She dismissed the thought as nonsense saying earnestly as she ran her hands along the top of the Egyptian sofa, “I don’t know what you’ve heard but I am guilty of nothing other than being a party to the crimes committed at the Hollingsworths.”
When he didn’t immediately answer, merely stared at her with a look she was unable to fathom, she grew afraid. She studied him, listening to the wind rattling the windows and the clock ticking. As usual he was turned out with his usual care and attention to detail. The cut of his russet coloured coat emphasised his broad shoulders and he wore a new pair of hessians with brown leather tassels. Though he did not exude quite his usual air of studied calm — frowning instead at the amber knob of his cane which he twisted in his hands — he’d managed to coax his cravat into an Oriental tie of utter perfection. Cosmo would have been green with envy. Calling on such irrelevancies was the only way she could stop herself from weeping, or throwing herself into his arms and asking him why he’d not come back to her sooner.
He advanced several steps more steps and stopped, putting his head on one side as he gazed at her. There was such sadness and sympathy in his expression she felt her lip tremble but instead of a smile, the lines of his face remained grim. He cleared his voice. “Sarah,” he said, softly, “you know I don’t believe you guilty of impropriety. I’d only just returned home when I heard you’d fallen victim to the gossips.”
She waited for him to draw her into his arms. Her body ached for the closeness they’d once shared but she steeled herself against her old impulsiveness. She had to know he felt the same way she did.
He cleared his throat again. “When Mrs Hawthorne told me I came immediately.” Sarah saw the derision in his eye as he glanced at their surroundings. “I’ve come to make you an offer.”
She stared back at him. Shock and disappointment churned in her stomach. Where was the impassioned declaration of love, the hoarse avowals of his enduring passion, his confession of surrender to the feelings he realised he was unable to deny?
“An offer?” She cocked her head, devastation making her flippant. “To return to Larchfield as your governess?”
“Good God, Sarah, are you mad?” He sounded suddenly so much like the Roland she knew that she laughed, asking, “No, but I think you must be if you imagine I could be tempted by such an appalling proposal. It’s even worse than James’s offer only half an hour ago.”
It had not been the right response. The clenching of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes told that. Realisation crashed through her brain. Lord, his pride was as damaged as hers. She said, quickly to ameliorate the damage, “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you, Roland?” How she wished she’d never spoken those flippant, thoughtless, stupid words. It was no time to indulge in wounded dignity. Roland had almost just asked her to marry him and she wanted Roland more than she’d wanted anything in her life.
But the damage had been done. Desperate, she tried another gambit, pretending she didn’t notice his withdrawal, his clouded expression, the clenching of his jaw. “You came back to me, Roland, as I longed that you would. I did so hope you didn’t mean what you’d said in your letter.”
He managed a reluctant smile. “Of course I didn’t mean it, though you surely understood what prompted me.”
She looked enquiringly at him. Oh Lord, was his prickly pride really going to get in the way of all this? They’d come so far.
With a growl of exasperation he closed the distance between them only in as much as he gripped her elbows before releasing them in order to pace. “Good God, Sarah, of course you do. I lost any credible right to claim you as my wife the moment I opened my mouth and sacrificed you to Sir Richard.”
“Roland!” She followed him to where he had taken refuge with an Egyptian armchair between them. Desperate to bridge the final distance, she whispered unsteadily, “If you believe that, you’re only playing into Sir Richard’s hands. Surely it’s what I think that matters?” She reached out to touch him. Though he looked warily at her hand as she rested the flat of her palm against his chest he did not move away.
She craned her neck up to meet his anguished gaze. “Sir Richard set out to humiliate you. If that is how you feel, if it is humiliation that now prevents you from seeking what you want, then victory is his.”
With a soft groan, Roland crushed her hand within both of his and brought it to his lips. “I’ve told myself the same thing, over and over,” he whispered, his hot breath sending shivers of longing through her. “It’s the knowledge of my weakness, my undeservedness, that’s kept me from returning to you all those days and nights of wanting you so badly I thought I’d lose my mind.”
