A Handful of Ashes

by Janet Woods

  She lived in dread that she might be confronted by those men again, and the other three, the ones who had walked away and left her to her cruel fate, that they’d look at her with the knowledge of what had been taken from her, see what they’d soiled. She’d die rather than have that happen, and she couldn’t take such a secret into a marriage. Maryse only just stopped herself from shuddering. To dwell too long on the subject made her hate herself even more.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the curling irons,’ she said when the last pearly button was secured. Turning on the heels of her blue satin slippers, she hurried towards the door, feeling as if she needed to be sick.

  Siana wore a black silk corselette and a froth of petticoats as she walked into the dressing room separating her bedchamber from her husband’s.

  Francis was still in his robe. She slid her arms around him and hugged him lovingly, marvelling that the man she adored had come back to her after a two-year absence. But he was not quite the same Francis who’d gone away, for under her palms she felt the ridged scars on his back. The scars were the result of a brutal flogging when he’d been mistaken for a prisoner who’d escaped from the Port Arthur Prison in Van Diemen’s Land. Now and again, he suffered from melancholy and withdrew from them all, going into his study to be by himself for a while.

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ her husband’s partner, Dr Noah Baines had told her. ‘Just provide a loving home for him and give him time to adjust.’

  She traced gently along one of the scars with her fingers she felt his skin tense. The flogging was something Francis didn’t talk about. ‘I can’t imagine how awful this was for you. Can’t you bring yourself to tell me about it?’

  ‘One day, perhaps.’

  ‘I love you so much,’ she whispered against his ear. When he cupped her face in his palms and kissed her, her response was immediate. ‘Make love to me.’

  ‘Our guests will be arriving soon.’

  ‘Then it means you might be late for your own party. Don’t you like me, Doctor Matheson?’

  The warm smile he gave her robbed her of breath. ‘When you’re flaunting yourself in your petticoats like a strumpet I can’t resist you, as well you know,’ he grumbled, and subsiding onto a chair he pulled her onto his lap so she straddled him.

  She laughed and nipped the end of his nose. ‘We’ve never made love in such a position as this, but it does make me feel like a strumpet.’ Already, he had responded to the suggestion in no uncertain manner, and she teased, ‘If you’d prefer to, you can ignore my flaunts.’

  ‘I don’t prefer and I couldn’t.’ He kissed the rise of her breasts before loosening them from their bondage. His tongue sought the nubs, sliding across and around them, bringing them moist and swelling to bursting point, like a couple of ripe hazelnuts.

  ‘I didn’t realize your tongue was so very long,’ she murmured with a sigh of pleasure. ‘What else can you do with it?’

  He laughed at that. ‘Unfortunately I haven’t got time to show you. That demonstration was purely in the interests of anatomy.’

  Undoing the fastenings on his robe she chuckled when she saw what his attention had done to him. ‘Your anatomy is definitely interested.’

  Pushing his hands under her petticoats, he slid his palms under her buttocks and lifted her onto him, easing himself gently into the moist velvety depths of her.

  Her breath caught in her throat, then left it in a long, soft, ecstatic murmur. Nothing could ever spoil such happiness.

  ‘I do love you, my Francis. I always will.’

  ‘Siana looks delicious tonight, like a piece of raspberry tart waiting to be devoured.’

  ‘Judging by the smug look spread on his face, and the smile on hers, our brother has already had a bite of her tonight.’ Raoul Matheson took two glasses of red wine from a serving maid and handed one to Augustus. ‘Have you ever seen a gown as monstrously ugly as Prudence is wearing? She resembles a striped toadstool.’

  ‘The countess never did have any fashion sense. I admit the colour is unbecoming when matched to her complexion, and she’s a little bit on the skinny side for my taste. Still, Ryder has his delightful little amore tucked away.’

  Raoul chuckled. ‘Yes, I’ve met her. A simple soul. Ryder doesn’t keep her for her mind, though. Where’s your intended bride, by the way? I’m dying to meet the companion you’ve chosen for your retirement.’

  ‘Constance has gone upstairs with Pansy, who has promised to read a story to the two girls.’

