by Brenda Joyce
Blanche’s heart sped. “Was that Sir Rex’s regiment?”
“That is what Mr. Farrow believes.”
Blanche felt a moment of excitement, followed by a moment of doubt. Margaret’s husband might know what haunted Sir Rex. On the other hand, Sir Rex might not care to have any discussion of the war at his supper table. She knew she must proceed with great caution. “I will plan an evening, if I can,” she said frankly. “May I call you Margaret?”
“Oh! Please, do!”
“But do caution Mr. Farrow. Sir Rex does not care for talk of the war.”
“Yes, I will advise him.”
A moment later, the two women parted company. As there was still no sign of Sir Rex, or any miners on the street, Blanche decided to proceed to the church. She wasn’t sure how she would get Sir Rex to agree to a small supper affair, but she was going to introduce him to the Farrows, one way or another. He might claim he liked living in complete isolation, but it was not conducive to his welfare, not in any way. Blanche had never so boldly interfered in anyone’s life before. It was not her nature. Bess and Felicia would be shocked to know what she was planning. But she had never been more certain that what she was doing was right for Sir Rex.
Blanche had reached the small walk leading to the old stone church. And as she arrived at the front door, she heard many voices, raised and heated, arguing at once. Tension assailed her.
A huge debate raged inside. She told herself not to worry—a fervent discussion was probably common in a village meeting. She really wouldn’t know, as she had never been to a village meeting of any kind. She did not especially like crowds. She had fainted at a May Day festival when she was eight years old, and at a circus a year later, and she had avoided raucous crowds—common crowds—ever since. But that had been a long time ago.
It was silly to feel uncertain now. Besides, she was very curious about the meeting—and about Sir Rex’s part in it.
But from inside, someone started shouting and he was angry.
Blanche froze, suddenly afraid. The desire to turn and flee was instantaneous and overwhelming. And for one second, she recalled waking up at that May Day celebration, on the ground, in her father’s arms, surrounded by a dozen farmers and their wives, fear like talons inside her. She had experienced the exact same painful feeling of fear upon awakening after her swoon at the circus, too. Those claws were in her belly now.
She tried to shake it off. There was no cause for anxiety or even panic. It was only a meeting, she reminded herself. And she did not need to avoid crowds. She had never had a problem with the crowds in a ballroom or a museum. What was wrong with her?
And suddenly she was aware of the dark, unfocused images in her mind, images she had lived with for years, ignoring them the way castellans ignored castle ghosts. But the images weren’t dormant now. They were somehow demanding her attention, as if waving at her urgently, and she knew that these images were frightening and violent. Blanche felt a pain stab through her head.
What was happening? More panic began. Why did she have the terrible feeling that if she tried very hard, those images would finally become clear, after so many years of being indistinct? She had no interest in recalling that long-ago riot.
Then she heard Sir Rex speaking, calmly and quietly.
It was as if he had reached out and caught her before she fell, bringing her back to firm ground. She breathed. The clawing eased. He was a man anyone could depend on. She could certainly depend upon him now. She took a deep breath and walked up the steps and entered the end of the knave. How silly to think that the ghosts of over twenty years past might suddenly demand her attention.
Blanche glanced around. Perhaps fifty or more miners filled the church. It could not possibly be more crowded—every pew was filled and men stood in the aisles. Sir Rex stood with four other gentlemen before the altar. And the moment she espied him, he saw her, too, and their gazes met.
His surprise vanished, he smiled.
She smiled back, relieved. But it remained difficult to breathe.
And a dozen men began speaking at once. Blanche’s tension not only renewed itself, it escalated wildly. She glanced around at the passionate crowd. Instantly she knew she should not have come inside.
Those jumbled dark images now danced in her mind, as if about to come forward.
What was this? What was happening? She couldn’t breathe. There was no air. There was so much shouting!
Blanche felt faint. She had to escape this crowd. She reached blindly out, and her hand touched a wool-clad shoulder. She jerked away. Across the men, she looked for Sir Rex, trying not to give in to a severe panic.
