlessly on the plain north of Ciudad Rodrigo. Trenches overflowed and mud ran down the hillsides, thick and clinging, the color of yellow slime. Men waded waist-deep in water, their voices low and cautious around their field-marshal. Anyone with eyes in his head could see that Wellington was furious.
Frustrated at every turn by a lack of supplies and by gentlemen officers who had purchased their commissions without ever seeing a battlefield, he had outwitted them all. The victories of Badajos, Ciudad Rodrigo, and Vittoria were behind him. Salamanca and the siege of Burgos lay ahead, and now the weather wouldn't cooperate.
He slammed his fist down on a table, cursing fluently. His army made camp in the hills around the fortress, building rude huts so pathetically constructed they would need rebuilding tomorrow. The rain and cold seeping through the inadequate structures demoralized the men as nothing else had in the whole of this long, dreary campaign.
"Damn Bathurst," he swore. "Does the man think I have nothing to do but plan battle strategy for the colonies?" He gestured toward the seemingly impregnable fort perched on the top of the hill. "We're short on officers and ammunition and we don't even have the proper siege guns. Yet, I'm expected to perform a miracle." He looked down his crooked nose. "The incredible thing is, it will happen, Devereaux. Despite the deplorable conditions, these men will do it. What's the matter with the soldiers in America? Are they all rosy-cheeked mama's boys?"
James grinned and braced himself against the flimsy wall. There was only one chair in the room.
"Not at all," he answered. "They just haven't the heart for it. There are no clear-cut objectives in America, sir. No castles to storm, no cities of any worth to capture, no reinforcements just across the bay. Even if we claimed victory, what would we really have? How could we hold it? The men aren't stupid. They understand these things."
"I suppose they do." Wellington looked at his troops. Under their ragged clothes and relaxed slouches beat the hearts of the finest army in the world. Their lean, sun-burned faces told of four years of blazing heat and bitter rains, of discomfort and danger, of poor rations and low pay, of dirty, vermin-infested lodgings and long, monotonous marches across the flat, arid plains of the Spanish peninsula.
They fought like demons for nothing more than a belief in themselves and their faith in a general who lived no better than they did. If Bonaparte was defeated, the laurels would rest on their shoulders alone.
"What do you advise, Major?" Wellington asked, looking up at the tall, dark man standing before him.
Devereaux laughed, an infectious, merry sound that lifted the general's spirits.
"I'm a civilian, m'lord. You have a habit of forgetting that."
"You sold out to plague me, James. How could you do it? You were worth a company of the dandies they've sent me."
"If you recall, I had little choice."
Wellington stroked his chin, recalling the circumstances. At last he nodded. "At any rate, you're here now, and I intend to make good use of you."
"Well," the clipped voice explained, "the way I see it, you need field officers. Morale is low among the men. Someone should take a platoon and make an attempt to breach the outer defenses of the city."
The general stared at the lean, weathered face of the duke of Langley. He didn't look like a duke at the moment. He looked like an Indian. His skin was dark with the hard, brittle look of tanned leather, stretched tightly across gaunt cheekbones. There wasn't an ounce of spare flesh evident anywhere on the toned body relaxing against the doorjamb.
"Who do you suggest I ask to perform this miracle?" he asked.
Devereaux grinned. "I'll do it."
Wellington shook his head. "I can't risk it, James. You won your spurs at Badajos. A man only has one life. You came to deliver Castlereagh's dispatches six months ago. When are you going home?"
James leaned forward, his palms flat on the table, his eyes a brilliant, piercing blue. "Who else do you have?"
"No one. But it won't be you."
Two days later, Langley took a platoon of men and stormed the outer walls. The French, led by a brilliant commander, were waiting for them. The night was dark and dry, the moon hardly visible behind the clouds. Marching was difficult, for no one could see more than a few paces ahead.
The storming parties were still creeping up the long slope, under cover of darkness, when a flash of light illuminated the sky. They had been seen from the fort. They had no choice but to fire. A cannonball shot out from the ramparts. A high-pitched scream pierced the air.
