by Sophia Nash
Clarissa held her tongue, though Jane was certain her aunt longed to chastise her for writing letters to unrelated gentlemen. Clarissa’s arguments against her plan had had no effect. Jane reflected that following the rules of the ton had brought little happiness to either one of them.
The two ladies jolted forward as the driver set the team to their paces. They were quite lucky to be alone in the coach save for a thin, elderly gentleman who had a very yellow mustache and teeth that were even more yellow. He hiccoughed once or twice and promptly nodded off. Clarissa spent the time reading her niece’s latest three chapters, and made encouraging sounds. Jane’s anxiety refused to be kept at bay as she looked out the window laced with raindrops.
A change of horses and a cold luncheon at an inn four hours later did little to ease her worries. The old gentleman was replaced by a beautiful governess with cloying perfume who was also headed toward Cornwall. Almost all of Jane’s and Clarissa’s conversation halted as soon as they discerned that the governess was trying to eavesdrop. The rest of the two-day wet journey was completed in near silence, with each of the three women privy to her own thoughts. The mud slowed their progress and dampened even further their already depressed spirits.
In due course they arrived in Cornwall. The sharp cry of seagulls announced their arrival. The rain had finally abated, and the sun’s first rays bounced off the shiny, wet whitewashed houses of Cornwall. Colorful primroses peeked over the tops of some of the village’s window boxes as the ladies descended onto the village square. The coachman tugged the bandboxes from their moorings and bid the ladies a good day.
Within moments, it became clear that no one was there to meet them. Seeing Jane’s disappointment, Clarissa suggested they have a bit of tea at the nearby inn. Clarissa had already formed a plan, as she had had less faith that someone would meet them. While walking toward the inn, her attention was caught by a dilapidated old carriage being driven too fast.
Clarissa turned in time to witness the amazing transformation of Jane’s face. Her happiness seemed to pour out of every fiber of her body. Despite the impropriety of it, Jane cried out, “Harry, Harry!” while flapping her arms over her head. Harry’s team clip-clopped onto the square, and he tossed down the reins to a stableboy from the inn. He grabbed Jane around the waist and whisked her around in circles.
“Am I glad to see you again, Duck! It has been forever!” exclaimed Harry as he popped a kiss on her forehead. A lock of unruly hair fell into his light brown eyes.
“I knew you would come. I just knew you wouldn’t let us down,” Jane exclaimed.
“Let me guess. Miss Fairchild wasn’t as trusting, I take it?” retorted Harry while showing Clarissa his boyish grin.
“It is nice to see you again, too, Mr. Thompson,” responded Clarissa in her most prim voice.
Harry laughed and asked the ladies if they would join his family at the manse for supper. Jane answered in all happy eagerness, failing miserably to bring her emotions under control. During their ride to the manse, Harry regaled the ladies with tales of his college years. Clarissa’s even temper allowed her to roll her eyes only once during the journey. She did try to judge Harry’s heart, however, to better benefit her niece. As far as she could tell, Harry seemed to be in his typical good humor, with as many pranks to tell as always. He hid his feelings quite well.
Supper at the manse turned out to be a complicated affair. The Reverend Thompson was flanked by his wife, his two sons, and three daughters. In addition, Harry’s youngest sister, Fanny, had asked “her dearest friend in the world” from school, a “delightful” girl by the name of Kitty Dodderidge, to spend a few weeks in the country with the Thompsons. The large party of ten crammed into the smallish dining parlor of the manse. Mrs. Thompson’s shrill voice shouted directions to the serving girl as the reverend’s booming voice sallied through every conversation. It was always like this at the Thompson household. Clarissa had forgotten how difficult it was to carry on any rational conversation. Each person clamored for attention, and family members cut into conversations and switched topics faster than the notes of a piano concerto. When the cacophony reached a particularly loud pitch, Jane eyed Clarissa and smiled.