  ‘It’s a long way up to the nursery. Pansy will be obliged to help Constance downstairs again, no doubt.’

  Augustus Matheson’s eyes filled with laughter as he gazed at his brother. ‘They’re coming back down now. What d’you make of my bride?’

  Raoul was temporarily struck dumb. In her early thirties, Constance was an attractive woman with a warm smile and a trim figure. Her bright blue eyes came to rest on Gus, whose wink brought a wide smile to her face.

  Raoul nudged him in the ribs. ‘Shame on you, Gus. Even when set next to our sweet Pansy, Constance looks young enough to be your daughter. How did you manage it?’

  ‘It’s the naval uniform; women can’t resist it,’ Augustus drawled, his eyes assessing as he watched the pair come towards them. ‘I’m certainly looking forward to parting her ringlets.’

  On the other side of the drawing room, Josh sipped his drink and watched Pansy talking to her uncles. He smiled when she laughed. He couldn’t help it, for she looked so merry.

  Followed by the admiral and his fiancé, Raoul Matheson escorted Pansy onto the dance floor. He gazed around him at the spectators. ‘We need two more couples to make up a square for the Quadrille?’

  Immediately, they were joined by Maryse, who was partnered by the Earl of Kylchester. Then Francis stepped forward, pulling behind him a reluctant Siana, who was frantically protesting. ‘I don’t think I can remember the steps, Francis.’

  ‘I’m sure you will when you hear the music,’ he said, and he signalled to Prudence, who was taking her turn at the piano.

  They all bowed to each other, then to their corners, then they went into the chaine anglaise.

  Josh grinned and nodded his head in time to the music, trying to remember the sequence of the figure ‘Balancé,’ he whispered to himself, and four bars later, ‘ Change partners.’

  One of Pansy’s cousins came to stand beside him. ‘Talking to yourself, Skinner?’

  ‘I’m trying to remember the sets.’ Josh held out his hand. ‘It’s Alder, isn’t it?’

  Alder ignored both his hand and his question. ‘Fancy yourself as a dancer, do you?’

  Josh’s gaze sharpened. Alder, grey-eyed like all the Matheson family, seemed to be the worse for drink. He certainly had a mean look in his eye. Josh, who never invited trouble into his life unless it was inescapable, thought it might be judicious to humour him. ‘Not at all, I’m just learning.’

  ‘What does a farm labourer want with dancing lessons?’

  ‘I’m a businessman not a farm labourer.’

  ‘Odd, but I can still smell the bull shit on you.’

  ‘Be careful I don’t rub your nose in it, then,’ Josh said pleasantly, and exchanged a smile with Pansy when she caught his eye.

  ‘Don’t forget you’re partnering me in the waltz, Josh,’ she called out just before she was whisked off down the line.

  ‘Lay one finger on my cousin and I’ll have you, Skinner,’ Alder warned, then walked unsteadily back to where his elder brother stood watching the dancing. Roger had a beautiful but rather vapid-looking woman attached to his arm. The two men spoke together, then looked his way and laughed.

  Josh ignored them and fetched Pansy a glass of lemonade to quench her thirst. When the dance ended she took it gratefully from him. ‘Thank you, Josh. What was Alder saying? Was he being mean?’

  Josh didn’t want to say anything to make her any more anxious than she already sounded. ‘Why should he be mean?’

  ‘I’
ve just turned his marriage proposal down.’

  ‘It isn’t the first time, is it? He should be used to it.’

  ‘The trouble is, to Alder the marriage is a foregone conclusion, so he doesn’t believe me. And this time he sounded different, sort of hectoring, as if Aunt Prudence had told him to put his foot down.’

  Usually full of spirit, Pansy sounded so forlorn that Josh felt sorry for her. It must be hard to be a young woman who was under pressure to wed. ‘Perhaps you should talk to your father about it, let him sort it out.’

  Her fine grey eyes came up to probe the depths of his. ‘My papa wants me to marry well, so is in favour of a marriage between Alder and myself.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he’s fair-minded. He wouldn’t want you to be unhappy, would he?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Before Josh’s eyes, Pansy relaxed and offered him a merry smile. ‘You always make matters sound so simple.’

