Conspiracy of Hearts

by Helen Dickson

  ‘Nothing can shake you, can it, Blackwell?’ he said with deadly calm, a feral gleam in his dark eyes. ‘My good friend Ludovick Lamont tells me you are ill—that it’s I who am responsible. After what you are guilty of, it’s no better than you deserve. You made a serious error when you chose to focus all your hatred on me, not to mention your personal crusade to see every Catholic eliminated—especially my wife, but not until you had defiled her.’

  ‘And all this time my attempts have been thwarted.’

  Kit smiled wryly. ‘And you are clearly in no fit condition to fight on. Good God, man, you’re as sickly as an aborted calf. All your conniving to incriminate me in that foul plot and slander my name has come to nothing. I return from His Majesty who can find no charge for me to answer to. All that was confiscated from me has been returned—which is also the case with Sir Henry Carberry. Until such time as he is able to return to England, his estate will be in the care of my wife.’

  This was a blow to Thomas. His look was venomous, for he had indeed hoped to secure all Sir Henry Carberry’s property. If Kit had raised his voice or a fist he might have borne it better. Instead, Kit kept his tone ice cold, only the black eyes showing his loathing for the other man.

  ‘The king is more of a fool than I took him for,’ hissed Thomas, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead when his face became convulsed by a spasm of violent rage.

  ‘It’s you who would be the fool if you weren’t so dangerous. You’d collude with the devil if it gave you a means to an end. Why are you here, Blackwell? Did you intend trying to persecute my wife yet again?’

  ‘I would destroy anyone with Popish ideals. When I saw you at Whitehall I was certain I had gotten rid of you at last.’

  ‘Then you were mistaken. But one look at you makes me doubt you will be allowed to escape what is clearly going to be an unenviable fate. You have plied your skills dispassionately and without mercy in the past. It’s time to lay down your sword, Blackwell, and cease hounding me.’

  ‘Never,’ Thomas snarled.

  ‘Don’t risk what time you have left by trying to settle old scores. You are successful, a wealthy landowner in your own right, with a wife and soon a child,’ he said, having taken note of Dorothea’s delicate condition when she had risen from her seat. ‘Don’t let pride make you risk losing all that, in this last ruse to condemn me further. What you have chosen to disregard is that the plotters themselves have proved I am innocent of the charges you made against me.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I shall wish you harm with every breath I draw.’

  ‘Then you are a fool. Your hatred and resentment of me has festered inside you and crippled you spiritually. You will destroy yourself with hatred and fanaticism to what you believe to be a holy cause against Catholics—and your undying malice towards myself.’

  Dorothea, who had stood patiently listening to what Kit was saying, now went to stand by her husband, looking him straight in the eye, her stance and her tone imperious when she spoke. In fact, she displayed a dignified authority more defiant and more proud than either Serena or Kit had given her credit for. Was it possible for a woman with so gentle a spirit as Dorothea to rule a despot like Thomas Blackwell?

  ‘I am disappointed in you, Thomas. Isn’t it enough to get beaten without becoming a backstabber? Do you want your child to grow up knowing its father brought dishonour to his name? I have stood by and tried to ignore what you are beneath your air of respectability—but I can do so no longer. Come. It is obvious to me that you offend Kit and Serena by coming here, so we will take our leave.’

  Thomas suddenly seemed to shrink before her accusing glare. He moved awkwardly towards the door where he paused and looked back at Kit. The pain and humiliation of this meeting had cut deep, and he was under no illusion that he was too ill to pursue it further.

  ‘As you see, Brodie, I am in no condition to challenge you. You would slay me as quickly as a helpless lamb.’ On that note Thomas straightened himself up, his eyes staring straight into Kit’s. All the hatred and malice surrounding him was concentrated in that one pair of eyes.

  When her husband had disappeared and only the tapping of his cane could be heard, Dorothea hesitated and looked at Kit. ‘I beg of you to forgive our coming here today. When Thomas saw you arrive at Whitehall by the water gate, the boatman told him where you had come from and that a flame-haired woman had stood and watched you leave from the jetty. My instinct told me it might be Serena, and my desire to see her again was so great that I came to Chelsea immediately by the river. I left Thomas at Whitehall but, as you see, he followed me. It was not my intention to upset either of you.’

  Perhaps because he pitied Dorothea her embarrassment and her husband, the severity of Kit’s face relaxed. ‘It’s no fault of yours that your husband is a dangerous rogue, Dorothea. And it was not my intention to make you feel unwelcome in this house. Knowing of the closeness that exists between you and Serena, you must feel free to visit her whenever you wish at Thurlow—but you must understand that, for reasons you have now become aware of, the invitation does not extend to your husband. I wish for no more encounters between us.’

