by Anne Herries
‘Oh, no, not again. It is horrible…’ Sarah said and shivered. Emotion caught at her throat but she held back her desire to weep. She would not give way to tears, but the letter had thrown a cloud over her feeling of pleasure. ‘Why would anyone write such stuff to me?’
‘This is not the first you have had, is it?’ Tilda turned it over and saw that it was not franked. ‘It must have been delivered by hand. I think we should investigate a little further, Sarah. You must show this to Mr Hunter—or perhaps John.’
‘No, not yet,’ Sarah said. The letter had triggered that creeping feeling of unease again, but she did not want anyone to see that she was distressed. She lifted her head, forcing herself to smile. ‘It is just someone being spiteful, Tilda. I do not want to upset John, and Charles would make such a fuss…’
‘Better that he should know,’ Tilda said. ‘Wait until after the dance if you wish, but do tell Mr Hunter at least. This is a threat, Sarah, and you should not just brush it aside, especially if you have had others.’
‘One other, and that was worse,’ Sarah told her. ‘It said that John was—’ She shook her head. ‘No, I shall not let whoever it is upset me. It is all a part of the malicious campaign to discredit John.’
‘Yes, my dear, I believe it is,’ Tilda said, feeling distressed. She did not like to see that look in Sarah’s eyes when she had been so happy moments earlier. ‘I do not believe a word of these lies, but someone must have a grudge against John. I wonder…’ She looked thoughtful and then shook her head. ‘I dare say Mr Hunter and John will already have thought of the possibility…’
‘What possibility is that, Tilda?’
‘It occurred to me that someone who would do these things must be jealous of John, Sarah. Might it possibly be that his first wife had an admirer or perhaps a lover? Could he be bitter because of what happened? If in his own mind he blames John…’
Sarah stared at her. ‘Do you know, Tilda, I think you may have hit upon something. You should speak to John or my brother, tell them your thoughts on the matter.’
‘Oh, no, my dear,’ Tilda said and blushed. ‘I am sure that they do not need any advice from me. No doubt they have thought of all eventualities.’
‘Perhaps…’ Sarah said, but wondered if she ought to speak to her brother concerning the letters and Tilda’s idea.
‘You said you had more news?’ Charles looked at his friend, brows raised. ‘Does it concern the matter we spoke of in London?’
‘Yes…’ John frowned, his expression serious. ‘Tobbold says that he has traced the man here—to the grounds of your home, Charles. He says he is sure it is the same man that was seen in my village a few weeks ago…’
‘That means we are getting closer to solving the mystery.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ John said. ‘And yet I cannot help being anxious, Charles. The letters were one thing and I had almost put them from my mind, for though they were hurtful they could do no real harm. I did not murder Andrea and nothing can be proved to the contrary—but why is this fellow watching me? Does he have some wicked intent?’
‘You mean will he attempt to kill you?’
‘Or Sarah,’ John said. ‘You know that I love her dearly, Charles—but I have wondered if we should postpone the wedding until this is settled.’
‘I do not see how that would help,’ Charles replied. ‘This thing may never be truly finished. You cannot ruin both your lives simply because you have an enemy. No, my friend, you did the right thing. All I am saying is that you must be on your guard at all times. I do not think Sarah is at risk particularly. It is you this man hates and you he means to pursue until he has ruined you…’
‘I would be content if I thought it was only my life in danger,’ John said, his eyes glinting. ‘But if anything should happen to Sarah…I would kill him with my bare hands!’
Charles smiled. ‘And I would applaud you, my friend. But if we are clever and make our plans, we may trap him without such drastic measures. I do not imagine Sarah would care to watch her husband die at the end of a rope.’
John glared at him and then laughed. ‘No, I dare say you are right,’ he said. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, Charles, I shall go and find Sarah or she will think I have deserted her…’
Sarah went out into the garden, needing to be alone. Her thoughts were confused—the second letter had unsettled her once more, bringing back the doubts she had fought so hard to suppress these past days.
