by Jo Beverley
“I see I’m to be under the cat’s paw.”
She flushed pink and not with pleasure. “If that means I won’t let a husband starve, then yes.”
Her gaze was direct, her tone crisp. Again he wanted to ask, Who are you, Jane Otterburn? No, Jane St. Bride now.
At the door he paused to look back. She’d already pinned the apron around herself and was tying her hair back with what seemed to be a piece of string. She looked like a countrywoman, but as wholesome as bread and cheese.
“Eat something yourself,” he instructed and then left.
Once outside he wondered what right he had to tell her what to do. Strange but true, he had every right conceivable, simply because of a hasty service and some signatures.
Instead of taking the walkway back to the clapboard house, he crossed the garden, seeking a moment’s peace. Isaiah had not been a garden enthusiast, and if Jane was, she’d made little headway here. Saul Prithy was most interested in the vegetables and there wasn’t much left of those at this time of year. Soon winter would seal everything under snow and ice for long months.
This year he’d be gone by then. If he lived.
He had to live. For Jane’s sake now, as well as every other reason.
Hell. This time yesterday his only problem had been what to take back to England. Now he had a dead friend to bury, a wife to cherish, and a duel to complete.
And a wedding ring to find.
He seized on the simple, solvable task.
He’d abandoned his greatcoat on the dueling field and went into the house to find a warmer jacket, but he found his coat neatly arranged on a hall chair. Norton must have brought it. Then he noticed the wrapped sandwich he still held in his hand and hunger growled.
He went into the parlor and took a bite. It seemed almost heartless to be eating at such a time, but it tasted delicious. Isaiah kept decanters of wine and spirits here, and so he poured a glass of his friend’s favorite claret and toasted him.
“I hope heaven really is a happy hunting ground, Isaiah, with jolly companions, fast rivers, and new lands to explore.”
“Do I intrude?”
Simon turned, flushing to be caught talking to air. Then he said, “Hal?”
For the tall, dark man in the doorway, his empty left sleeve pinned neatly across his chest, was, impossibly, Major Hal Beaumont.
“In the flesh, and come at an interesting time, I gather.”
Laughing, Simon went to grasp his friend’s hand. “My God! I’m speechless. Why? How? What the devil are you doing back here?” He looked at the glass in his other hand. “Claret?”
“For breakfast?” But then Hal sobered. “I gather condolences are in order.”
Simon nodded. “Isaiah Trewitt. A good man, a good friend. I’m not sure you met him.”
“No, but you spoke of him. You used to call him a Rogue.”
Simon smiled at the memory. “With relish.”
He and Hal had been part of a schoolboy band that called themselves the Company of Rogues. The best of friends, scattered now. Some dead in the past war—Roger Merrihew, Allan Ingram, Dare Debenham. That was the most recent, most painful loss, for Dare had been Simon’s closest friend.
“I think I’ll have claret after all,” Hal said. When Simon gave him the glass, he asked, “What happened?”
“Shot himself by accident. He’s been plagued by a malarial ague for years. His hands shook, I assume.” Simon gestured helplessly. “The rest is more complicated. But by God, Hal, whatever’s brought you here, I’m glad of it. Have you eaten? We’re at sixes and sevens, as you can imagine.”
“I’ve breakfasted. I’ve rooms at Brown’s Hotel. I only arrived last night and was preparing to call at a decent hour when I heard the news. How can I help?”
The simple words were an immense relief.
“Prop me up. Look, let me offer you tea. I should drink something other than wine, and I’m sure the kitchen can manage that.”
Ross had brought assistants and a young lad sat in the hall clearly waiting to run errands. Simon sent him with the message, and then they both sat by the fire. “How do you come to be here? What news of home? When did you leave? My head’s spinning.”
“That’s what you get for drinking wine for breakfast. I am here because I agreed to escort a Gresham pup to a posting in Kingston.”
“Why?” No one traveled six weeks or more across the ocean for such a reason.
