The Rogue's Return

by Jo Beverley

  Jancy sighed. If only that were true.

  The funeral rites did bring some good news. Jancy overheard Lieutenant Governor Gore mention to the room in general that McArthur had unfortunately been obliged to travel west to deal with unrest near Amherstburg. Jancy hoped it was violent unrest and McArthur was caught in the cross fire.

  Mrs. Gunn had returned to the kitchen, so when Simon urged Jancy to lie down and rest, she took the escape offered. She’d done her duty by Isaiah, and if the men wanted to get drunk, talk business, or both, she was happy to leave them to it. Except that being alone and idle left too much space for thought.

  To escape that she began to go through her room, sorting out what she would take back to England. Nearly everything she’d brought, of course. Jane’s drawings. The locket holding a coil of Aunt Martha’s graying hair, to which she’d added a wisp of Jane’s rich coppery gold.

  Strangely, she’d never prayed to Martha and Jane as she’d prayed to Isaiah today, so she knelt and did so, begging their forgiveness for any sins and asking for their guidance. A sweet feeling of peace crept over her. It was Jane, she knew. Sweet, loving Jane, and she could almost feel her stroking her hair.

  It’s all right, Nan. Truly. You did what seemed best at the time, and I will watch over you. I suppose you’d like me to call you Jancy—

  “No,” Jancy said aloud, startling herself out of a kind of trance.

  The powerful sense of Jane’s presence fled, but the effect lingered. “Oh, Jane, love, be with me. Help me. But call me Nan. To you, I’m Nan. Always.”

  If anyone heard her they’d think her mad. She crawled up on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  When she woke, she was crusty eyed and misty headed, but she felt better. For almost a year she’d been confused and afraid, but now everything seemed clear. She would be Simon’s helpmeet as he sorted out Isaiah’s affairs and arranged their journey back to England. But as soon as they landed, before he took her to his home, she would tell him the truth.

  The whole truth.

  Even the Haskett part.

  The fact that he’d thought he was marrying a different person had to invalidate the marriage, so he’d be free to return to his home unburdened.

  She changed into one of her plain dresses and white caps. When she arrived downstairs the house seemed empty except for three of Mrs. Gunn’s relatives cleaning up. They were even chattering, though they fell silent when she appeared.

  The wake was over. Life must go on. But the transition seemed painfully abrupt. Death one day, burial the next, and then onward. Perhaps mourners should be offered a formal period to become adjusted, as a married couple was allowed a honeymoon. A “bittermoon,” she named the idea, but that described too well her situation—honeymooning amid grief.

  She heard Simon’s voice from the parlor and her heart moved. It really did feel like that. Not quite a dance. More like a devoted puppy quivering with excitement at its master’s voice. She composed herself and entered to find Simon with Hal.

  “We have an offer for the house, with all contents we wish to leave.” He looked braced for objection. “Gilbraith.”

  It did feel rather like vultures gathering, but she smiled. “One less thing to do, then. Don’t worry, Simon. I’ve lived here less than a year, and all I really cared about is dead.” Hastily she added, “Apart from you, of course. And you don’t come with the house. I mean,” she said desperately, “I don’t have the attachment to this house that I had to my home in Carlisle.”

  “I understand, Jane. Well, back to work.”

  Perhaps they all seized eagerly on that sanctuary.

  Hal Beaumont tried to excuse himself from dinner, but both Simon and Jancy urged him to stay. She knew why. They didn’t want to be alone. After the meal they played a game of dominoes in memory of Isaiah, who’d been fond of the simple game and treasured his ebony and ivory set.

  “This must go home with us,” she said and then wondered if she would be allowed to keep it after the parting. Isaiah hadn’t left his possessions to her, but to Jane.

  She probably looked distressed, for Simon said, “You must be very tired, Jane.”

