‘Were you in a hospital?’ she asked. A vision of Avery being borne on a stretcher from the battlefield planted itself in her mind.
‘No, I was still on the battlefield. The guns had fallen silent, so I surmised that we had won. I passed out again and when I came around a second time it was some time after dawn the following morning. The smoke had cleared, but the air now reeked of death.’
‘What! How could they have left you on the battlefield injured?’ she exclaimed.
He looked at her. ‘However I attempt to explain this to you, you must not take offence. I am simply trying to give you a glimpse of what the end of a battle is like. The accounts of war tend to exclude the messy aftermath.’
‘Go on,’ she replied.
‘When you have a grand party at home, you have lots of servants to come and clear away the food and the dishes. Everything is left neat and clean. An army doesn’t have that luxury. The medical facilities and personnel are crude to say the least. In fact more men die of infection after the battle than in combat. It is often considered a blessing not to be found by the army medical butchers. It takes days for them to scour the battle site looking for wounded soldiers. The rudimentary treatment they give often hastens a man to his death.’
‘So how long were you left out in the field?’
It had never occurred to her that wounded men would not receive immediate and vital medical assistance. Lucy knew the facts and figures of the battle. She knew when it had started and where the various major skirmishes had taken place, but she knew nothing more than those scant details.
Avery withdrew his hand from hers. ‘Major Barrett’s batman found me late on the second day. I had rolled onto my side during the night and looked for all the world as if I were dead. If he hadn’t recognised the green of my uniform and given me a touch with his boot, I expect I would have remained there and died.’
‘Oh, Avery,’ Lucy whispered.
He picked up the bottle of wine and poured them both a second glass. Lucy wiped away her tears and sat waiting for him to continue.
‘I spent a horrid few days at a makeshift hospital. I don’t remember much of that time, only the screams of other men as they went under the knife to remove bullets.’
‘And you came back on a troop ship? I remember hearing of the crowds at the docks as they unloaded the ships. I wanted to go and see, but my father refused,’ she replied.
His eyebrows lifted. The duke had been right in refusing Lucy such an imprudent whim. The sight of badly wounded and dying men was not something a beautiful soul such as Lucy should ever behold.
‘Actually, no, I didn’t come back on one of the troop ships. They brought me back to England on one of His Majesty’s private yachts, the Sovereign. Not that I had the opportunity to enjoy any of the comforts it had to offer. I was kept unconscious with laudanum until they got me to Rokewood Park. Fortunately the wound in my hand had not turned septic and they were able to save the fingers. The knife wound to the stomach took a lot longer to heal.’
Lucy looked at the pocket watch, sensing Avery’s gaze as it followed.
‘Ah yes. The pocket watch. When I was finally reunited with my few personal possessions, that little beauty was with them. I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone that it wasn’t mine or that I had killed the man to whom it rightfully belonged. I just kept it. Most ironic thing of all is that it doesn’t work.’
Avery got up from the table and wandered over to the fireplace. He picked up a small log from the fireside basket and stood with his back to her, holding the log just above the flames. When he finally threw the log on the fire, scattering sparks, his shoulders slumped.
Lucy sat silent at the table as Avery’s pain and guilt washed over her. He lifted his head upward.
‘You see, Lucy, my brother Thaxter and I are not so different. Both men without honour,’ he said, turning back to face her.
Lucy pushed the glass of wine away; it had suddenly lost its appeal.
‘Thaxter accepted that he was evil right from the start, I just fought it until the truth was too overwhelming to deny.’
Lucy shook her head. She would never believe that Avery was cut from the same cloth as his dead brother.
‘You are not at all like Thaxter. You have a sense of self-awareness that I don’t think he ever possessed. As for your lack of honour, I think you are wrong,’ she replied.
The Thaxter Fox that she had known would have claimed the pocket watch to be a family heirloom. Something that was his by right. Avery knew the pocket watch belonged elsewhere. The difference between the two brothers was a chasm no admission of guilt could cross.
If Thaxter had been in Avery’s place she knew he would have jumped at the opportunity to seize her dowry, force her to his bed and break her under his will. Avery had kept to their wedding night agreement. He had acted more honourably than many other men would have done under the same circumstances.
They stared at one another for a moment before Lucy decided it was better that she change the subject. She sensed Avery had revealed as much of himself this day as he was able. She would not press him further. Her mother’s words of advice rang in her ears. Don’t push him, let him come to you. He has to trust you enough to be comfortable showing you his true self. She was desperate not to repeat the mistake she had made in the garden at Strathmore House.
‘I have some books if you would like something to read,’ she said.
‘That would be nice. I returned all the books I borrowed from the castle library. I didn’t expect to be going back, and considering my family history of stealing from the homes of other people I made sure to only take what was rightfully mine. And of course the watch.’
He picked up the pocket watch and put it back into his coat pocket. The way he spoke about it, it was as if he expected the previous owner to walk through the door at any moment and demand Avery hand it back. Even after two years of possessing it, it was clear he did not consider it his own.