Hal’s lips twitched more in grimace than humor. “It suited me. It also suited me to see what you were up to. It’s been four years, Simon.”
“Time can slip by like oil. But you could have been spared the trip. I’m booked for home. All being well. What news? Has Luce’s child been born?”
“A son.”
“And there was much celebration. And Francis’s?”
“Not when I left. Simon—”
“I’ve been thinking how strange it is that Rogues are marrying, and now—”
“Simon.”
Simon gathered his wits and paid attention. More tragedy?
“Dare’s alive.”
Simon stared, his mind suddenly a blank.
“It’s true,” Hal said, “but attached to a complicated tale. He was badly injured at Waterloo and given opium—too much and for too long. He’s a slave to the drug, but he’s alive.”
“God be praised.” Simon couldn’t stay seated. “God be praised! Is he”—he stopped himself from saying maimed—“recovered? Physically.”
“I left shortly after his discovery and he was very frail. But it seemed his original injuries had healed, yes. I gather there’s hope he can free himself of the drug. Those who use it for pain, not mental support, have more success once their pain is over.”
Opium addiction seemed like an irrelevant detail. “Thank you! For bringing good news. Today of all days.”
The door opened and Jane entered, the tray on her hip as she managed the door.
Simon hurried to assist her, noting that she’d removed the apron and found a ribbon to replace the string tying her hair. She still, however, looked like a servant. He’d not yet told Hal that he was married, which would look peculiar. As if he was ashamed of her. And she had no ring.
He placed the tray on a table. “Jane, may I introduce an old friend of mine arrived like a genie from a bottle in our hour of need. Major Hal Beaumont. Hal, this is my wife, Jane.”
Hal had risen to bow, but both he and Jane were momentarily frozen—he by the news, she by his empty sleeve.
She recovered and curtsied. “You are well come, Major. It’s a blessing for Simon to have a friend here now.”
“And for him to have a wife, Mrs. St. Bride. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
However, Simon saw Hal note Jane’s lack of ring.
“We were compelled by circumstances to wed this morning without proper planning,” Simon explained.
“Then I am definitely de trop.”
“No.”
Simon and Jane spoke together and then laughed nervously.
“Jane, Hal brings excellent news. You must have heard me speak of Lord Darius Debenham, who was assumed dead at Waterloo? He lives.”
“Oh, excellent indeed! And well?”
She’d phrased it more neatly than he.
“Addicted to opium, but there’s hope of a full recovery. By the time we reach home, he might already be his old self.” He turned to Hal. “He’s at Long Chart, I assume?”
“He was going there.”
At Hal’s expression, Simon grinned. “I’m spinning like a top, aren’t I? Perhaps great news after abysmal is too much for the mind. But it will make sense to disembark at Plymouth or Portsmouth and visit.” To Jane, he said, “Long Chart is his family home, seat of the Duke of Yeovil.”
Jane was pouring tea, and she handed them both cups. “Simon, I’m truly happy that your friend is alive, and we must certainly visit him. Now I must return to the kitchen. Death, it seems, requires immense amounts
of food, and I welcome the work. May I hope you will join us for dinner, Major?”
Hal accepted, and with a vague smile at Simon, Jane left.
Hal said, “Congratulations, Simon. She’s delightful.”
Of course he had to say something of the sort, but it sounded sincere. There was a lot to be said for having a wife other men found appealing, and she’d handled the awkward situation with sublime grace.
“Yes, she is,” he agreed. “Now tell me more about Dare’s revival.”
They moved from there to Simon’s affairs. At least he didn’t have to explain or justify his intent about the Indians. Hal had fought alongside them. He had known and admired Tecumseh, who’d been a brigadier general in the British army. He knew the promises that had been made.
But he commented, “You can’t be the most popular man in York.”
“Most people are at least courteous.”
“Of course they are. You being who you are.”