For a brief moment she had dared hope, but his tortured expression stripped all that away. Too much still stood between them. She could see it in the rawness of his continued humiliation, his refusal to forgive himself. She had no words for the pain that sliced through her.
“Sarah, don’t you see?” He clenched her hand so tightly it hurt. “I uttered the words that surrendered you to him, I made the choice to deliver you to horrors undreamt of. I have to live with that every day of my life.”
“You were forced, Roland.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “By knifepoint.” She took a deep breath for courage and tentatively rested her head against his chest, melding her body against his, hoping to coax the loving softness from him for which she longed.
He averted his head, but stopped short of pushing her away.
“Roland, you came here to make me an offer—” She pressed herself closer, raising her head.
He looked down at her. There was longing in his expression but still he resisted the invitation implicit in her pleading eyes, her pouting mouth.
“Captain Fleming is a good man,” he said, gruffly, setting her away from him. In ten years you’re far more likely to still be happy in a steady, reliable alliance with a man you’re fond of than you would with me.”
“Nonsense!” she cried, reaching up to clasp her hands behind his neck. “You know I’ve loved you, wanted you since I first came to Larchfield.” She was not yet ready to give up. If he could just accept that she did not share his fears. “You feel the same, I know you do.” She raised her head, offered him her lips, but these gestures seemed only to increase his anguish and harden his resolve.
“Sarah,” he ground out, “I owe you my life. Do you know how worthless that makes me feel after what I’ve done to you? Fleming has come to your rescue. If you love me, you must not hold me to the hasty and inferior offer I made you when I entered this room.” A muscle worked at the corner of his mouth. Sighing, he ran his hand across his eyes. “If you marry Captain Fleming you’ll please your father. It’s a sensible match. He’s open and honest and holds you in the greatest affection.” He dropped his eyes, adding in tortured tones as he turned away from her, “I can only be a constant reminder of the horrors you do battle with every day.”
A heavy, stifling lethargy crept upon her. He was resolved. Nothing she could do or say would change his mind. Dully, she asked, “Or is it that you cannot gaze at me, Roland, without being reminded of what I was in Sir Richard’s hands? Perhaps it is not your humiliation that stands between us. Perhaps I am the constant reminder.”
Defeated, she stepped back. It was like stepping out of the life embodied by all her dreams and hopes, and into another. One she didn’t want, at all.
Silently, they stared at one another.
“I love you, Sarah.” His voice was clear and direct, only the whiteness of his knuckles clenching the top of his cane betrayed the depth of his emotion. “But when a man more worthy than I is willing to offer you comfort, security and affection, I refuse to stake my claim.” Bowing, he turned.
Sarah watched him through a sheen of tears. “I marry James in six weeks,” she said, brokenly as his hand gripped the doorknob. “If you change your mind before then” — she exhaled on a shuddering breath — “I will be waiting.”
Roland stumbled into the street. S
elf disgust clawed at him. How could he have imagined they had a future in view of all that had happened? Weaving his way through the traffic, He made blindly in the direction of St James. Passers-by jostled him, a dirty-faced boy in a greasy cap and coat too big for him tried to beg a penny. He was oblivious to everything but the pain that sliced through that treacherous, fallible organ, his heart.
“Have I got summat to tickle yer fancy!”
Roland stepped around the lightskirt who sought to detain him with an insinuating pout and thrust of her skinny bosom. Head down he continued towards Whites, his Club, intent upon burying his sorrows in a news-sheet.
An insistent tug of the sleeve made him look up in irritation. An instant later recognition dawned.
“Kitty!”
Smiling, she took his arm. “Right glad I am to see yer got yer colour back, sir. Thought you was bound for your eternity box, I did, and that’s the truth!”
“It was a close thing.”
“Yer still look as if you could do with a mite cheering up.”