At that moment Harry stood up. “Hear, hear!” he exclaimed. “I would like to make a toast to Miss Jane, er, excuse me, Mrs. Lovering.” A hoot of laughter followed this exclamation. “And to Miss Fairchild for coming back to Land’s End to celebrate my return from university.” He continued as he eyed Jane with a big grin on his face. “I can’t tell you how happy you have made me.”
Everyone cheered. Clarissa’s discerning eyes were quick to notice the less than eager applause by Miss Dodderidge and the look of adoration in her eyes when she gazed at Harry. With a sinking heart, she looked at Jane and wished again that the events of Jane’s and her own life had turned out far differently. She turned her attention to the burnt pudding and resolutely began to consume the politic amount.
Jane’s feelings were so very far removed from her aunt’s. She was exhilarated by being in the same room with the man she loved. She was on familiar ground again for the first time in a very long time. The years spent with Cutty, and the months since his death, seemed to be of another lifetime. She was home. Cornwall. The land of her childhood. The land of her mother. She longed to have Harry to herself and to converse privately with him, but knew it was impossible for the moment. He looked so young, so openhearted, and so full of joy, as always. So different from Cutty and the Earl of Graystock. She shook her head slightly as she looked down at the burnt pudding and pushed it around her plate a few more times.
After the early supper—for the Thompsons kept country hours—Harry proposed a game of badminton in the side garden. Miss Dodderidge jumped at the idea and forwarded that she would like to be on Harry’s team. The sides formed naturally—Harry and Miss Dodderidge were joined by two of Harry’s sisters, Lillian and Fanny. Harry’s older brother, William, was left with Jane, Clarissa, and Sarah Thompson. The game commenced with much giggling and Miss Dodderidge falling into Harry. He laughed and when doing so looked to Jane with almost a request for reassurance.
The game was suspended when darkness overtook the group. Jane was frustrated again when Miss Dodderidge took Harry’s arm to go inside for coffee in the music room. She had hoped to detain Harry to speak privately with him. But it was not to be. Clarissa intoned her opinion that it was time for her niece and herself to say good night. Harry offered to bring around the carriage, but was stopped by Miss Dodderidge again. With a slight blush, and a batting of eyelashes, she insisted that he must stay to play charades. Before Harry replied, William said he would be delighted to take the ladies to Pembroke, as he had no interest in charades. With pursed lips and downcast eyes, Jane accepted his offer and said good-bye to the Thompsons and their guest. Harry winked at her and said he would pay a visit on the morrow.
Chapter Six
THE surprised stares of two bleary-eyed servants greeted Jane and Clarissa the next morning in the kitchen as they saw to their own spartan breakfasts. The few remaining servants at Pembroke Manor had been enjoying a break from their duties and should have been somewhat put out by the sudden arrival of the two ladies. Yet the maid-of-all-work and the assistant cook burst into smiles and effusive greetings.
“Ah, Miss Jane, the new head groom will be ‘appy to see you. He’s been ‘aving the devil—ah, excuse me, Mum, but he’s been ‘aving a bad time with most o’ the young ‘uns!” said the young cook.
“Nelly, it is good to see you, too! Will you send word to the stable that I’ll come around within the hour?”
With a quick bob, the servant left. Jane had hoped she would not have to set foot in the house, as her father would be furious. She had expected Harry would meet her at the village square with a proposal and a plan. But at least the news of her removal from her family had not reached Cornwall. She fortified herself with the knowledge that Harry would rectify everything within a day or two. And she pra
yed her father would send George back here to watch over the stables.
To relieve her sense of unease, Jane informed Clarissa of her intention to ride that morning. Clarissa said she would write to her brother to inform him of her temporary invasion of the family home. Jane’s domicile was to be left vague in nature.
Jane breathed deeply as she entered the large, well-kept stables beyond the gardens of her family’s home. There was something achingly familiar about the scents of pine and hay, and the sounds of horses munching on their oats and molasses, that brought a great sense of peace to Jane. She hugged herself and almost cried with the sheer joy of being home. She took great pleasure in talking to the head groom. A three-year-old bay gelding was chosen for morning exercise.
