by Robyn Carr
The cold of winter had begun to ease and Julian planned to return to Dearborn within a month. By the time he left London, he would be clear of conscience and prepared to oust Stephen from his privy authority. He expected outrage and destruction from his son and therefore was highly hopeful that he would have no problem managing this new and plentiful guard. He thought to make explanations to the king and ask for assistance, but even through all this, he could not bring himself to convict his own son. He still hoped to bring Stephen around with his plan.
Julian had always been self-serving and ambitious. He had many moral flaws that stood glaringly clear in his declining years. He had not loved his wife, although she richly deserved his love. He had cheated her father and some of his own friends and had never borne arms to any cause, but crept in and out of all manner of conflicts in search of the stronger side. Very few people would pity him now, in this pain and remorse he felt over his own son. Indeed, he would be blamed. For perhaps the first time in his life, he carried this burden with strength and dignity and sought no reward for his actions.
He had not spoken with Adrienne in a long stretch of days. He found himself to be completely grateful that she had not rattled at him for gowns and invitations. He dreaded the moment that he must finally speak with her on matters that were wholly critical and in which he needed her display of maturity and confidentiality. He assumed he would be disappointed, but he did not bequeath Dearborn to her for love, but because she was an eligible heir. His ultimate hopes rested on being able to find a suitable husband for her within the next year. That done, he could finally have some peace.
With a heavy sigh of acceptance, he pulled himself up from his littered desk and rose to the task. He reasoned it was better to deal with it soon and at least have it done. He didn’t know if he could bear her joy at having outdone her cousin, or her complaining when he told her he would choose her mate or she would be void of a dowry.
He passed a maid with a tray of food in the hall and inquired after his niece. “Is Adrienne at home, or has she gone abroad?”
The maid shook her head. “She ain’t been abroad in more’n a week, milord. Ain’t been much out of ’er room.” Then she moved on toward the kitchen.
Julian hadn’t even had time to wonder at the strange reprieve he’d had during the week. He had been too busy to think anything amiss, but looking back on the previous days, he had been blissfully free of Adrienne’s constant demands, wheedling, and tantrums. Now he wondered at the cause of this self-imposed isolation.
A maid answered the knock at her door. “Is my niece ill?” he asked.
“I think not, milord, though she’s going to be if she don’t get up and get around.”
“What’s her current problem?” he asked.
The maid shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t know, m’lord. Ain’t never seen her so sad and beset. She sleeps by the sun and weeps by the moon. It’s like someone died. She’s grievous.”
“May I see her?” he asked, suddenly feeling as a negligent parent does. He had not been particularly solicitous of Adrienne because she was so outspoken and volatile that he never had breathing space long enough to wonder at her needs or conditions. She let him know, promptly and belligerently, if anything was amiss.
“She says she don’t want to see no one a’tall, milord. I ’spect that means yourself, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Do we send for the surgeon?” he asked.
“By the week’s end, I wager,” the maid replied.
“Hell’s fire,” he blustered. “Let me in there. I’ll have to see her.”
The maid made a futile and halfhearted attempt to block passage, but Julian pushed through boisterously.
“Aside with you now, she’s my niece, and if she’s ill and needs a physician, I have to see her for myself. Out of my way.”
When he entered he was stopped short by the sight of her. Adrienne, who usually exhausted him with her animation, sat in a depressed stupor in a chair by the window. She wore her robe and slippers, and a quilt covered her lap. She had one finger playing with her mouth and her other arm hung listlessly over the side of the chair.
On closer inspection, Julian saw that she was pale and her eyes were red from crying. Her usually glowing green eyes were dull and tired, and the sparkle that he so often hated and feared was completely buried beneath some heavy burden.
Julian was softened by the sight of her vulnerability, a thing he had never seen in his niece. He suddenly regretted ever having been harsh or neglectful and forgot all of her mischief. “Adrienne,” he sighed. “What has happened to you?”
She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and braved a weak smile. “It will pass, Uncle,” she whispered.
“Are you ill? Do you hurt? Is this a trouble or disease?”
“It is nothing, Uncle. It will pass. I must be alone.”
He looked about the darkened room in indecision. He didn’t know how to respond to her or what action to take to see her recovery. A part of him began to miss her great energy and enthusiasm. Regardless of how spoiled and pugnacious she was when healthy, he had become accustomed to her beauty and vitality. He couldn’t bear the sight of her so disposed. He finally grabbed a chair from the other side of the room and began to drag it over to her. “Leave us alone,” he shouted at the maid. Sitting directly before her, he pulled both of her hands into his. “What has happened to you, Adrienne? Tell me.”
Her eyes began to well up with tears and she grasped his hands tightly. “I am ashamed to tell you, Uncle Julian. And there is nothing whatever you can do.”
“But you must tell me. I’m your guardian and the only one who can help you.” She shook her head sadly and looked down into her lap, but she continued to hold his hands as if he were a lifeline. Julian was possessed of a strange feeling. It was almost as if she needed him, almost as if she trusted him. He had never felt that before with any other person. “But you must tell me, darling,” he said softly, surprised by the sound of his own voice. “You must trust me.”