Garnering his wits and his manners, he smiled apologetically, in a strange way glad of the diversion. “I’m afraid I’m not in the market, Kitty,” he said, adding quickly at her crestfallen look, “although if I were, I’d definitely court your kind offices.” His gaze skimmed the length of her, from her glossy brown hair and bright eyes to the boots in need of mending which peeped from beneath her tawdry lilac gown. “So you’ve gone out on your own, have you? Escaped that evil den of vice and bondage?”
She frowned as she digested this, her hand still on his sleeve. “Didn’t I tell you I signed a piece of paper wot gives Mrs Hollingsworth rights over me person ’til I’ve paid her back in full? That ain’t fer another three years or more. After that she says she’ll ’elp me set up on me own.”
“Then you’re not unhappy with the Hollingsworths?”
“Lord, I’d leave tomorrow if I weren’t obliged to ’em!”
“Why don’t you just leave, now?”
Kitty looked at Roland as if he were queer in the attic. “And get sent to Newmarket for me pains? The law ’ud be onto me in no time. Weren’t you listening?”
“I daresay they’ve come to rely upon your trusting nature,” Roland said, ironically.
“Young Mr Hollingsworth gives me special leave, s’long as I give him ’arf wot I earns in the street. The rest I gets to keep meself. The missus don’t know, it’s just his and my little arrangement and it ain’t arf bad. I’ll be able to set myself up right and proper, just like me friend, Queenie Featherlove, once I’s paid me debt.”
Kitty batted her eyelashes and squeezed his arm. “Come along, sir. Just for old times’ sakes, eh?”
“And have half your earnings line young Mr Hollingsworth’s pockets? Thank you, Kitty, but no.”
“On the ’ouse, sir. It ’ud be a pleasure.” She cocked her head and looked at him, coyly. “Ain’t every day I gets to pleasure a gennulman o’ me choice. Tells yer wot - there ain’t many what are as ’andsome and obliging as yerself.”
Roland gave her a wry smile. Then thrusting his hands into his pockets he withdrew, to Kitty’s wide-eyed amazement, a pound note. “Why don’t you give that to your friend Queenie Lovelyfeather or whatever her name is, for safe keeping on your behalf. If she’s what you aspire to, she’s obviously doing something right. If you don’t trust her, then keep it in a safe place until you need it.”
Kitty took the note from him and rubbed it against her cheek, eyes closed in rapture. “I ain’t never had a pound note afore, sir,” she breathed before letting out a regretful sigh. “Contrary to expectations, poor Queenie ain’t in no position to ’elp me, sir, since you might be interested to know she’s got fiddle-stick’s end of the bargain with our old friend, Sir Richard. It might make yer feel better to know he ain’t just into trickin’ coves what’s got money. Although ’es done plenty more of ’em than just you, sir, and that’s the truth!”
Roland’s first inclination was to wince at the name, his next was to ask, carefully, “Sir Richard did the dirty on a deal with your friend? How was that?”
“Oh, all sorts,” said Kitty, warming to her theme. “Queenie’s a perticular favorite with a lot of the fancy coves, but she’s the only one Sir Richard’ll see. They had some kind o’ ’rangement, only he’s gone an’ diddled her … feathered ’is nest at ’er expense, so she ain’t about to set ’erself up, after all.”
Sadly, Kitty handed back the pound note. “So it’ll just line young Mr Hollingsworth’s pocket, after all, sir and I ain’t got nowhere safe to keep it.”
Roland folded the note and put it back in his pocket, looking thoughtful. Then he took Kitty’s arm and began leading her towards a dark, narrow laneway which led off the main thoroughfare.
“Perhaps poor Queenie can realize her ambitions, after all, Kitty,” Roland said, smiling into her questioning brown eyes, “with you well rewarded in the process.”
Chapter Nineteen
“THE WHITE LUTESTRING is more appropriate, Caro, dear.”
Mrs Hawthorne put down her needlework and leaned back in her armchair with a complacent little smile as she surveyed Caro’s choice of gowns for her grand come-out ball in a few days’ time.
“The ruby velvet is more becoming to my complexion,” Caro protested as she caressed the gown’s lustrous folds. It was draped, together with the white lutestring, over the arm of a chair in the drawing room of their London townhouse.