  Hal again rose to take his leave, but she smiled and told him to stay and then left the men together. There was no question of going anywhere but to her own room, but once there, she stood, hands clasped in anxiety. Simon had said they’d wait to consummate the marriage, but he wouldn’t wait forever. What was she going to do if—when—he came to her bed? If they were to break the marriage, they mustn’t . . . swive, the Hasketts called it.

  That was a battle for another day, however, and Simon had been correct. She was unbelievably tired. She undressed, washed, and went to bed.

  Chapter Seven

  After breakfast the next morning, Simon said, “I have to attend the inquest, but later, we should deal with Isaiah’s room. There are bequeathed items that must be in there.”

  Hal hadn’t arrived yet, and Jancy could see that Simon dreaded the task as much as she did. “I’ll do it if you want.”

  “No, we’ll do it together.”

  “The inquest won’t cause any problems, will it? To do with the duel?”

  “I don’t expect so. Baldwin will speak to Isaiah’s health. As for circumstances, Saul Prithy told him about the duel and then left to get Isaiah’s horse. By the time he returned it was all over. I’m sorry you had to find him, Jane, but I don’t think they’ll require your testimony.”

  “I’d rather not relive it.”

  “Then you won’t.” He pressed her shoulder as he went out.

  She busied herself with the repetitive task of writing death announcements for distant people, but when Simon returned, she looked at him anxiously.

  “Brief and routine. Death by accident. Now we should deal with his room.”

  She rose and went to him. He took her hand as they went upstairs, and the warm touch, skin to skin, was both comfort and torture.

  “This is going to be worse than the funeral,” she said outside the door. “A more absolute farewell.”

  “Yes.” He opened the door and they went in.

  But the cold room felt nothing like Isaiah any longer, not even with the rumpled bed and abandoned nightshirt. Perhaps the absence of his special treasures was the symbol that he had gone. All the same, the room was still full of his belongings.

  “Where in heaven’s name do we start?” Jancy asked.

  “You don’t have to do this, Jane. Treadwell and Oglethorpe can help me.”

  “No. I want to.” She looked around. “We’ll go through the room systematically, emptying all the drawers and cupboards.”

  “Very well. Anything bequeathed on one pile. Things you or I wish to keep on another. Anything of value that we don’t want on a third to be sold. Other items . . .”

  Thrown away hung in the air.

  “Reverend Strachan,” she said. “For the poor. It’s surprising what can be of use to the desperate.”

  He smiled. “Thank you. Yes.”

  She straightened the bed and then started on the chest of drawers. The first drawer, full of breeches, had her at a loss. “None of these will fit you.”

  “And are not really my style.”

  She looked at him, startled into a laugh that she smothered with her hand. “I suppose not. But what do we do with them?”

  “Reverend Strachan, I assume.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”

  “I know.”

  They worked steadily and in silence, though Jane frequently blew her nose. Sometimes they’d pause for a memory, so a memorial of Isaiah was woven between them as they worked. Perhaps something else was created, too. Jancy realized that they had never before been alone for so long, and here their shared love for Isaiah Trewitt was intimate and profound.

  Often their eyes met, and she was sure he, like she, knew that no one else could understand these things as the other did. Once, coming across a lock of blond hair in a
fold of yellowed paper, they wondered whose it was, what loss it marked. They held hands as they accepted that the only thing to do was put it aside to be burned.

  Simon raised her hand to his lips before returning to work. She pretended to move on to the next drawer, but she stroked the place where he’d kissed and tried to calm a rapid heart.

  Moment by moment she was rebelling against fate. Something powerful existed here. Something glorious. Why should she have to shatter it and live forever in the desert? Why couldn’t she respond to the message in Simon’s eyes and let him kiss her mouth, let him take her to his bed and seal their union once and for all?

  She picked up a bundle of letters absentmindedly but then gasped.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She wanted to hide the small bundle, but that was impossible now. “Letters. From . . . my mother.”

  She’d almost said “Aunt Martha”! What to do? “It’s so cold in here. If you’ll build a fire, I’ll get a light.”