“Idiotic, isn’t it? But you’re right, Brideswell and Marlowe do impress those who care about such things, and I’ve used that in the cause.” He poured Hal more tea. “If anything goes amiss, however, Jane can’t stay here. You’ll get her back to England, won’t you?”
“Amiss?”
“I still have to meet McArthur.”
“Dammit.” Then Hal said, “If he fired, precise adherence to the code gives you a shot.”
“I couldn’t demand such a thing. It’s a wonder my pistol didn’t go off, too. So, you’ll take care of Jane?”
“Of course, but I’ll be annoyed to do so without you along. Where do I take her?”
“To Brideswell, of course.”
“Will she, nill she?”
“There’s nowhere else. She has no family I know of other than a brother of Isaiah’s who’s a butcher. That’s hardly suitable for my widow. I know it’ll be awkward. . . .”
“An understatement.”
“But I need to know she’ll be safe.”
“I’ll see to her comfort.”
Simon understood that Hal was reserving the right to make his own judgment and appreciated it. “Thank you. There’s something else.”
“Just as long as it isn’t another woman.”
Simon laughed. “No, but perhaps trickier. My papers.” He explained what he had and what he hoped to do with them. “If McArthur knows enough to want to kill me, he’ll want to destroy the evidence as well.”
“Then I’ll make very sure they get into the right hands. Stephen will know the best people.”
Simon nodded. He’d followed from afar their friend Sir Stephen Ball’s rise in politics.
Hal put down his teacup. “So, what needs doing now? I travel with two servants. Reliable men. Ex-soldiers. It looks as if extra hands will be useful.”
Simon wondered if the phrase “extra hands” had been used deliberately. There must be many things Hal could no longer do for himself. “It feels as if everything needs doing. Right now, I need to buy my wife a wedding ring, but I don’t care to leave the house unguarded.”
“Then I’ll stay. Is there nothing useful I can do while on guard duty?”
Simon looked around the room. “Would you go through the drawers here? Isaiah tossed anything and everything into them, but there might be money or important items.”
“Very well.” Hal rose and walked closer to the framed picture that hung over the fireplace. “This is a rather a good drawing, and that’s your wife, isn’t it, when younger? With her mother?”
“Yes.”
Simon had grown used to the picture, but he studied it anew. It had probably been drawn about three years ago, which was a long time at Jane’s age.
In the picture, her breasts were smaller, but her cheeks rounder. Her pale dress had a girlish simplicity but enough ribbons and frills to make it completely unlike the clothes she wore here. She wore her hair as she did today, simply tied back.
She stood by the chair in which Martha Otterburn sat in widow’s clothing, looking a lot like Isaiah. His strength and kindness showed there, but also a stiffness he’d never had. From all accounts, Martha Otterburn had been a conventional woman. She’d refused to travel to Canada when widowed, even though Isaiah had urged her to, promising her a grand life here. She’d replied that her daughter was a lady and she wasn’t bringing her to live among savages in a forest.
It was hard to see any resemblance between mother and daughter, but then Jane strongly resembled her Scottish father. She had brought an oil portrait of Archibald Otterburn, which hung in her bedroom. It showed similar features and identical coloring, though his hair was thin and receding.
“Drawn by Jane’s cousin,” Simon said. “Nan, I think the name was. Some orphan connection of Jane’s father who was adopted by Martha as a child. She took ill and died on the way over. Sad case, for she and Jane were almost the same age and like sisters.”
“She had a remarkable gift.”
“Especially as she could only have been fifteen or so when she drew that.”
Hal turned from the picture. “Too much thought of wasteful death. Off you go. I’ll ransack the drawers while keeping any other pillagers at bay.”
Simon knew it was a pledge of all-encompassing help and support and gripped Hal’s arm briefly before leaving.
He went to Klengenboomer, York’s only jeweler, but the portly man was apologetic. “Wedding rings are generally made to order, sir, or sent for from Montreal. I could make one by tomorrow afternoon. . . .”
“My wife needs one before the funeral.”
“I see, sir. Excuse me a moment.”