  ‘I understand. Enough harm has been done. As you have seen, Thomas is very weak and ill. The physician does not hold out much hope that he will live beyond two years at the most. I—I can only hope that he will live long enough to see the birth of his child.’

  In silence Kit put an arm about his wife, and together they went to the door to watch them depart. But they gasped on seeing Dorothea lose her footing on the slippery slope down to the river and stumble and fall. Quickly they ran towards her, but before they could reach her, with a cry of anguish Thomas had thrown down his cane and stooped to assist his wife, the concern written on his still-handsome face there for all to see.

  ‘Dorothea,’ he cried, helping her to her feet. ‘Are you hurt?’

  With immense relief Serena and Kit watched Dorothea regain her footing and brush the dirt from her skirts, turning to wave to them, indicating that she was unhurt. After Thomas had rescued his cane, seeming to be generally distraught over his wife’s fall, he put his arm about her waist to prevent her falling again.

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Kit as they watched the pair climb into the boat at the jetty and Thomas take his place beside his wife, taking her hand in his own. ‘It seems strange to me that Blackwell should be so concerned about his wife—which makes me wonder if I am seeing a small redeeming quality in this man who suddenly seems so vulnerable and to possess the same cares and anxieties that trouble others.’

  Together Kit and Serena turned and went back inside, and only when they were alone did Kit take his wife in his arms, feeling her tremble against him.

  ‘Thank God he’s gone,’ Serena whispered. ‘As long as I live I pray I never have to look at that man again.’ Raising her head, she looked at her husband. ‘What did the king say to you, Kit? Does he accept you had nothing to do with the Gunpowder Plot—you will not face a trial?’

  ‘That is true. My title and Thurlow have been restored to me—and we can leave London just as soon as you are ready.’

  ‘And my father? Is he absolved, too?’

  Kit shook his head. ‘No. Not entirely. His Majesty made it quite plain that if he returns he must stand trial for his part in selling horses to aid the conspirators. However, because of the lack of evidence against him—and the conspirators’ failure to incriminate him—he accepts that, like myself, it is possible that he was fooled by Catesby and is not guilty of any treasonable offence.’

  ‘Oh, Kit. You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.’

  He smiled. ‘So until the time when your father sees fit to return—if he wants to, or unless the archdukes extradite him from the Spanish Netherlands along with others who are suspected of having a hand in the plot—his estate is in your hands, my love. All things considered,’ Kit murmured, gazing down into his wife’s upturned face and planting a kiss on her brow, ‘I would say that w
e’ve both come out of it very well.’

  Tears of joy and relief sprang to Serena’s eyes. Kit saw them shimmering on her lashes before one of them traced unheeded down the smooth curve of her cheek.

  ‘I cannot believe it, Kit. I cannot believe that it’s over at last.’

  Seeing that she was tortured by her tears, on a sigh Kit produced the handkerchief he had won the right to keep when they had ridden together at Dunedin Hall and she had challenged him to a race. She took it and looked up at him in wonder, smiling through her tears.

  ‘Why, Kit Brodie! Despite the tough and formidable man you profess to be, you are nothing but a sentimental romantic at heart,’ she teased, mopping up her tears. ‘Here,’ she murmured, giving it back to him. ‘You’d best keep it—in case I should need it again.’

  ‘Nay, my love. The time for tears is past.’ He grinned down at her crookedly, taking it from her. ‘But I’ll keep it all the same.’

  Epilogue

  Thurlow was a prosperous emblem of the Brodie family, an establishment which symbolised the rewards of the family’s loyal service in both England and Scotland. Nothing had prepared Serena for its magnificence—an enormous Tudor edifice with turrets and tall chimneys, its front a mass of leaded windows, the glass lit up like a wall of flame in the setting sun. It stood on a rise, looking out upon an endless stretch of parkland, surpassing anything Serena had ever seen.

  Kit smiled, seeing that her eyes were warm in their admiration. ‘Well?’ he enquired softly. ‘What do you think of your new home, Serena?’

  ‘Kit—it’s—it’s quite the most beautiful house I have ever seen.’

  ‘I hope the house will be as appreciative of its new mistress—the new marchioness of Thurlow. There hasn’t been a marchioness in residence for some twenty years or more.’

  Serena laughed with delight, finding it difficult coming to terms with such a grand title. ‘Then it’s a formidable task that faces me. I can only hope I do it credit.’

  In the weeks and months that followed, Serena grew to love Thurlow, and to her pleasure she conceived their first child almost immediately. When their son was three years old—a child who, it soon became evident, had inherited his father’s charm as well as his looks—they went on a visit to Serena’s father in Flanders, where his enforced exile was far from miserable.