They cleared the kitchen table, after which Lucy brought a small pile of books into the main room and set them down on a nearby table. Avery picked up the topmost book and read the title.
‘Adolphe. Is this new?’ he asked.
Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, it came out late last year. I don’t mind it. Mama says it is a little too melodramatic, but I find it an interesting change from Jane Austen. The only problem is that it is written in French, so you may have problems reading it if your French is not entirely up to scratch.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, well, most of my French vocabulary is not something one puts into print. You may have to read it to me some time.’
She handed him a second book. ‘Arthur Mervyn; odd title, but hopefully you haven’t read it. It’s a gothic love story.’
She ignored his raised eyebrows. He took the book and settled into the chair opposite hers in front of the fire.
The rest of the long afternoon was spent in relative silence as they both had their noses firmly planted in their respective books. Once in a while Lucy would sneak a look over the top of her book and catch a glimpse of Avery. His brow was more often than not deeply furrowed as he concentrated on the tome.
The one time he caught her staring at him, she swore he winked at her. She forced herself to dampen down any hope. They had made progress, that much was true. Now she needed to heed all caution, to hold back her reckless nature. She would only have herself to blame if she tried to force the pace and Avery once more retreated at the onset of her advance.
Afternoon wore into evening. The deep shadows from the tall rock face crept across the ground outside as the sun slowly set.
‘Supper?’ Avery said.
Lucy stretched her arms out wide, wriggling her fingers to get some feeling back into them.
‘Lovely. What can I do?’
‘It depends on what you would like,’ he replied.
She rubbed her eyes and closed her book. The long afternoon had left her in a strange frame of mind. Tired, but more than
that, it left her reflective of her current situation. Something had to change.
Earlier that day she had been sure of how things should be, of what she wanted. Having listened to Avery talk about his life, she was no longer certain that she was what he needed.
‘A little of the remaining bread and perhaps some dried fruit and cheese. I am not that hungry,’ she replied.
He smiled. ‘I noticed a nice port in the cellar when we went to have a look earlier. Do you think your father would mind if we partook of it?’
‘Well, I won’t tell him if you don’t,’ Lucy replied.
‘What time is it?’ Lucy asked several hours and glasses of port later.
Avery shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven’t the foggiest, but I would say it is late,’ he replied.
The fire still burned fiercely in the grate, but the candles they had lit earlier in the evening were burning down to a thumb of wax.
‘Are you coming to bed?’ he asked.
Lucy gave him an odd look.
‘I shall sleep on the furs by the fire a little later. There are things I need to do before I turn in.’
Avery went into the kitchen and poured some warm water from the kettle into a wash bowl. He scrubbed his hands and face clean, then sat down on the low wooden bench.
‘That was a really silly thing to have said,’ he muttered, clasping his hands together.
He was annoyed with himself for having made such a light comment about his wife’s sleeping habits. If she really was his wife in more than name, he would have every right to ask when she was going to bed. Instead, she had accepted that he would continue to treat her as an acquaintance and given him the response the situation deserved.
Something had changed tonight. They had spent hours talking as friends. Sharing stories. It reminded him of the last time they had been simply friends. The day in the bookshop. It seemed an eternity ago.
When he made a slight jest Lucy had laughed. Not just a titter, but an open and hearty laugh. The reflection of the fire flames in her eyes had made them sparkle.
In all the time he had known her, he could not remember her laughing in his presence. At parties and balls before their marriage, he had seen her openly smile. But not since.
Something shifted within him, giving him pause. He was the reason for the dulling of Lucy’s soul.
He rubbed his tired face and pushed away the foolish notion. It was the end of a long day; he really should get some sleep. He went back into the bedroom, but stopped. It was nonsensical for her to sleep on a pile of furs when there was a perfectly good bed for her to sleep in. And it was big enough that they would not require the use of a bolster to keep away from one another.
Out in the main room, Lucy was busy piling more wood on the fire when Avery returned. She picked up the empty basket next to the fireplace and balanced it on her hip.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
She nodded toward the door.
‘More firewood. It helps to bring it in from outside to dry out by the fireside for a day or so before using it. A couple of trips and we should have enough wood to get us through the next day.’
He reached out and took the basket from her.
‘You shouldn’t have to lug wood, it doesn’t fit your station.’
Lucy frowned.
‘You clearly haven’t seen my brothers and me out chopping and carrying wood at the castle. Papa makes us all do it, even Emma. He says it serves as a reminder of how fortunate a life we all have.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And it works. David chops wood at his estate at Sharnbrook. He says it keeps him strong. Clarice, for some reason, says she likes to sit and watch him.’
Avery chuckled. Knowing David Radley, he expected the wood-chopping display he gave his wife was the prelude to other activities. What girl wouldn’t fall for a man showing off his muscular prowess? He also doubted that David would ask Lord Langham’s daughter to carry wood.
‘You go and attend to your toilette, I shall bring in the wood,’ he said.