  She dashed out and into her room, guiltily aware that Simon would think her crying over sorrowful memories instead of shivering with panic and fear. Her hands shook as she unfolded the first letter to skim the contents. It was an early one, from before Martha’s marriage. She put it aside and unfolded the next.

  Though the letters covered nearly twenty years, there were only a dozen or so. More had been sent recently than in the distant past. Jancy hurried through them, looking for any sent around the time she’d gone to live with Martha.

  What had she told her brother?

  There. Written in September 1808.

  As Jancy had feared, Martha had told Isaiah everything. A filthy Haskett had produced a little girl who was so like dear Jane that the woman’s story had to be true.

  Jancy read through a full half page about Martha’s struggle to forgive her dead husband for his sin. She paused to appreciate that her foster mother had never let that struggle affect her kindness.

  Martha went on to explain her stratagem. Perhaps her distant brother had been the only person to whom she felt she could be honest.

  Even though I detest all lies, Brother, the girl will be known as Nan Otterburn, an orphan of the Otterburn family. Pray God forgive me the deceit and protect us from discovery.

  For a moment Jancy thought that Isaiah had always known the truth about her, but then she realized not. He’d thought her to be Jane, and this Nan Haskett dead on the high seas.

  She put that letter aside and continued. After that one revelation Martha never again referred to Hasketts, and Jancy was “dear Nan” or more often one of “my dear girls.” Tears flowed then, and she had to struggle not to cry all over the precious sheets. What a good woman Martha had been.

  The last letter was the one written in wandering handwriting when Martha was ill, asking her brother’s kindness for “my dear girls.” Jancy remembered Jane offering to write it for her mother, but Martha insisting on writing it herself. Now she saw why.

  They are both good girls, Brother, and I most particularly ask that you forget what I once wrote about Nan’s origins. If I had ever expected to come to this I would not have told you. Nan is a little bolder than Jane, a little more impulsive in her ways, but I promise you there is no Haskett contamination in her soul. She is a good girl and I beg that you will treat her as you do your true niece Jane.

  Jancy clutched the letters, hating that she was going to have to destroy them, but she must. Only look how Martha on her deathbed had worried about her Haskett blood.

  Contamination.

  Then she realized that she didn’t have to destroy them all. There was nothing anywhere to reveal that she was Nan, not Jane, and only a couple that spoke of the deeper shame. They would have to go.

  She hated to do it. She sobbed as she did it. But she put the two letters on the fire and watched to be sure that they disappeared entirely into ashes.

  There. The Haskett contamination was gone.

  She slipped the remaining letters into her desk then used the tongs to take a burning piece of wood to Isaiah’s room to light the fire that Simon had made. Soon it was burning brightly warming and cheering the room as they completed the task.

  He didn’t comment on her lengthy absence, but Jancy was wound tight with dread of finding something else that would betray her. She took an opportunity to look inside Isaiah’s Bible to be sure he hadn’t recorded family there. Nothing, and he wasn’t the sort to keep a diary or copies of replies he had sent to his sister.

  But when Simon said, “Ah, look,” she started as if jabbed.

  He was only handling a cumbersome ancient pistol. He put it on the pile to keep and they continued with their task.

  Simon hated stripping Isaiah’s room, but it was a healing ritual. A final farewell. He was sorry Jane had found letters that opened old wounds, but she seemed to have recovered. They’d both be better away from here, however, and on their way to a new life.

  Together.

  In England.

  That prospect seemed more promising by the moment.

  Her neat, graceful movements around the room and even her composure soothed him. Their shared memories were a treasure. With whom else would he be able to talk about Isaiah? With whom else could he hold hands in just that way?

  When he’d kissed her knuckles, a wave had passed through him that he might have dismissed as lust but had known was a deeper longing. A dangerous longing, when he was resolved to return her to England a virgin, with some possibility of freedom.