  ‘Matters usually are, Miss Pansy. It’s folks who are complicated.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not much good at paying pretty compliments, but damn me if you don’t look as pretty as a dappled pony in that gown.’

  ‘Joshua Skinner, are you flirting with me?’

  ‘That depends if you like being compared to a dappled pony or not. Most girls wouldn’t.’

  The spontaneous giggle she gave faded as her glance darted past him. ‘Quickly, my father has taken over the piano and he promised he’d play the waltz for me before supper.’

  Noticing Alder heading towards them, Josh swept her onto the floor and began to twirl her around in time to the music.

  ‘You’re good at dancing the waltz,’ she said a few moments later, laughing and breathless.

  ‘I learned it especially, so I could dance it with you.’

  ‘Truly?’

  His eyes caught hers for a moment and he grinned with the happiness he felt flowing inside him, though it made his cheeks grow warm. ‘Truly.’

  From the corner of his eye, Josh saw Alder return to the company of his brother, a churlish expression on his face.

  The waltz stopped and the Roger de Coverley was called, which signalled the end of Josh’s dancing. He was elbowed aside by Alder as the women and men made lines opposite each other.

  When Alder turned to glare at him as he bowed to Pansy, Josh backed away, the skin along his spine prickling. He could smell trouble coming his way.

  Siana could also sense trouble, but it wasn’t in the immediate vicinity. It appeared as a fleeting uneasiness when she snatched a moment before supper to check on the children.

  Daisy and Goldie were still awake. How pretty they both looked with their golden hair captured into linen caps, their blue eyes still shining with excitement, for Miss Edgar, their governess, had allowed them onto the upper landing to watch the dancing.

  She leaned over to kiss her sister Daisy goodnight. ‘Sweet dreams, my darling.’

  Daisy’s arms came up around her neck in a hug. ‘I’m going to dream that I’m grown up so I can wear a pretty gown, marry a rich man and and stay up for the dancing.’

  Siana stifled her smile and turned to her foster child, Goldie, whose darker, spun-gold hair escaped in wisps from under her cap. ‘What about you?’

  Goldie thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘I’m going to look after the sick people, like Papa does.’

  Daisy informed her, ‘Only boys can be doctors. Girls don’t like seeing blood. They faint.’

  ‘I’m going to be a printer, then, like my brother. The last time I visited him he said I could help him in his shop when I grow up.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be wonderful at whatever you do.’ Siana gave Goldie a hug and went through to the nursery, where Susannah and Bryn were fast asleep.

  How dainty Susannah was and how like her mother she looked. Siana smiled as she smoothed the girl’s foxy hair back from her forehead. Her good friend, Elizabeth Hawkins, wouldn’t recognize her daughter when next they met, for Elizabeth had been found guilty of a crime she hadn’t committed and transported to Australia for four years.

  Siana turned to Bryn, uncovered and lying completely relaxed on his back with his arms and legs flopped out. She pulled the cover over him then stooped to kiss him, her heart filled with love. ‘Goodnight, my little cuckoo.’

  Unease hit her strongly then, a feeling that brought coldness with it and goosebumps racing over the surface of her skin. It was as if the world had shifted, reminding her that happiness could be fleeting. Bryn wasn’t her child, none of them were. The two children she’d carried in her womb had already perished; her son taken by scarlet fever and her daughter, Elen, snatched away before she had lived, in childbirth.

  She thought again of her great-aunt, Wynn Lewis, wondering if the woman knew of what had taken place. She hoped not, for Wynn Lewis had always been surrounded by darkness.

  Siana had no time to brood over it, however, for Francis came up behind her to slip his arms around her waist. ‘I’m always amazed that there’s nothing of you in Bryn’s face.’

  ‘The Matheson look in him is very strong.’

  ‘Aye.’ He gazed down at Bryn, a fond smile playing around his mouth. ‘There’s no mistaking where he sprang from.’

  ‘You do love him, don’t you, Francis?’

  ‘Of course I do. He’s my son.’

  ‘I do so want to give you another son.’

  ‘I’m content with Bryn.’ Turning her in his arms he tipped up her chin and gently kissed her before leading her out of the nursery. ‘I love his mother, too, and nothing will ever change that.’