Though she had no intention of wearing scarlet, she was going to have to use all her wiles to avoid being forced to wear the white, which made her look even more sallow.
“Imagine wearing ruby velvet for a come-out ball! That sounds like something your mother would have done!”
Caro gritted her teeth as she gazed longingly at the dress in question. She thought it made her look more striking than she had ever looked.
She turned to her aunt. “And she’d have put everyone else in the shade! Insipid pastels make me look like I’m permanently suffering the ague,” she grumbled, adding under her breath, “Sometimes I wonder if that’s your intention.” With a sigh she began to pace between the deep bay window and the fireplace then stopped to look out into the sunlit street. “Lady Sarah,” she said defiantly, though with a wary look at her aunt, “says I need vibrant colours to ensure I’m noticed and that, surely, is the purpose of a coming-out ball.”
Mrs Hawthorne dropped her cross-stitch and stared, open-mouthed. “How dare you mention the name of that disgraceful … imposter?” she snapped. “If it were not bad enough that she impersonated a dead woman — or, at least, someone she thought was dead — in order to draw you girls dangerously under her influence, her recent disgrace has rendered her unacceptable to polite society. I doubt you will be seeing her at any respectable event this season.”
Caro’s eyes flashed. “Lady Sarah is a victim of injustice and the gossips. Since it is my understanding that the purpose of my come-out is to secure a husband, something I may do within six months, I believe I’m adult enough to speak as I choose.”
This time Mrs Hawthorne’s eyes flashed. The flowers adorning her bonnet swayed menacingly as she leant forward. “Don’t answer back, young lady! You are not out, yet! Roland, what have you been teaching your child?” she asked, as the master of the house entered the room, looking for some mislaid article. “Once I pooh-poohed your fears she would turn out like Venetia. Now she is the spitting image!”
Roland sighed, pausing at the escritoire in which he had been rummaging. Cecily was clearly very angry and he had not the energy for tact.
“Caro is as far from being like Venetia as is possible – with regard to Venetia’s venal points to which I presume you allude, my dear Cecily.” He looked at her, a warning in his voice. “Nor have I ever feared she was in danger of inheriting her mother’s less than commendable traits. The only difference between now and a year ago is that Caro understands her own mind.” He nodded. “Please excuse me.”
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br /> Gaining the sanctuary of his study he stood by the French doors that stood open to the gardens and remembered the times he’d gazed upon Sarah taking a walk with the children along the path that led to the woods.
He might not have been able to save her from her indignities at Sir Richard’s hands but at least he was no longer wallowing in the self disgusted lethargy that had plagued him during the months he had been in Switzerland with Caro.
After a lifetime spent fighting for justice for the disenfranchised, he was now fighting for justice for Sarah.
Revenge is a dish best served cold. He smiled. He had done his homework and laid his trap carefully. Sir Richard had acted with impunity for long enough; but he had not chosen his victims wisely.
Roland just wished Sarah would be around to witness the villain’s impending fall from grace.
Caro wore a cream dress with a red velvet sash and three rows of red roses around the hem. It was a small victory but a victory, nevertheless.
She stared at her reflection in amazement. Even Aunt Cecily had marvelled over her transformation. The old termagant didn’t need to know that the brightness of her eyes and complexion had enjoyed a little help from Tincture of Roses and Olympian Dew.
Long-ago gifts from Sarah, and unappreciated at the time, they had come into their own, now. Nearly a year older, and a century wiser, Caro was determined to shine. It wasn’t that she yearned for romance. In fact, right now she was decidedly wary of it although Mr Hollingsworth and Sir Richard were rooted firmly in her past. Having survived the ordeal she had been made stronger. She would never be a victim again.
She also intended to have her independence and follow her intellectual leanings – interests which hadn’t been dampened by recent experiences. She remembered Lady Sarah’s words: ‘Marriage gives a woman status and independence the unmarried woman might never attain. A girl must just choose the right husband’.
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