After a fast trot across the first meadow, she urged the young horse over a small stile separating two fields on their property. The strong sun of early summer was producing a fast rise of wheat in an adjoining field. Everything felt so right that Jane relaxed and enjoyed a long gallop before crossing the bridge leading toward the manse. This was where she belonged—on a great horse, in the gentle summer of Cornwall. She felt in her bones everything was going to be all right. London and Littlefield were far behind her. Her future with Harry beckoned.
She halted when she saw the small party coming into view of the opposite bank.
“Hey ho,” cried Harry as he moved ahead of the ladies beside him and waved. “We’ve just been coming to see you.”
Jane laughed and replied, “I’ve saved you the trouble.”
“Oh, but we still have to have our walk, and the ladies do so want to see the famous Pembroke stables,” insisted Harry, brushing the lock of brown hair from his eyes of the same color. He was wearing his ancient boots that were too short and a rust-colored coat patched at the elbows. Dear Harry!
Miss Dodderidge scurried forward to reclaim his arm. He looked down at her impish face containing a wide mouth that seemed a bit rouged if Jane’s eyes did not deceive her.
“Do not let me keep you from your mission,” replied Jane with a smile. “I shall meet you there in a half hour’s time.”
Jane trotted back toward the stables and tried to think of a plan to have a private interview with Harry. She had always shared so much time alone with him when they were younger that she could not understand why she was unable to corner him now. Why had he not come around to the house alone? Her suspicions lay in the direction of the pretty, petite Miss Dodderidge.
Jane refused to worry about the young miss. Jealousy was not part of her character. She was in a serious situation, which Harry knew about from her letter, and he would marry her. There was no question. He was a gentleman’s son, and he had been her best friend ever since they were children roaming the high cliffs together. She was uncomfortable because, well, because there were so many things left to be settled and so much to say.
She wondered if it was right to marry Harry without baring all her secrets. She reasoned that gentlemen had secrets—secrets about mistresses—that were never divulged. Certainly there were things that one kept to oneself and never discussed.
As Jane’s horse trod on the withered daffodil stalks in the last field before Pembroke, she thought about Lord Graystock. His eyes had dilated when she had whispered his name that dark afternoon. She remembered his beautiful hands, and capable fingers. His palms had been smooth except for the hard, callused places defining an avid horseman. She visualized what his hands had done to her that day. He had touched her breasts, and her face, and the most sensitive recesses of her body. She shivered in the morning sun and wondered where he was at that moment. And she hoped she would never have to face those steel-colored eyes ever again.
Halfway to London, he had wondered for the hundredth time if he should go back to her door, or onward to her father. On the one side, he had a niggling premonition that she would reject him outright despite the circumstances. In fact, he was sure she would delight in refusing him. He also knew that accepting her refusal would be the coward’s way out of this disconcerting turn of events. On the other side, she was a widow and thus had the right to determine her own future.
But she lived with her father. And why was that? Why had Cutty not left her a large independence? He had been quite well-to-do. Cutty Lovering had had one of the largest houses in Mayfair and a rich seat in Northampshire. It was true Cutty’s son had inherited the lot of the entailed holdings.
Rolfe knew the younger Mr. Lovering as well as or as little as he knew many other young bucks at White’s. Mr. Lovering’s name appeared regularly in the betting books, but he was not one of the notorious gamesters who played fast and deep. The virtuous Mrs. Lovering should have been well cared for by her deceased husband or her stepson. Perhaps the stepson who looked as if he matched Jane in years had tried to force himself on his stepmother after the old man’s demise, and Jane had removed to her father’s house. Rolfe cursed. Now he was fabricating stories, a character trait that had never surfaced before.
There was something about the way Jane had acquiesced to Rolfe’s advances despite her innocence that infuriated him. She had not been a skilled courtesan, but she had not hesitated in her liaison with him. Or had she? She had started to insist he stop when he asked her if she wanted him to stop. A gentleman would have desisted, but he had not. He had taunted her, knowing her pride would not allow her to show any fear.