Without looking up, she murmured her reply very softly. “I am in love with a man who does not want me.”
Julian heard himself chuckle in spite of his efforts to be serious. “Only love can do this to a maiden,” he said whimsically. “My sweet, you are lovesick. Ah, it is a bittersweet ailment and certainly it feels deathly.” He patted her hand confidently. “But the cure lies in finding another man. Adrienne, you’ll have no problem in that. They all pine after you.”
Julian sat back rather comfortably, feeling secure again. She would be fifteen years old in a few months, and she had just encountered her first taste of love … and her first bite of rejection. She would withdraw from this depression wiser and stronger and more determined. The next one would not get away. He knew Adrienne very well.
“But I don’t want another man … and … it is too late …”
“Too late?” he asked with a quick denial in mind for an answer.
She nodded pitifully.
“Who?” he asked loudly, his bark indignant and offended.
Adrienne immediately pulled away her hands and melted into despairing sobs. Her action only caused Julian to react in his habitual way and pull at her hands, demanding the answer. “Who? Who?”
But Adrienne was broken by this and cried genuinely painful tears. Julian forced himself to find a softer approach. “Please, sweet, let me help you.”
“Please don’t ask me to name him, Uncle Julian. Anything else, but not that … please.”
“Very well, very well. Come now, control yourself, my dear. I’m not angry with you. After all …” He clumsily put his arms about her shoulders and pulled her near for a rare and unpracticed embrace. Again, Julian was shocked by the comfortable way it felt to hold someone in need and compassion. He was delighted and stunned by the emotions that rose. He began to admire the girl, for she was at least as clever as he, and as determined to better herself. Indeed, there were more common links here than between him
and his son. He knew she had a streak of wickedness, but most often it was justifiable and relatively harmless. He admired a certain worldly air and mischievous mien.
“Adrienne, my pet, tell me how this happened, then. Leave off the man’s name, if you must.”
She struggled to collect herself, and eventually Julian pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve and held it as she blew her nose. After a few long moments of sniffing and blowing, she was able to speak. But her spirit seemed broken and he hated what had been done to her. Julian felt himself bent on justice, another rare and new experience.
“I began to see him at court,” she said. “And then met him on the sly, because I knew you wouldn’t approve of him.”
“And why? Is he a decent man? Worthy?”
“I … I think so … but I trust you would not. I love him, Uncle Julian, but he is not the sort you would choose.”
“Where did you meet him? When?”
“I snuck out of the house after you were asleep and went to him; it is so simple to buy a coach or bribe our driver.”
“When did this begin, lass?”
“We were here less than a month,” she sobbed, her voice low and strained.
“And he abused you?” Julian was beginning to flush in anger over these escapades, but strangely, his fury revolved around this mysterious man and not his provocative niece.
“Oh, no. It was quite civil. My shame comes from my behavior. For at least through the Christmas celebrations he kept me quite decent when he could have easily used me. I … I would not have stayed him. Uncle Julian, I did not know the pain I would feel. I thought he loved me.”
“When did you learn otherwise, my dear?”
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Uncle. It was not until weeks after the new year that this man took advantage of me. And I tempted him with nighttime visits and truly a lack of caution. And I was with him many times—long enough to know that I love him true. And when I asked him to save me from the shame of becoming a dirty bride to another, he said … he said …”
“There, child,” he replied, with a generous hug that he was becoming more adept at, while she wept and found words most difficult.
“He said he does not love me and will not marry me.”
“Adrienne, my dear,” Julian consoled. His chest became heavy with an internal swelling born of anger. It was not clear to him whether he wanted compensation from this man for ruining his prize or whether he wished to avenge her honor as a parent might. Whichever, he was heated with the fury to see this deed rectified to his satisfaction. And he had forgotten the business that had brought him to her chamber.
“Adrienne, dear child, when did he first soil you?”
“Late in January,” she replied.
“Two months. Um. And are you with child, my dear?”
“I … I think not. Julian, I must accept the blame for much of this. I defied you and I sought this horror. It is as much my fault as—”
“Never mind that, my dear. An honorable man would not have touched this virginal prize but would have come to me, and I would have reprimanded you for misconduct. You would have been angry, but intact. Now, look at me and answer me truly, for your future depends largely on your wisdom in this. Will you take another husband, a man of my choice for you, quickly and without quarrel?”
Her eyes, clear and glassy, looked at him lethargically. “I will do as you bid me, Uncle Julian. But I can think of no other man I could love.”
He frowned slightly but continued to hold her attention. “You must gather your wits and hear me. I have little time to explain all of this if I’m to be about mending your rended seams. Dearborn is to be yours, provided we can find a decent man who won’t mismanage it for you. Stephen, God help him, is not deserving and I am forced to disclaim his inheritance.”
“Dearborn?” she asked in surprise. “But I was told my dowry was a pension in a sum of money …”
“I know that. But it has changed. You have a modest right to the holding and my son has spoiled his. It grieves me, but it is so.”