“The shaft collapsed! He won’t tell ye, so I will! It bloody collapsed and it’s only God’s will that the last man was out!” someone shouted.
A dozen furious voices began shouting out in agreement.
The ground seemed to tilt wildly. Blanche knew she had to escape before she fell or swooned.
A hand closed on hers as she turned. She met a pair of pale eyes—and saw hatred there. She screamed. For the man was leering at her, about to seize her, and there was blood everywhere.
“Blanche!”
She fought to free herself. Chaos erupted. So many bodies, so many men, she pushed and shoved and turned, but was seized from behind. It was too much. They had taken Mama. Mama!
“Blanche!”
Blanche staggered against the wall, imprisoned by arms that would not let her go, looking wildly at the mob. Fists pounded the air. Features became blurred. Saliva dripped from teeth and gums. Pitchforks and shovels waved.
Somehow she pulled free. She tripped on the steps and fell into the street, rocks and gravel biting through her gloves and the skin of her cheeks. So much hatred and blood was everywhere, she was lying in it, and Mama was gone…
She fought to breathe but it was too late. The shadows loomed over her, shadows of violence and death—and then there was only darkness.
HE LET HER GO when he realized she was out of her mind. She ran from the church and fell down the steps. In horror, he rushed after her. The men knew him and parted instantly for him. He charged outside, at an impossible speed given his handicap, and somehow crashed down the stairs and landed on one knee at her side. “Blanche!”
Rex tossed the crutch aside, pulling her into his arms. She was as white as a sheet. Her cheek was scraped.
Fear joined the horror. He found her pulse and it was strong but much too rapid. “Blanche, wake up,” he said harshly.
“Sir Rex.”
He realized his foreman was handing him salts. He held them to her nostrils and she coughed instantly, her lashes fluttering. He embraced her more tightly, and as her eyes opened, he became aware of a terrible relief. “It’s all right,” he told her quietly. “You have fainted. Lie still for a moment.”
But it had been far more than that, he thought grimly. He had seen terror in her eyes.
Her blue-green eyes met his. Color began to return to her cheeks. Then she looked past him and he saw fear widen her gaze. He glanced up—every man from the assembly encircled them. “Stand back! She needs air.”
The men obeyed at once.
Blanche started to sit up; he helped her. “I fainted?” she asked hoarsely.
He became aware of how intimately they were entwined. In that moment, he didn’t care. He had never felt a fiercer need—and it was the urge to protect her. His grasp tightened. “It seems so. Sit still for another moment, please.”
She inhaled. “I am so sorry,” she began. And he saw a tear track down one cheek.
“Do not dare apologize now!” he cried. He glanced at his foreman, Jack Hardy. “Have the Harrington coach brought up.”
Hardy ran off to obey.
And although worried, he smiled reassuringly at her. “Rest for a moment. Please.” He removed the tear with the blunt tip of his forefinger.
She smiled weakly at him. “The church was so crowded. I couldn’t seem to breathe properly.”
He simply smiled. Every window had been open and there had hardly been a shortage of air. “Are you feeling better?”
She nodded; she looked better, as her coloring was now normal. “I am fine, really.”
He hesitated.
“Sir.” A miner held out his hand.
Rex slid his arm under Blanche and with the miner’s help, stood. Someone handed him his crutch, which he instantly leaned on. He refused to release Blanche. It was impossible not to be acutely aware of how small and slender and feminine she was, tucked against him. Was she claustrophobic?
She stared at him, and then at the men milling about the church. She seemed apprehensive and anxious, but of course, she smiled.
He knew her well enough now to know when her smiles were a pretense, aimed at him, to please him. “Blanche, do you faint often?”
“No.”
He did not like her reply. “I am going to summon Dr. Linney to Bodenick.”
“I am fine, Sir Rex.” She pulled away from him and he had to let her go. “Was it my imagination or was everyone so angry?”