  When they’d finished with the room, he arranged for the items as they’d agreed, and she went to summon the servants to give it a thorough cleaning. This became the pattern for their busy days. He sorted out Isaiah’s business and property. She helped, but also organized an attic to cellar cleaning of the house. It seemed important to her to leave it spotless for Gilbraith and his family.

  He supposed it was important to him to leave Isaiah’s business affairs in order.

  Even though Gilbraith was willing to buy the furniture and fittings, and Gore had sent a clerk called John Vincent to oversee the inventory, there was still a mountain of work to hide in. Thank God Hal stayed to dine every night. But every night eventually Hal left them alone in the house and Simon’s mind turned to lust.

  Jane still wore her prim caps, but now that he knew the hair they confined, they were more tantalizing than protective. From a few brief embraces, he knew the shape of her body and its soft, warm allure. Her subtle perfume tormented him with wicked thoughts of meadow pleasures.

  He wasted time looking at her, and sometimes she caught him at it. He probably blushed. She certainly did, looking even prettier, and flustered, and shy—and desirable.

  Now and then he’d remember the lurking threat that McArthur would return to complete the duel, but he couldn’t seem to give that the weight he should. Instead he lay awake at night wondering why he wasn’t making love to his wife.

  There was the issue of annulment, but that felt less important every day. Jane was gracious, intelligent, hardworking, efficient, and beautiful. Hal liked her. Hal’s menservants seemed to adore her. What more could any man want?

  He was not arrogant enough to assume she must want to remain married to him, but the look in her eye, the way she blushed, even the way she moved sometimes suggested that she did. There was certainly no hint of dislike or disgust.

  The main reason he didn’t court his wife into bed, the insurmountable reason, was that he still wasn’t sure that he loved her. He wanted her, but was it more than lust?

  He was sure it was idiotic, but he needed to love his wife—any wife. To desire her, yes, but also to like her, to enjoy her company, to feel lessened when she was away. And to trust her.

  Which was the thorn on this rose.

  Despite all Jane’s glorious charms, there was something secretive and perplexing about her. He could never pin it down, but it was there. When he turned conversation to her past, to her family and home, she appeared to talk
about it, but he realized later that he’d learned very little. She was like a jeweled box, lovely but locked so that he had no idea what lay inside.

  He tried to talk to Hal about it. Jane was upstairs making an inventory of the household linens and deciding which to take with them for use on the journey. Treadwell and Oglethorpe were packing up Isaiah’s business papers to stay with Baldwin.

  Simon took his friend into the parlor and offered him wine. “Have you ever been in love, Hal?” The silence made him wince. “Sorry.”

  “I am in love.”

  Simon eyed him. “Tricky subject?”

  “You could say that. You never asked why I’m here.”

  “Escort duty, didn’t you say? We’ve been too busy to get into details. But I did think it odd that you’d undertaken a grueling two-month journey to the edge of the wilderness only to turn around and repeat it in the other direction.”

  Hal looked at his drink, swirling it. “I did it because the woman I love won’t marry me.” He looked up, smiling wryly. “I decided separation might bring her to her senses, but I knew I’d not be able to stay away. So I put an ocean and half a continent between us. And,” he added, finally sipping, “I miss her more than my damned arm.”

  Simon drank, too, wondering if the missing arm was the reason Hal’s beloved had rejected him. “Would I know the lady?”

  “Probably not, except by reputation. She’s an actress. Mrs. Blanche Hardcastle.”

  Simon almost choked.

  Nicholas Delaney kept him informed on Roguish matters, so he knew that when Lucien de Vaux had married, Hal had inherited his famous mistress, the White Dove of Drury Lane. He’d thought it excellent news—proof that Hal’s life had returned to normal.

  But he wanted to marry her?

  He managed, “Ah, yes, Nicholas wrote.”

  “Busy keeping everyone in the fold, whether they want to be or not.”

  Simon assessed the acid edge on Hal’s comment. “Has Nicholas been irritating you?”

  “Everyone is irritating me. Especially, at the moment, you. Why the devil are you asking about love?”