by Dunn
Waiting was unbearable. She was halfway to the door when it opened and he came in. She stepped backwards until she was leaning against the desk. He appeared as ill at ease as she felt. He stood there, twisting his hat in his hands, his wrists protruding from the sleeves of the too-short coat. He mumbled something that she took to be a greeting.
“Good day, my lord,” she answered with tolerable composure.
“Are you ... I trust you are not much bruised?” he blurted out.
“Not seriously, thank you. How is your arm?"
“Improving."
She wanted to ask about his feet. The memory of how she had warmed them back to life stopped her. The impropriety of her action appalled her, but she seemed to feel again the icy touch between her thighs, bringing a shiver of excitement she had not felt the night before.
“Miss Hartwell,” he broke the silence that had fallen between them, “your vicar has urged me to ask you to marry me, as soon as may be."
His voice sounded strange, half-strangled, and a flush stained his thin face as she looked at him in outrage.
“Mr. Raeburn has Gothic notions of propriety,” she said coldly. “I should not dream of following his advice."
“But indeed, I had every intention of asking you anyway.” He stepped forward eagerly.
She put up her hands as if to ward him off. “I assure you it is unnecessary. I do not consider myself compromised in any way, nor need you fear that Mr. Raeburn will spread the story. He is a clergyman and a true gentleman."
“I want to marry you. It is the only honourable thing to do."
“Honourable! And was it honourable to abandon your wife in a foreign country?” The Spaniard's narrative, lost in the terror of the night, flooded back to her. “Was it honourable to leave her in a position where her only alternatives were death or dishonour? Yes, I heard Don Miguel's words, my lord. Would God I might have closed my ears to them, but I heard them. Little wonder that you shut yourself away in the country, ashamed to see family or neighbours. And you want to marry me? Do you suppose that by treating me well you will wipe out your mistreatment of your first wife? Why should I marry you?” Because I love you, her heart cried out, but the words did not reach her lips.
His face was white now, the dark brows drawn together in a scowl. “If you wish to believe de la Rosa's words, I cannot prevent it,” he said with a sneer.
“If it is not true, why do you hide from society like a craven?"
“Are you not in hiding yourself, Miss Hartwell? George has told me the sorry tale of your own little scandal. Why did you not face society and fight it out, instead of retreating to a life of drudgery?"
“At least I earn an honest living."
“If you marry me, you will escape the drudgery."
“I do not need to marry you to escape. I am going to marry Lord Pomeroy, and I have no conceivable need of you. I beg you will leave at once, my lord, and I pray we may never meet again."
In two strides he was at her side. He swept her into his arms and kissed her savagely. She fought him with all her strength and suddenly he released her. His arm hanging useless at his side he left, without a word, without a backward glance.
Amaryllis sank into the nearest chair, buried her face in her hands, and wept.
Chapter 19
For two days, Miss Tisdale and Mrs. Vaux treated Amaryllis like a fragile porcelain doll. They asked no questions. She did not know how much they guessed or had been told by the vicar, but she was grateful for their forbearance. Often, in silent misery, she embraced them and was comforted as if she were eight years old again.
Early on the third day, a note arrived from Bertram. He was back at the castle and longed to see her. Unless he heard to the contrary, he would pick her up at eleven and take her driving. She sent the groom back bearing her acceptance and turned to the anxious ladies with a calm smile.
“I have been behaving like a spoiled child,” she confessed wryly. “You are too good to me, dear Aunt, dear Tizzy. I shall marry Bertram and do my best to make him a good wife."
They smiled and sighed with relief and reminded her of his faithfulness, his kindness and generosity, his indulgence of her waywardness.
“Shall we have a double wedding, Tizzy?” she asked, then added teasingly, “No, you shall have your day of glory, for I want to be married by Mr. Raeburn, and he cannot officiate at his own wedding."
Mrs. Vaux decided it was not the moment to point out that Lord Pomeroy would undoubtedly expect to be married at Tatenhill, since his father was ailing. The fewer disadvantages Amaryllis saw to the marriage, the less likely she was to be overcome by one of her distempered freaks and to risk losing so eminently satisfactory a bridegroom as his lordship.