  To most people exile was like a malicious humour rotting away inside a man, taking away his hope and self-respect. But most humours are granted succour, and it immediately became clear to Serena and Kit that Sir Henry, who had begun breeding horses once more, was blissfully happy with his wife and had no intention of ever returning to England.

  And why should he? Sir Henry had laughed jovially, when he had everything he could possibly want right here in Flanders. And Kit could see what held him in thrall. His wife, whom Serena had been loath to meet, and who now regretted her hasty determination to dislike everything about her because she feared losing her father, was so charming and loving Kit might have been tempted himself, had he not been married to a woman who outshone all others.

  Andrew journeyed from Italy to see his sister and her husband, and his eighteen-year-old brother James. James, a tall, serious young man whose studies would soon be complete, was impatient to return to England and begin rebuilding the estate. Much heartened, Serena returned to England to bear Kit his second child, a daughter they named Anne, after Serena’s mother.

  Kit was amazed how quickly Serena regained her figure after the birth of each of their children. She was quite remarkable. Her eyes were bright, her full lips smiling one day when she swept into the room from the garden, and Kit’s breath caught in his throat, thinking she was too exquisite to be flesh and blood.

  His eyes gleamed appreciatively at the sight of her. The mellow softness of the afternoon light played about her white throat, throwing deep shadows down into the hollow between her rounded breasts. She was beautiful in a gown of scarlet velvet, the heavy auburn swathe of her hair falling from beneath her matching bonnet. But never would she look as fetching to him as she had once looked in her breeches when they had ridden to Edinburgh.

  ‘Come here, my love, I must talk to you.’

  She moved towards him like moonlight walks on water, and there was no denying the look of melting love in her eyes when they lit upon her husband. Going to stand behind his chair, she slid her arms lovingly down his chest, placing a kiss on the top of his dark head, loving the smell of him, of pine and leather.

  ‘What can be so important, Kit, that it makes you look so grave?’

  ‘I think it’s time we visited Ripley, Serena. James will soon have finished his education and you know how impatient he is to return to take over the running of the estate.’

  And so it was that Serena went back to Dunedin Hall, visiting Dorothea and her son at Ashcombe Manor and making her peace with Uncle William. She remembered how she had been unable to repress the relief she had felt on learning of the demise of Thomas Blackwell just six months ago. God had granted him slightly longer that the physician had predicted.

  She visited Eliza, their old housekeeper who lived with her sister and her husband in Ripley, and John, who vowed to return to work at Dunedin Hall just as soon as Master James came home. James would take up residence in a new house that was already being built close to the old, burned-out shell of the one in which he had been born.

  An eerie, haunting silence reigned among the ruins of Dunedin Hall. There was an unearthly quiet about this place that had been Serena’s home, that she had loved with all the intensity of a child seeking a safe haven at its mother’s breast. It struck deep into her heart as she tried to recall what it had been like on that terrible night when she had left it.

  Most of the building had escaped the flames. Some walls stood with big, gaping holes in them, and the giant chimney stacks rose into the sky like giant sentinels. A lump rose in Serena’s throat when she looked into the empty stables, buildings which had once pulsated with the lives of men and horses alike.

  She stood in silence, gazing at the ruins of the once-noble house. It made her think of something beautiful after it had been through the throes of death, and she was weighted down by a terrible sadness. The old place was crumbling, taking with it all the memories of the past. Sunset blazed red over the empty shell, decay and rot running riot over the smoke-blackened walls.

  She listened to the sound of the wind as it went sighing and whispering, searching the holes and crevices that had been given over to a past long since gone, and she watched a bird fly out of the ruins and go soaring and searching in a silent sky. In some strange way it reminded her of herself—flying free at last.

  Turning, she walked away from the ruins, seeing Kit holding their young daughter in his arms just a short distance away, and their five-year-old son scampering about the grass. Moving towards them, she stooped to pluck a solitary white rose from a briar that clung to the wall, courageously defying the decay all around it. Holding it to her nose, she could smell its soft, sweet perfume. It was such a gentle, fragile thing.

  Holding it in her hand, she walked towards her husband, a little smile playing on her lips, and Kit sighed with relief and put his free arm tenderly about her shoulders, drawing her close. He’d had deep reservations about them making this journey back into the past, not knowing what to expect. But now he had no regrets. At last all their ghosts could be laid to rest.

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-6139-9

  CONSPIRACY OF HEARTS

  First North American Publication 2003

  Copyright © 2000 by Helen Dickson

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