After bringing in several baskets of wood, Avery turned in for bed. He was pleased with himself. He had managed to carry the baskets without dropping them or giving himself a handful of splinters.
Lucy had placed several large logs on the fire and was now seated in the big leather armchair nearest to the warmth. With a book in her hand, it was obvious she intended to stay up for a good deal longer.
As his hand settled on the door handle to close the bedroom door, Avery stilled. He was always closing Lucy out of his life. So ingrained had it become, he hadn’t realised until now the message it constantly sent.
He left the door ajar. Not entirely welcoming, but at least a little way open. He climbed into bed, and most unusually for him of late, quickly fell into a deep sleep.
Once Avery left the room and headed to his bed, Lucy opened the book and settled in for the long night ahead.
She sat staring at the pages of Mansfield Park, unconsciously listening to Avery’s breathing as it slowed and became a soft snore. Much as she was enjoying it, she couldn’t concentrate.
Finally she closed the book and put it down.
The logs in the fireplace still burned brightly, enhancing the growing clarity in her mind. Tonight, she felt she had finally caught a glimpse of the real Avery Fox. The shame he expressed over his ownership of the pocket watch was real.
He certainly wasn’t like his late brother. Thaxter, in her opinion, had been a shadow. A man always lurking on the edge of being seen. Darting out of sight when others caught a glimpse of the real Thaxter Fox.
She sighed. It was so very wrong to think, let alone speak, ill of the dead. Even of someone like Thaxter.
Lucy rose from the chair, intent on making a fresh brew of coffee. The rain of the late afternoon had awakened her senses. She could hear it still raining heavily on the roof of the lodge. It left her restless and unwilling to seek the comfort of sleep.
As she passed into the kitchen, she noticed Avery had left his pocket watch on the table.
She picked it up, taking the time to admire the intricate engraving work on the back of the case. With a deft flick of her fingers, the case opened.
A gasp escaped her lips and she hurriedly looked to the doorway, half expecting that at any moment Avery would suddenly appear and demand she hand over his most prized possession.
It was odd to now know that it wasn’t in truth his.
At first the inside of the watch looked much like others she had seen before, but an added feature soon caught her eye. It had three faces, not just one. At the top left was a white face, numbered from one to thirty-one. The face opposite it, to the right, had the months marked out.
‘Aren’t you a clever little piece of work: a watch that shows the date as well as the time,’ she said.
She frowned when she saw the watch movements were stopped.
‘I wonder if I can get you to work again,’ she mused.
Carefully placing pressure on the back of the watch, she prised it open. Engraved elegantly across the bottom was the word Vacheron.
More importantly, inside the watch was engraved a name.
P Rochet.
She smiled.
‘I always knew your provenance, little watch. You come from Paris, if I am not mistaken. And now I know you once belonged to Monsieur Rochet.’
Her cousin William Saunders had sported a Vacheron watch very similar to this one when he recently visited from France. It was an exquisite watch, something that no simple foot soldier would have been expected to own. Who was P Rochet, to have taken such an expensive timepiece into battle with him?
A thrill of excitement tingled her fingers. One thing she knew for certain, Vacheron watches were made specifically for individual clients. If Avery wanted to know for whom the watch had been made, he could easily write to the watchmaker.
And then what?
With one last look at the frozen time on the watch faces, she closed the ca
se and set the pocket watch back down on the table. This was Avery’s watch, and if he chose to discover the identity of the man he had been compelled to kill that was entirely his choice.
Surely he must have taken the opportunity at some point to remove the back of the watch and see who had made it. Or had he? Men were odd creatures at times, when it came to their possessions. Perhaps knowing the name of the former owner would mean nothing to him.
When finally the water on the stove was hot enough to make coffee, she poured herself a cup. Taking her place once more by the fireside, she sat savouring the mellow brew while contemplating the conversation of earlier that evening.
It was sad to think that holding his gloved hand in hers might be the closest they would ever get to one another.
‘You are a silly girl, Lucy. You promised you wouldn’t fall in love with him, and look what you have gone and done,’ she chided herself.
If only falling out of love was so easy.
The pain she felt every time he looked at her wasn’t simply from longing to be a real wife. She wanted him to like her. If love was an impossible dream, perhaps this was the best she could hope for in a husband.
She had never thought love would be so hard. Her brothers were both settled into happy, love-filled marriages. Why then was she left to scramble in the dust for what little favour the gods had shown her?
Perhaps Avery was right: they should separate. She closed her eyes as her mind whirled in a turmoil of self-doubt. She doubted Avery cared much for the Langham title. If it passed on to another distant relative or the crown after he was dead it would matter nought to him. Even if they did remain married in name, he most certainly would not seek her out to provide him with an heir.
‘Perhaps I could become one of those scandalous wives who takes lovers every day,’ she muttered to the flames in the fireplace. ‘Or I could just die an old maid.’
She walked back into the kitchen and after slipping the simple band of gold from her finger, she placed it next to Avery’s pocket watch. Perhaps it was time to let him go.
The Duke's Daughter Page 17