Bertram picked her up promptly. It was a still, cold, sunny day. Much of the snow had melted, but the air was wintery chill. He was driving his curricle, so she wrapped herself in her warm cloak, refusing to think of the last time it had been used.
Bertram tucked a fur rug about her knees. He looked particularly handsome as he grinned down at her, asking solicitously if she thought she would be warm enough. His many-caped driving coat fitted to perfection. His hat was set at a jaunty angle, and his boots gleamed with blacking as his team of chestnuts gleamed with much currying.
She smiled with a rush of affection and assured him she would do very well. He gave the chestnuts the office, and they set out towards Halstead and Colchester. She asked after the earl and his mother and told him about Miss Tisdale's betrothal and Mrs. Vaux's plans for finding a small house.
Not unnaturally he found this encouraging, but he waited until they had passed though the busy streets of Halstead before he broached the subject on the tip of his tongue. “Amaryllis, have you made your decision? Will you marry me, my darling?"
“I must tell you something first. I ought to have told you long ago. When you hear it, you may wish to cry off."
He looked at her in alarm.
“It is my father. I told you he is in America. Bertram, he has opened a shop. A hardware store, he calls it. He is an ironmonger."
His lordship shouted with laughter, making the horses twitch their ears and shake their heads.
“Viscount Hartwell an ironmonger!” he exclaimed. “What an excessively respectable occupation for the old reprobate. Oh, I beg your pardon, Amaryllis, but I never for a moment thought he would come to so honest an end."
“But you cannot wish to be married to the daughter of an ironmonger,” she said, with a glance of reproach for his levity.
“If he opened up shop in Leeds I might be concerned for my father's sake. With the Atlantic Ocean between us, I have not the least qualm in the world about begging yet again for your hand."
Amaryllis's heart sank. She realised that unconsciously she had hoped he would cry off. He was not particularly high in the instep, but he would soon be Earl of Tatenhill. He had a duty to his family. Society might forgive her for having been a schoolmistress. They might forgive the viscount for running off with the daughter of the Spanish Ambassador. They might even forgive one of their own for turning to trade to keep body and soul together, but they would certainly look askance at a countess with all three instances of bad Ton against her.
Bertram did not care. For a moment the thought cheered her. She looked up at him and met blue eyes full of self-confident hope and a trace of amusement. The words trembled on her lips, the words that would make her his forever.
“I cannot!” A vision of dark eyes filled with pain and anger hid him from her. “I cannot. I love someone else.” She leaned forwards, head bowed, curling around the agony in her heart.
He pulled up the horses, put his arm round her shoulders, and held her against him. “Winterborne?” he asked gently.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Does he know?"
“No. I don't know. We quarrelled most dreadfully. How can I love a man who is so impossible? I do not know if he even likes me."
B
ertram offered her his handkerchief, but her eyes were dry. He turned the curricle and drove back through Halstead in a thoughtful silence. After a while, hoping to distract her, he began to tell her about the latest ghost to haunt Hedingham Castle. He described the ladder found in the oubliette, the missing galoshes, the clothes discovered mysteriously inside the locked keep.
Every word stabbed her with memories of that horrifying night, with fear that someone might unravel the mystery. “There is no clue as to whom the clothes belong to?” she asked with heightened colour.
“They are very ordinary gentleman's apparel, of good quality but in no way distinguishable from any others. No fancy waistcoat, no monograms, no card case in the coat pocket."
She could not suppress a sigh of relief and he turned on her instantly.
“Amaryllis, you know something of this. Do not deny it. I hope I can tell by now when you are gammoning me. What happened?"
She lowered her eyes, but she knew that her flushed cheeks were giving her away.
“'Fore God,” he said savagely, “if he has hurt you I shall make him pay for it, whether you love him or not."
Shaking her head, she laid her hand on his arm and forced herself to speak. “No, he was badly hurt himself. Not physically, at least not seriously, but ... I cannot tell you, Bertram. It is not my story."