Why did the writer of the letter say that John would never love her? Was her mother right in saying that she was rushing into this marriage with unseemly haste? She would not have given the letter a second thought had she not overheard her brother and Charles talking together that day in London. Try as she might, she had not quite been able to put it from her mind. Had John been saying that he had had no choice but to ask Sarah to marry him?
She had placed him in an impossible position. No decent gentleman would do other than propose after what she had done for him. It was possible that John might have died if she had not nursed him so devotedly, although Mrs Beeson had done her best in difficult circumstances. Sarah had been impulsive and reckless, and perhaps her mama had had been right to be cross with her. She felt a little ashamed and guilty over her behaviour, especially if she had forced John into an awkward situation.
Sarah’s mind twisted this way and that, her emotions in a turmoil. She had been so sure that John loved her. Her throat was tight with emotion. Surely he did! Yet she could not help wondering if she had made it impossible for him to do anything else but ask her to be his wife. Was it possible that he still loved Andrea—was that what the letter had meant? John could never love her because his heart was with his wife in her grave? It was all so confusing! She had been told that John might be a murderer, that he might have driven his wife to take her own life because he was unkind to her—and now this last letter seemed to suggest that he still loved her. What was she to think? And yet…the writer of this letter clearly had mischief in mind…
She was still sitting alone in the rose garden when John came to her half an hour later. He stood watching her for a moment, wondering at the pensive expression on her face.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he said and sat down next to her on the wooden bench beneath an arch of roses. They hung down in clumps of heavy white blossom, the perfume strong and sweet on the early summer air. ‘Is something troubling you, my love?’ He reached for her hand and held it lightly in his. ‘You would tell me if something had upset you, dearest?’
‘I am not upset,’ Sarah said, lifting her head, a gleam of pride in her eyes. She would not confess that she was tortured by her doubts. ‘I was just sitting here, thinking how strange life is, John. If I had not gone to Italy when I did, you might not have married Andrea.’
‘You are not distressed by the thought of my first wife?’ he asked and stroked the back of her hand with the tip of one finger. ‘I cared for her in my way, Sarah—but I did not feel for Andrea what I feel for you. I love Nat because he is a child and vulnerable. He needs my love because he has no mother and he will know no other father. It is my duty to care for him, and indeed, I have come to love him dearly. I hope you can accept that, dearest?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Sarah said easily. ‘He is such a lovely little boy. I love him too, John, and I shall always care for him as if he is our son—even when we have others.’ She blushed and avoided his gaze, her heart beating wildly. ‘I do want to have children, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sarah. I want very much to have your children, my darling. To live quietly with you and all our children is my dream of happiness. I am not an ambitious man. I have no dreams of fame or great riches, but I shall strive to provide a good life for you and our children.’
He sounded so sincere. How could she doubt him? Sarah lifted her eyes to his, seeing that his were warm with affection and perhaps more. She must believe in his sincerity, his love. She knew that she would have nothing to live for without him, and sh
e must accept what he told her. There was no room for doubt if they were to be happy together.
‘I am so glad, John,’ she said and moved towards him invitingly. ‘I can hardly wait until we are wed, my dearest.’
John reached out for her, pulling her against him. He put up his hand to trail his fingers down the side of her face, his touch sending shivers of delight down her spine. And then he kissed her. It was not the gentle kiss he had given her so often before, but hungry and demanding, seeming to draw her very soul from her body so that they became as one. She clung to him, her mind spiralling in dizzy delight as she imagined herself lying in his arms once they were wed. It seemed to her then that a prospect of unimaginable pleasure was opening out to her.
How foolish she was to doubt him for a moment!
‘I shall stay for our dance, naturally,’ John told her. ‘But tomorrow I must go home for a quick visit, Sarah. I have put some alterations in hand and I want to see that my instructions are being carried out—but I shall return the day before the wedding.’