But he had not known she was chaste. And even when he had discovered her innocence, he had not been able to pull back from the cusp of deflowering her. His complete lack of control disgusted him.
As Rolfe stopped at a watering trough in one of the numerous small villages en route, he removed his gloves and brushed the dirt off his coat. After a few minutes’ rest, he continued past the last edges of the town. He had contemplated stopping for nuncheon, but had realized he had no appetite for food. He pulled a small flask from his saddlebag and drank deeply. The half bottle of brandy he had consumed the night before and the liquid fire in the flask had not dulled the guilty feelings he desired to obliterate. If anything, the spirits made him even more keenly aware of his predicament.
It was back to the business at hand—or rather at foot, that of leg shackling. An ill feeling settled in his stomach as he remembered his first marriage, to Constance. She had been a mere child--so petite, so lovely, with her deep auburn hair and large green eyes that always sparkled with mischief.
That had been before their marriage. It was not that she had not had any feelings for him. She had adored him with every ounce of her being. In fact, she had worshiped him. Watching her perish, and the child as well, had scarred Rolfe’s psyche in a way no battlefield scene afterward could. The oft-played scene revolved in his head—the endless flow of blood, Constance’s pitiful pleas for help and for her mother, and her almost blue face at death matching that of the child, a little boy with black hair. Overnight, it had seemed, the old earl’s hair had turned white and the entire village had gone into mourning.
He shook his head and brought his mind back to the immediate future. There was a meeting to arrange behind the walls of one of the oldest houses in Hanover Square, the house of Lord Fairchild, his future father-in-law. He rehearsed in his mind all possible scenes toward the successful outcome of his suit. But then, it should not be difficult, given his rank and his wealth. It was just his reputation, which would bring pause to any devoted father.
Rolfe was well aware of the rumors that circulated each time he surfaced in town. One older, flirtatious widow from Brussels had had the audacity to whisper in his ear with a coy French accent that she would like to “make love to the dark murderer from the countryside.” She had scratched the back of his neck as she giggled behind her fan to hide her insidious, cavity-filled mouth. And while his paltry handful of acquaintances were eager to join him in gentlemanly pursuits, such as fencing, riding, and breakfasts at White’s, those same gentlemen almost never invited him to private entertainments in their houses, let alone introduced him to their fe
male relatives. It was when he realized this that he had closed the door on forming any attachments to other human beings. He had become ruthless in his aloneness. In seven years he had become as cold and as impersonal as a judge at sentencing. He could have easily disputed the allegations by exercising his considerable diplomatic skills, but by his inaction he had chosen his course.
Jane Lovering caught one of her booted heels on the lower rail of the fence as she studied the paddock full of horses. She leaned into the fence, removed her hat, and handed it to the groom along with her riding crop and gloves. She squinted as she appraised the new crop of babies. This was one of her favorite activities. It was funny. Some of the gangliest foals could turn into marvelous three-year-olds. But they seemed to grow in spurts. First the hind end would grow, followed by the front, or possibly the neck would mature before the rump. But the two things she prized most was a certain look in the eye and a straight stance. She was just picking out her favorite, a black colt sure to turn gray like his dam, when the party from the manse made their appearance.
Harry moved behind her. “There you are—as always!” he exclaimed. “Picking out a new favorite?”
It was one of the reasons why Jane loved him. He had always been able to read her mind. “Of course,” she replied. “Over there by the gray mare. The smallest one. Born just two weeks ago, I think. He is a beauty, isn’t he?”
“Quite the looker,” responded Harry as he turned to address his sister and her friend. “Look, girls, come see the newest additions to the famous Pembroke stables.”
“Oh, they are quite pretty,” exclaimed Miss Dodderidge, gazing into Harry’s eyes.
“They are more than just pretty. A fine fortune they will fetch,” said Harry. “That is, if Jane—or I should say Mrs. Lovering—has anything to do with their training. A finer horsewoman does not exist,” he continued, looking at Jane. He had mentioned her married name with humor in his melodious voice.