His jaw was clenched, and she saw a muscle jumping in his cheek. He kept his eyes on the road and presently spoke in a deliberately calm voice. “I hope I have said nothing to mislead you. I have learned something more of him since last I saw you, and I must believe him more sinned against than sinning."
She did not dare ask him to elaborate, especially when it occurred to her that he might be speaking from kindness, not knowledge. She wished passionately that she was in love with him. The curricle drew up in front of the school, and he handed her down.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “You must think I have been playing fast and loose. I did indeed intend to accept. You know I hold you in the greatest affection, and I would have tried to make you happy."
“Hush, love. How could I be happy, knowing that your heart was given to another? I wish you every happiness with ... him."
“Can we be friends?"
“One day. Yes, one day. It is too much to ask of me now.” He bowed and swung himself up into the carriage.
“You are the most perfect gentleman I have ever known,” she said in a soft voice.
His eyes were on his horses. ‘Yes,” he agreed bitterly, “I am a gentleman.” He drove off.
Amaryllis went into the house and up to her chamber without seeing anything on the way. She sat down on her bed, stiff and straight, staring blankly at the wall. She had driven Lord Daniel away. She had refused Bertram. Tizzy was to be married, and Aunt Eugenia was making plans with her new friend that did not include her niece.
Only Papa was left to her. When Amaryllis went down to dinner, some hours later, she announced in a cool, calm, and decided tone that come June she would be going to Philadelphia. Miss Tisdale and Mrs. Vaux exchanged glances and did not argue.
It was only two days until the school reopened for the spring term. Amaryllis rose early the next morning to complete her preparations. There was a cold, empty place inside her. She ignored it and concentrated on her work, defying the ghosts that wandered through her office.
At a little after eleven Daisy knocked on her open door. “There's a gentleman to see you, miss. Here's his card."
Not Lord Daniel, then, nor Bertram. The maid knew them both by name. She looked at the card.
George, Lord Winterborne.
“Show him in, please, Daisy."
When she heard his steps in the passage, she rose and went round the desk to greet him. He closed the door behind him and stood looking at her in silence. She returned his gaze.
George Winterborne: tall, dark, and handsome; gazetted flirt; breaker of hearts though he had never broken hers; something of a rake if rumour spoke true; heir to the Marquis of Bellingham and as such one of the most eligible gentlemen in the kingdom. Yet, careful Mamas had warned away susceptible debutantes. Lord Winterborne was not hanging out for a wife.
At six and thirty, George's waistline had thickened a little. There were a few grey hairs at his temples, adding to the thoughtful maturity of his face—that face, so like his brother's. She closed her eyes to avoid the sight.
“Miss Hartwell.” He bowed.
“George.” She tried to collect her wits. “Will you not be seated?” She sat down, and he followed suit. “I did not expect a visit from you."
“You know I have been staying at Wimbish?” he asked guardedly.
“Isabel mentioned it. She is very fond of you."
“And of you. Miss Hartwell, it is going to be difficult explaining my errand. I hope you will be patient with me."
She nodded. She did not remember ever seeing the self-assured Corinthian looking so uncertain.
“Three days ago, I went to visit friends,” he began. “I did not return to Wimbish until afternoon the next day, when I discovered the house in an uproar and Daniel and the girls missing. Before I could decide what to do, they returned. I ought perhaps to say that these past few weeks I have thought that at last, after eleven years, Daniel was beginning to forget the past. He has been in better spirits than I can remember since he was a boy, and I have had intimations of your responsibility for the change."
She made a gesture of denial.
“Do not demur,” he said quickly. “It is in all respects a change for the better. But when he came home that day, he looked hag-ridden and ill. He told me what had happened, and that you had believed the Spaniard's tale. He had not talked so openly to me since ... since he told me a story that I should like to repeat to you, if you are interested."
“What makes you think I might be interested?"
“Pomeroy came to Wimbish yesterday. He did not see my brother, but he asked me to tell him that you had refused his offer of marriage. That is all.” He looked at her enquiringly.