Klengenboomer went into a back room and returned with a small tray containing six rings. “Sometimes people find it necessary to sell.”
“A pawned wedding ring?” Simon asked in revulsion.
The jeweler shrugged. “Perhaps a loan until I can make a better, sir?”
For some reason switching about revolted Simon even more.
He’d wanted a grand ring to counterbalance the unfortunate situation, but these were all thin and worn. Only a desperate woman would part with her wedding ring, or a desperate man sell that of his dead wife. Some ring was better than none, however, so he chose the one most likely to fit.
What, however, could be more ill-omened than this wedding day?
Except for the news about Dare. That could outweigh all the rest.
He paused to consider other jewelry. He’d never seen Jane wear anything other than plain hoops in her ears and a gold cross around her neck, but his wife should have more than that. Unfortunately, he had little money in hand. He’d been spending heavily on gathering evidence and assisting those Indians who were in the worst state.
Hoping Hal had cash to lend, he bought a pretty silver brooch set with amethysts and a pair of pearl earrings. Sober ornaments, but even so, this wasn’t a day for gifts. He’d give them to her at the right moment.
He returned to Trewitt House, preparing for an encounter with his wife.
In many ways he was pleased with Jane, but neither of them had wanted this marriage, and she did not have the background his family and friends—his world—would expect. He could see how it shouldn’t matter, but facts don’t dissolve because we wish them to. Even in America, with its republican principles and its declaration that all men are born equal, many families wouldn’t welcome a girl from a shop.
But Jane was his wife now. Till death did them part. Presumably at some point they must share a bed, join their bodies, attempt to produce children. That was the purpose of marriage, after all. It created a painful band of tension around his head.
The kitchen only made that worse. It was hot, crowded, and full of the aroma of the baked goods piling up on every surface. The two buxom young women must be Mrs. Gunn’s granddaughters. One was very clearly with child.
There were biscuits, tarts, and pies enough for a hungry army.
Jane was lifting small cakes onto a wire rack. Despite the ribbon, hair straggled ov
er her red face and she looked glazed with exhaustion, grief, or both.
His to take care of.
But also as earthy as baking bread . . .
As soon as she’d dealt with the last cake, he said, “Come with me, please, Jane.”
Because he was fighting improper thoughts, he spoke harshly. Her eyes turned wary, which struck him like ice water.
He was careful to speak softly and gently. “You will want to tidy yourself and sit with your uncle for a while, I think.”
He saw her almost sag with relief. “Oh, yes.”
Had she thought he was going to drag her off to the marriage bed?
As she unpinned her apron, he took her dark blue cloak off a hook. When she was ready, he put it around her shoulders and escorted her out. Her cheeks were still rosy, her hair still wild. Was it only his imagination that she smelled like a sweet, spiced bun? Shamefully, he wanted to lick her.
He produced the ring. “It’s not as fine as I would like, and it may not fit . . .”
She looked down at her left hand and dusted off flour and crumbs. “I should have washed.”
He hesitated between giving her the wedding ring and putting it on her finger as he had his signet during the ceremony. Clearly it had to be the latter. He took her left hand and slid the ring on. “A little loose, I’m afraid.”
She touched it, sliding it up and down as if it were a puzzle. “String beneath will hold it snug. And perhaps I’ll grow plump, eating all those funeral cakes.”
They shared a smile that seemed remarkable, for it did not deny a jot of their shared grief while affirming the universal truth that life goes on.
“This is a strange situation, Jane, but we must give the appearance that we intended this and that Isaiah merely hastened it.”
“I suppose so.”
There had to be words to ease this moment. “I’m not unhappy with our marriage. I admire much about you.” How feeble.
She looked neither disappointed nor amused, but rather stricken. That looming marriage bed.
“Jane, you mustn’t imagine that I wish to rush.” This was a damnably awkward subject to discuss with an innocent young lady. “What I mean is, there will be no need for us to share a bed for a while.”