‘Must you go?’ Sarah asked wistfully. ‘I shall hate to part with you, John, even for a few days.’
‘I think I must,’ he said and laughed softly. ‘If I stayed I might be tempted to anticipate my wedding night. When you respond as you did just now, Sarah, I want to sweep you up in my arms and carry you straight to my bed.’
Sarah’s eyes lit up and she smiled up at him. He had never spoken to her like this before, and she glimpsed the passionate, loving man beneath the gentlemanly manner John habitually showed her. Her perfect gentleman was perhaps bolder than she had imagined—and she could not wait to discover more of this new facet of his character.
‘I do not think I should mind if you did, John’ she whispered, her eyes dark with the intensity of her feelings. ‘You have never kissed me quite like that before.’
‘I did not wish to frighten you, my love,’ John said. ‘I do not forget that you were cruelly kidnapped and subjected to the wicked threats of that evil man Sir Montague Forsythe. I know you had nightmares about that night in the woods and I was determined that I would be patient and not demand more than you could give.’
‘Those nightmares have gone,’ Sarah said, knowing that it was true at last. ‘You need not be anxious that I shall fear to be your true wife, John, for I shall not. I know that you must go home, but hurry back to me, my love.’
‘We have the rest of today and this evening,’ John said. ‘And now, Sarah, I have a little gift for you.’ He took a slender leather box from his coat pocket and gave it to her. ‘I thought you might like to wear this for the dance this evening…’
She opened it to find a necklace of creamy white pearls with a heart-shaped drop made from small diamonds. ‘Oh, John, it is a love heart,’ she said. ‘It is so beautiful. I shall treasure it always.’
‘You must never forget that I love you,’ John said and there was a fervent note in his voice as he reached out to touch her face. ‘Please promise me that you will never run away from me, Sarah—never do anything foolish.’
He must be thinking of Andrea! There was such pain in his voice, such appeal in his eyes. Clearly he was still tortured by the memory of his wife’s death for whatever reason. She leaned forward to kiss him on the lips.
‘Of course I shall not run away from you, John. Why should I?’ She smiled up at him as his arms closed about her once more. ‘It is a beautiful gift and I love it. I shall always treasure it…all my life.’
They stood up, and, with John’s arm about her, began to stroll back towards the house, neither of them aware that they were being watched by jealous eyes—eyes that burned with a bitter anger and hatred.
‘You think you can escape your guilt,’ the soldier muttered through lips that were white with anger. ‘You killed her, John Elworthy, and you shall pay with your own life—but not before you suffer the torments of hell. You too shall know what it is like to lose all that you love before you beg me to let you die…’
Chapter Eight
It was an evening of sheer delight for Sarah. After her tête-à-tête with John in the garden she had managed to put all her doubts aside, and she was determined to make it a happy time for her lover and her guests. She had arranged with Charles for her mother to be given a beautiful bouquet of flowers as well as a posy that evening, and she knew that he had given their mother a small gift of porcelain. Mrs Hunter had softened sufficiently to wish her daughter a happy evening, and Sarah had responded by embracing her warmly.
She opened the dance with John, feeling as if she were waltzing on air as he whirled her around the floor, the skirts of her lovely gown billowing about her like pale pink thistledown.
‘Are you happy, dearest one? You look beautiful,’ John told her, whispering against her hair as he held her close in the waltz. ‘I am so proud of you, my darling. So very proud.’
‘I am proud of you, John,’ she said looking up at him. Her eyes were bright with excitement and sparkled in the light of the many candles. ‘I do love you so very much…and I am very happy.’
It was true that one or two of the guests they had invited had not come, but none of them were particular friends. Since Mrs Hunter had invited almost everyone she knew, it was perhaps just as well that a few had cried off, for the reception rooms were overflowing with happy, laughing guests all intent on wishing Sarah and John happiness and enjoying themselves.