She sent a silent blessing after Bertram and asked, “Did you tell him? Lord Daniel?"
“No. I thought it best to speak to you first. God knows I do not want to raise any false hopes. Danny has been through hell, and I want to explain that hell to you."
“I am willing to listen."
“It began in 1808. Danny had always been mad for a pair of colours and when Wellington—Wellesley he was then—was ordered to Portugal, my father allowed him to join the army. He went out to the Peninsula in November, just in time to march with Sir John Moore into Spain. I have talked to others who were on the retreat to Corunna, as well as to Danny, and I will try to make you understand what it was like. Picture the scene, Amaryllis—the Spanish mountains in winter..."
The pallid youth clasped his right arm, with its bloodstained bandage, closer to his chest as the cart hit a particularly vicious pothole. Shifting his legs, he tried to ease the position of the man lying in his lap. He scarcely noticed the major's constant moaning now.
More disturbing were the occasional groans and whimpers of the others in the cart, but worst of all were the cries for help, the savage cursing, of those for whom there was no room. Wounded, frostbitten, or simply too tired to move, they would lie in the trampled snow by the stony mountain road till death or the French caught up with them.
The young man shivered convulsively.
A cheerful voice hailed as Lieutenant Gerald Fox rode up beside the cart, his mare stiff-legged with fatigue. “Danny, can you make room for a lady? The wheel came off a carriage full of Spanish refugees back there."
Perched on the mare's crupper, a slight figure swathed in black gazed pleadingly at the passengers. Her eyes, black as her clothes, glowed huge in a pretty face now pinched with cold. The men moved uneasily, trying to make room where there was none. Then one spoke in a hoarse voice.
“Looks like Jem's bought it, sir. ‘E won't mind now if the Frogs get ‘im."
The driver g
lanced over his shoulder, then hauled on the reins to bring his plodding mules to a halt. Lieutenant Fox summoned a pair of nearby dragoons, and while they unloaded Jem's stiff body, Fox made the introductions.
“This is Lieutenant Lord Daniel Winterborne, ma'am. He'll take care of you. Danny, the Doña Francisca Cortés. She speaks a few words of French."
“Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” muttered Lord Daniel, blushing a fiery red and looking down quickly as his eyes met hers. He tried to smooth down his unruly, dark hair. “Gerald” he added desperately as his friend dismounted and swung the lady down, “my French ain't exactly fluent."
“Nor is hers,” the lieutenant assured him blithely and deposited Doña Francisca beside him. “How's the arm, old boy? The guides say we're nearly through these confounded mountains. If we can just beat Soult to Corunna we'll be home in a week.” With a salute that was more of a wave, he rode off.
Napoleon's marshal on his heels, Sir John Moore marched his diminishing army northwest towards the Bay of Biscay. Six thousand men he lost, to skirmishes, cold, and exhaustion. When at last the demoralised column straggled into the port of Corunna, the promised transports had not yet arrived.
“They had no time to set up hospitals in Corunna,” said George. “Think of it, Amaryllis. Danny was just nineteen, reduced from dashing cavalry officer to semi-invalid, feverish too, for all I know. And there's this pretty young woman with languishing black eyes looking up to him as the hero who can save her from the ravishing Frenchmen. Is it surprising that he married her as soon as he found a willing priest? As his wife she could count on a place on the transports..."
Two days passed before the fleet sailed into the harbour. As the ships dropped anchor, Marshal Soult's corps was sighted in the hills south of the town. While the wounded and sick were hurried onto the transports, the general led his troops out to battle. The French were repulsed, but there were no songs of victory. Sir John Moore was dead. They buried him hastily in the citadel. Next day the army sailed for England.
When they reached Portsmouth, Lord Daniel took rooms for his bride and commended her to the care of his brother officers. He wrote a brief and shaky note to his parents to inform them of his return and his marriage, and then submitted himself to the knives of the army surgeons. The bullet they removed from his upper arm had smashed against the bone and fragmented. By the time they had finished, muscle, nerve, and tendon were mangled. Full recovery of the use of the arm was doubtful.