  Once again, Siana felt uneasy. How easy it was to create a lie. But living with the deception when it involved somebody as fine and as honest as Francis was another thing altogether.

  They went down the stairs to be met at the bottom by Marcus Ibsen, who bore her hand to his lips and kissed it. Dark-haired and tall, his eyes a ferment of liquid darkness, she experienced a sense of excitement at the raw power emanating from him.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Unfortunately, I was detained in town. Mrs Matheson, you look exquisite, like a wild poppy blowing in the wind.’

  There was a moment when his words conjured up a sensation of a breeze drifting like cool silk over her skin and the sensual smell of midsummer wildflowers. She gained control of her imagination, and had the sense to avoid his teasing grin. Flirting with danger was part of Marcus’s make-up and hers, but Francis would not appreciate a public display of it, she knew.

  Lightly, she said, ‘Maryse overheard Raoul compare me to a raspberry tart, and Augustus said I looked like a glass of burgundy.’

  ‘Obviously, the Matheson men are lacking in soul.’

  Francis laughed. ‘I’m afraid we’re concerned with the tangible aspects of life rather than the ethereal. We’re just going in to supper, Marcus. Will you join us?’

  ‘Most certainly, and I’ll look forward to the entertainment afterwards.’ His glance went past them, to where Maryse stood talking to one of her uncles and his wife. Beckwith was a magistrate and the more serious of the brothers, the father of two young sons and husband to a wife who fussed. Siana watched the woman brush a piece of lint from her husband’s shoulder, shake out her skirts and straighten the wrinkles in the fingers of her gloves, all in the same few seconds.

  As if Maryse knew she was being observed, she turned her gaze to where they stood, her head slanted to one side. Her blue silk skirt gleamed along its folds as her body assumed an elegant pose. The serene smile she wore faltered when her glance met that of Marcus. A delicate tracery of pink tinted her skin.

  Marcus slowly edged out a ragged breath.

  Recovering her composure, Maryse excused herself and came towards them. ‘Mr Ibsen, you’ve missed the dancing.’

  ‘Something I regret now I see how well you look, Miss Matheson, even though I’m an indifferent dancer. It would be my pleasure if you’d allow me to escort you in to supper.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ibsen.’ Maryse took the arm he offered.
/>   ‘I thought we were friends,’ he said as they strolled away

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Then why don’t you call me Marcus?’

  ‘Why don’t you call me Maryse?’ she countered.

  Marcus chuckled. ‘Because I’m trying to make a good impression on your father.’

  ‘Why? Oh . . . I see!’ An impatient note came into her voice. ‘You know I’ve determined not to wed, so please don’t waste your time.’

  ‘Being in your company is never a waste of time, even when you’re being a shrew.’

  Maryse opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again and gave a soft laugh. ‘I’m not going to allow myself to fall into that trap, Marcus, for you’ll wrap me up in conversation like a spider in a web and before I know it my mind will be changed for me.’

  He slid Maryse a melting little smile, and said tenderly. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. You remind me of the first bluebell of summer in the wild woods.’

  Laughing, Siana glanced at Francis. ‘I do so love a man with a romantic soul and a honeyed tongue.’

  ‘Bluebells! Poppies!’ Francis snorted under his breath. ‘What next . . . cowslips? God, save me from my daughters’ suitors.’

  3

  Bright though it was, the light from the moon didn’t save Josh from disaster. Nearing the gates of Cheverton Manor, the rope stretched across the road between the two trees was invisible to him until he was upon it.

  It caught his horse at chest height and brought it down. One of the shafts of the rig splintered along its length. The whole lot tilted sideways and catapulted over. There was a loud snap.

  Thrown out of the rig, Josh rolled sideways into a ditch at the side of the road. His horse, held fast on its back, began to squeal and thrash its legs. Dazed, Josh crawled out of the ditch on his hands and knees. He had to set it free.

  He stepped gingerly amongst the wreckage of the rig, thankful he hadn’t been going any faster. His gelding didn’t appear to be badly damaged by the way its legs were moving but the beast’s eyes were rolling and blood-flecked foam gathered around his mouth.