“My mother’s home,” she said with some melancholy. “Uncle Julian, my mother’s home.”
“I know that, I know. Now, pay close attention, dear heart. I mean to do right by you. I am angry with the culprit, true, but I am not nearly so concerned about whether I like the man as I am about his skill at management and his general regard for you. If he would not beat you and would manage your property decently, I can probably convince him to marry you.”
“But he doesn’t love me,” she wailed.
“I don’t care about that and neither should you. He may come to love you one day, he may not. Marriages aren’t built around some childish idea about love. You marry the man best suited to care for you and your dower lands, have children, and get about the business of living. This broken heart you’re suffering will pass, and sadly, you’ll have another and another. But each will be less painful than the last and you’ll at least be well kept. Now tell me, Adrienne, can the man manage money?”
“Yes,” she answered haltingly.
“And he is of a civil nature? Not abusive, nor cruel? Does he have a violent nature?”
“No … he is … Well, he boasts of being cruel, but he had always seemed very kind … and … honest.”
“There, there, dear, think of Dearborn—your mother’s home. Now come, does he have any money or title?”
Adrienne began to concentrate on the idea of being a baroness and managing her own property. She was not prepared for Julian’s announcement, so many years had been spent thinking she would receive a token allotment to improve her marriageability. But the idea of having Dearborn again was inspiring. Julian could see the life begin to come back into her eyes.
“Yes,” she said more easily. “Both.”
“Then he is a suitable match?”
“I think so,” she said, faltering somewhat.
“Well, I know you don’t like the idea, but if you tell me who he is, perhaps something can be done.”
“And if nothing can be done?” she quizzed.
“Then we’ll discuss alternatives. For now, I must know the culprit’s name.”
“You will hate me forever,” she said.
“I doubt that, my dear. I will be upset for a day and then I will see about a wedding. Come, come.”
“Do you promise not to punish me?” she asked.
Julian saw the color begin to return to her face, and her lively green eyes resumed their quick glitter and light. “I will only punish you with your estate. I have to see my property cared for. Adrienne?”
She took a breath and lowered her eyes. “Trent Wescott,” she murmured very softly.
“Who?” he asked, hoping he had not heard her correctly. “Who was that, Adrienne?”
She looked up at him almost defiantly. It nearly brought a chuckle to his lips, so pleased was he to see some life again. “Trent Wescott,” she stated firmly.
“Trent Wescott?” he boomed.
She began to weep instantly, but Julian was at least as clever as she and he knew these tears were contrived. “There, you’re angry,” she sobbed. “You hate me, I knew you would. You won’t give it to me now, will you?”
Julian sat back in a state of shock. He barely heard her whiny excuses, but in this he was at least practiced. Her genuine despair was something he had never seen, not even following her mother’s sudden death. But her dramatics he was well acquainted with and knew how to disregard them.
“Wescott,” he muttered. He sat in perplexed shock. He was amazed the man even toyed with her. Likely he sought to soil her and leave her, just to cause trauma to the Kerr family.
But in this was a resourceful idea. He had meant to right the terrible wrong he had done to the Wescott family without loss of dignity or money—and this could well be the way. He had thought Adrienne foolish at first for suggesting such a thing, but then the state of affairs with Stephen had worsened and his options were fewer. He had written his test
imony and hidden it in the London house. Now the remaining problems were to see Adrienne suitably wed and to make some amends with Wescott. Perhaps both could be accomplished with one contract.
“Wescott,” he said again. “So it is.”
“Uncle?” she questioned.
“I will explain all of this to you in some detail at a later time, but for now, rest assured, I will try to find a way to convince my lord of Braeswood that you would be a willing and obedient bride.”
“He will deny it, Uncle,” she promised. “He swore he would never admit to touching me.”
“That’s immaterial. The king is his friend … and if the king can finance him, he can bring him to the altar. Trust me, sweet, we will find a way.”
“He will refuse,” she cried, a note of panic in her voice.
“Perhaps at first. But he may see the merits in owning all the property these two families can combine. And upon my word, to disinherit Stephen from Dearborn, he may come around.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked.
“Then we’ll seek another alternative.”
“Please, Uncle Julian, don’t make him too angry.”
“I will use great care, dear. And hopefully great influence.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jocelyn had never witnessed firsthand how the lady of a great manor wiled away her time. She was neither the mistress of the house, nor could she have easily slipped into any role that would have made her responsible for the servants. Aside from those hours that she spent seeing to Trent’s needs, there was no demand on her time. When he was home—just a few days every several weeks—she was busy with his meals, clothing, and the more intimate aspects of being a mistress. But when he was away, her time was her own. It was her habit to seek out pastimes that ranged from the stable to the kitchen.
When spring was fully upon the land and the weather was warm, so was Jocelyn’s figure round and plentiful. She felt more cumbersome every day, but the sheer wonder of carrying a child livened her spirits and gave her great joy. The babe exercised a powerful kick that would often take her by surprise and bring a quick smile to her lips. She had not imagined the feelings of warmth and love this condition could inspire.