The champagne was flowing, the food offered to the guests by Arabella’s cook was mouth-watering, and the music was delightful. Sarah’s doubts had been stilled and she felt that she was that night happier than she had ever been.
At the end of the evening, she wandered out into the garden with John and he took her into his arms, kissing her with such tenderness and yet such hunger that she melted into his body, feeling as if she were dissolving with happiness.
‘Soon we shall be married,’ John whispered against her ear, his arm about her waist as they lingered beneath the stars for a few moments. ‘I must go home tomorrow, as I told you, but the days will soon pass—and then we need never be alone again, my darling.’
‘I long for that,’ Sarah said, feeling as if she would melt with love as she heard the tender note in his voice. ‘When we were in Italy I thought of you so often and then I heard that you had married and all my dreams were at an end.’
‘If only I had known,’ John said, torn with regret. ‘It was my fault. I should have followed you to Italy, but I was afraid of pressing you into something that frightened you, Sarah. I thought that I should wait and then it was too late.’
‘I was never frightened of you, John,’ Sarah told him with a smile. ‘Only of my nightmares. There was a time when I believed I should never marry. I was haunted by bad dreams and I did not think I could bear to be touched by any man, but then I began to realise that I had been lucky. Nothing so very terrible had happened to me—at least, it might have been far worse. Once I realised that I was no longer afraid, I began to think of you—and to wish that you had followed us to Italy.’
‘If only I had, my love.’ His voice carried a ring of anguish, making her aware of his own suffering these past months. ‘You will never know how much I have regretted that I did not…’
John reached out to stroke her hair, his touch making her shiver with pleasure. She knew that if he had asked she would have gone to him, become one with him that very night, but he did not ask. Instead he smiled, took her hand and led her back into the house to say goodnight to those of her guests who still lingered.
Sarah went to bed with the music, the magic of the evening and the sweetness of John’s kisses playing through her mind. She tumbled into bed, feeling happy and at peace with herself, and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
The day after the dance was naturally very quiet. Everyone was feeling a little tired, not inclined to do much other than sit about and talk and sip tea or wine. Sarah went for a little walk in the gardens, but she felt lonely because she was missing John and soon r
eturned to the house to join Elizabeth, Arabella and Tilda, who were sewing together in one of the small parlours.
‘You look lost,’ Elizabeth said as Sarah picked up a book and then put it down again with a sigh. ‘It will not be long to the wedding now, Sarah. If I were you, I should make a start on the thank-you letters, for they take for ever and when you get home you will have other things to do.’
‘Yes, I shall,’ Sarah agreed. She went over to the desk by the window and took out some paper from the drawer. She had thanked most of her friends personally, of course, but the letters still needed to be done—especially to some relatives who lived long distances away and were too elderly to attend the wedding, but had sent beautiful gifts.
She spent more than an hour at her letter writing, and after lunch she joined some of the other ladies in a hand of cards. Dinner was more lively for the gentlemen were in good spirits, and the day ended with everyone laughing and happy.
Sarah woke early the next morning. The lethargy of the previous day had gone and she asked her maid to help her dress in her riding habit. Once ready, she left the house and walked down to the stables, where one of the grooms was only too happy to saddle a mare for his young mistress. He saddled a bay hunter for himself, because her brother had instructed that she must always be accompanied when out riding. Sarah did not object when he followed her from the stableyard. She intended to give her mare a good gallop and the groom would either keep up with her or not, but she did not object to his company.
‘Yes, do come if you wish, William,’ she said with a smile. ‘It is a lovely day for riding.’
‘Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.’
They set off at a gentle trot, leaving the park behind to ride out on to the moor, which bounded Charles’s estate on one side. It was here that Sarah dug her heels in, letting her mare have its head. The sensation was like flying over the undulating ground and she could feel the wind in her face, her hair streaming in the wind. As usual she had not bothered with a hat and the feeling of absolute freedom was wonderful.