Men hung from the ladders, their limbs blown away by the barrage of bullets. In minutes, the stench of burning flesh and human hair was overpowering. The night was thick with the smell of gunpowder, the roar of bursting shells and the sharp crack of firing muskets. The troops, blinded by smoke, charged ahead and were mowed down, almost to the last man.
Langley, frustrated beyond measure, stood up, shouting for reinforcements to evacuate the wounded. His tall form, outlined against the city wall, was an easy target for the French marksman directly above him. The soldier lifted his musket to his shoulder, taking careful aim. There was a loud crack. James felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. Then darkness came over him and he felt no more.
Twenty-four hours later, Wellington looked down at the still face lying on the blood-soaked pallet. Even the deep bronze of Devereaux's skin could not hide the deathly pallor. He had lost an enormous amount of blood.
"No matter what it takes," he ordered, "keep him alive."
* * *
At the same moment that Devereaux had been attempting his ill-fated storming of the walled city of Ciudad Rodrigo, Tess went into labor. The pain was beyond belief. Earlier that morning, her water had broken and by nightfall she was a writhing mass of agony. Digging her nails into the bleeding flesh of her palms, she refused to cry out, refused to allow the man standing outside the room to hear her suffering.
Constance, her older sister, and Clara were there.
"You must help us, Tess," Constance pleaded, sponging the sweat-drenched brow. "The child won't be born without you." Her voice was filled with desperation. Tess had lost a great deal of blood.
Tess turned her face to the wall, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. Suddenly a pressure, greater than anything she'd ever felt before, racked her body. She held her breath and pushed.
The baby's healthy cry drew a sigh of relief from Clara.
"It's a boy," she whispered as she wiped the child clean. "A handsome boy, with eyes as blue as the summer sky."
Tess sat up, and held out her arms for her child. Moving the blanket aside, she stared down at the infant. He was unmistakably a Devereaux. There could be no doubt as to his paternity. The tiny bit of down on his small head was ebony black, and his eyes were a light, piercing blue. Although the small nose and chin were unformed, Tess could already see that they would soon take on the lean, slightly hawkish cast of t
he arrogant Devereauxs of Langley. It was almost as if she had had no part in his parentage.
Her laugh was closer to a sob. "He's so beautiful," she breathed, watching in fascination as the baby yawned, black eyelashes brushing his cheeks.
Constance smiled and leaned over the small bundle. "Indeed he is." She placed her finger in his palm and was rewarded by an immediate clenching of the tiny, claw-like fingers. "He's also very strong." She looked at her sister. "Daniel is waiting outside. Shall I tell him to come in."
Tess's lovely face hardened. "Not yet." She placed the infant to her breast. "I want to feed the baby first."
Constance nodded. "I'll go and tell him the news." She turned and whispered to Clara. "Wash her face and brush her hair. It will give her time before she has to face him."
Clara nodded and moved briskly toward the dresser. Confident that Tess was in good hands, Constance slipped out the door to the parlor where her father and Daniel Bradford waited.
Ever since Tess had moved back to Bradford House, six months before, at the request of Adam Bradford, Daniel and Nathanial Harrington had shared a tenuous truce. It was a temporary facade, agreed upon to placate an old man. Adam Bradford had been near death. He knew nothing of Tess's adventures in England. He hadn't left his room for months and could see visitors rarely. He died shortly after his daughter-in-law's return. And still, Tess showed no signs of returning to Nathanial Harrington's house.
Constance noticed that the two men sat in silence on opposite sides of the room. She sighed. On what should be an occasion of great happiness, she would have to tread lightly so as not to ignite the smoldering anger between them.
Her father had never been one to hide his feelings. He couldn't forgive Daniel's treatment of his daughter. He wanted Tess and his grandchild home, at Harrington House. Daniel, on the other hand, stubbornly insisted she remain with him. Holding all the Harringtons to blame for what he considered to be a severe defect in his wife's character, he could barely speak to the older man with civility.
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