He was surprised. “These discussions are usually heated. Every issue raised can be a matter of life and death. These men toil long and hard, usually for very little compensation. Yes, they are angry, and who can blame them?”
She shivered. “Will they hurt you?”
He did not understand. Was she afraid for his safety? “I pay my laborers well. I also keep my mines well lit and properly ventilated. The shafts are inspected every single week. I would rather lose profits than lives. I trust the men in my employ.”
She stared as if she could not decide whether to believe him or not.
He somehow smiled at her. “It was an assembly, Lady Blanche. It was a debate. We have never had a violent confrontation, not since I opened the Bodenick mines a half a dozen years ago. The whole point of these meetings is to avoid just such a conflagration.”
She shuddered again. “I thought violence was imminent,” she said, low. “I thought you might be in danger—that we both might. But I imagined it?”
He saw how distressed and uncertain she was. He would have never expected Blanche Harrington to come apart this way. He had wondered what could strip away the facade, but he had never expected it to be something like this. He did what would have been unthinkable a few days ago; he laid his hand on her shoulder and clasped it, hoping to reassure her. “You imagined it,” he said firmly.
She hesitated and he was aware that she was deciding whether to speak or not.
Do you have secrets that you wish to share?
She started, becoming pale.
That morning he had been very surprised to realize Blanche had a secret—or secrets. She was a perfect lady with a perfect life, and he would have never guessed. Was this her secret? Was she ashamed of her claustrophobia? For surely that was what it was.
The coach had paused on the street before the church. “You are distressed. I will ride back to Land’s End with you—if you do not mind.”
“Of course I do not mind. My coach is undoubtedly far more comfortable than the back of your horse.”
He smiled, when he was distressed. “I have always preferred the back of a good horse.”
Her smile fluttered, and it was insincere.
He helped her into the coach. When they were both seated inside the coach, his mount tied to the back, she said, “I am very sorry for causing you some alarm.”
“Do not apologize for a swoon!” he exclaimed.
She met his gaze very directly. “You do know I am not hysterical.”
“Of course I know that.” He wasn’t trying to be gallant. “I have never known a woman as level-headed as you, Blanche. You are graceful in every occasion.”
She studied him searchingly, as if what he thought mattered, and then she smiled and relaxed. She turned to gaze out of her window.
He gazed out of his window, too, determined to give her some more time to recover her composure. Something was wrong. It was more than the occasional fear of a crowded room. He sensed it with every fiber of his being and he was terribly concerned.
They left the last of the village houses behind, traveling now through the moors, which were currently treeless and bland, on both side of the highway. The village being inland, they would not see the coast for another half hour, at least. The silence in the coach remained tense and awkward, but he was determined not to break it. He hated insipid conversation anyway, and Blanche seemed as absorbed with her thoughts as he was with his.
She murmured, “The clouds are gathering. Will it rain?”
“Undoubtedly.” Instead of being irritated by her opening remark, he knew it was just that, an opening. Her next words proved him right.
“I owe you an explanation.” Her hands fluttered on her lap.
She didn’t—but he wanted one. It could wait, however. “Why don’t you rest until we get to Bodenick? We can speak later, when you are feeling better.”
Her cheeks were flushed. “You have told me your secrets. There is something I wish to tell you, too.”
He forced a negligent expression. “You need not reveal yourself. Blanche.” He was firm. “I am concerned that you fainted, but that hardly means you must bare your soul.”
“I am not claustrophobic,” she said harshly. “Have you not seen me at a half a dozen very crowded balls?” She barreled grimly on. “There is an issue, Sir Rex. But I hadn’t realized it remained. I haven’t fainted since I was nine years old.”
He stiffened. What was this about?
She looked at him. “You will think me mad.”
“I know you are not mad.” He could not begin to imagine what she was about to divulge.
“I dislike crowds because my mother died in a crowd when I was six years old.”
He hadn’t known. He sat up straighter. “I am sorry.”
“Balls don’t bother me—everyone is so pleasant at a ball.” She bit her lip. “I was with her. It was election day.”
He was instantly stunned—and horrified. For election days were often days of mayhem and violence. They were an excuse for angry, impoverished mobs to form and attack the well-to-do. On election day, Harmon House had its windows boarded up, as did every one of their neighbor’s. On election days, the innocent could be beaten, trampled to death, hanged. And the mobs did not discriminate between their own and the wealthy and privileged. Often the poorest were their victims, too.
Blanche smiled grimly. “Of course, I don’t remember. I don’t recall anything about the incident, or the day.”
“It is a blessing that you cannot recall your mother’s death!”
She suddenly met his gaze directly. “When I turned thirteen years old I asked Father for the truth. He said my mother tripped and fell, hitting her head so badly, death was instantaneous.” She shrugged, glancing past him now. “I do know there were many riots that day.”
He did not have to be brilliant to know that her father had lied to her. He knew Blanche knew it, too. He leaned forward, reaching for her hand. It was bold and untoward, but damn it, he didn’t care.
Her eyes widened as he clasped her palm. “What are you doing?”
He smiled. “I wish I had known. But your dislike and distrust of common crowds makes perfect sense.” He spoke lightly. “Leave the past in the past, which is where it belongs, as you cannot change it. And do not fear the miners, Blanche. They are good and respectable men—I swear. They mean no harm to you or me or anyone.”
She finally smiled.
He added seriously, “I would never let harm befall you.”
Their gazes locked.
“I believe you,” she said on a breath.
He became aware of the change in them both. She had confessed a very intimate detail of her life, allowing him a glimpse she had allowed to so few, just as he had done, perhaps without deliberation, last night and the afternoon of her arrival. A new and different bond had been forming between them, and it was becoming tan
gible now. It wasn’t just a bond of respect or admiration or friendship. And he was certain she was as aware of him as a man as he was of her as a woman.
No good could come of it.
He released her hand.
BLANCHE WAS RELIEVED when Meg left her, as Sir Rex had told the maid about the fainting spell and she had been fussing incessantly. Alone, a fire now warming the bedchamber, she went to the window and stared out at the ocean. The day had turned heavy and gray and she was certain it would soon rain.
She was uneasy. She wasn’t certain she should have told Sir Rex about the riot that had taken her mother’s life, but she hadn’t wanted him to think her a hysterical female. His admiration had become important to her. His friendship had become important to her. And why had she fainted, when she hadn’t fainted since she was nine years old? Had she really had that inkling that she might remember the riot, if she tried?
The incident in the church now bewildered her thoroughly. Why had she panicked as she had? And for one moment, before her spell, she had actually seen—or imagined—men waving pitchforks.
She didn’t want to remember anything about the day her mother had died. If that mob had welded pitchforks, she didn’t want to know. The monsters who inhabited the depths of her mind needed to remain buried there forever. She couldn’t understand why she had lost control, panicked and fainted. But she was in control now.
And Sir Rex didn’t seem to think any less of her for that silly episode. She had always been proud of her genteel nature. She would hate it if he thought of her as hysterical or frivolous.
By glancing to her right, she could see a part of the coastline curving into the ocean. The black cliffs were damp and glistening, soaring powerfully high, while the ocean frothed and pounded the shore, the currents deep and dangerous. In a way, Sir Rex belonged here, she thought. He was as powerful as the ocean, as strong as the rocks, and his character had the same hidden depths. Who would have ever imagined him to be so kind and gentle?
So much had happened since her arrival the other day, she thought. Her heart no longer felt like the smooth glasslike surface of an iced-over pond; it sped and leaped and lurched in anticipation, confusion, distress, dismay and even happiness and desire. Blanche smiled at the window and hugged herself. It was a bit frightening to be so off balance, to race through so many emotions, but she didn’t want to go back to that safe place where she used to dwell, either. She wasn’t certain how this miracle had happened, and she was beginning to think she owed this miracle to Sir Rex.
