Chapter Nine
Jane was truly happy for almost the first time in her life, without her stepmother’s criticisms to drag her down. The first weeks at Foxbourne were filled with fun and work, and gradually getting to know one another even better than before. They spent their evenings in comfortable companionship. If Jane took up her sewing—she was making and embroidering silk reticules as Christmas presents for the ladies of the family and monogrammed handkerchiefs for the men—Alex would read to her. Or they played cards, or draughts, or chess, although she feared she would never make Alex a worthy opponent. It seemed Alex could not do enough for his new wife and Jane’s natural sunny nature began to reassert itself. Some evenings, she played the piano and they would sing together, Alex’s rich baritone voice sending delicious shivers across her skin as his tiger eyes caressed her with the promise of the night to come.
His loving was sublime. Jane felt like a princess as he worshipped her body every night—and most mornings, too, because he continued to sleep the night in her bed. Her confidence in her allure as a woman grew—she enjoyed their intimacies and felt like the luckiest woman in the world.
Alex was changing. The man who had always been so guarded and self-contained relaxed as days turned into weeks, seeming more at peace with himself than she had ever known him, despite the return of his dreams.
To begin with, they occurred infrequently and seemed milder than before. He would toss and turn in his sleep and she would gather him close and soothe him until he slept again. In the morning he had no recollection of the dream and, because he seemed happy and content, Jane probed no further. Gradually, though, the dreams slid into nightmares until, one night, he shot upright in their bed shouting, ‘No! Mama! No!’
Jane sat up and wrapped her arms around his shaking body.
‘Shhh...shhh...’
He appeared to rouse, as he always did, but he soon settled back to sleep while Jane lay awake, wondering and worrying.
* * *
She waited until they were at breakfast.
‘You dreamt again last night, Alex. Do you remember?’
‘No. I never do. I’ve told you before, Janey.’
‘You called out this time.’
His chin tilted higher. The planes of his face hardened. Jane recognised the signs—this was the old Alex who resented anyone probing too deeply. But she was his wife and she would not be intimidated into ignoring something that was troubling her husband.
‘You shouted out. “No! Mama! No!”’
Alex thrust back his chair. ‘I don’t recall.’
But the way he avoided meeting her eyes suggested he did remember—he just refused to discuss it.
‘Have you finished eating?’
She nodded.
‘As have I.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I cannot tell you about something I don’t remember. They’re not important. I’ve always had them...they’ll go soon enough.’ He rounded the table to pull her to her feet. ‘Now, tell me your plans for today. Shall we work on Pearl later?’
‘I would like that.’ She would get no further with him right now, but he’d given her an idea.
‘Come to the stables at eleven.’ Alex kissed her nose. ‘And stop worrying about those silly dreams.’
As soon as Alex left for the stables, Jane went upstairs.
‘Drabble—’ Alex’s valet was in his bedchamber ‘—might I ask you about His Lordship’s nightmares?’
‘What about them, milady? I thought they’d gone.’
‘They did. At first. But they’ve come back and they seem to be worsening.’
Drabble frowned. ‘That’s bad news, but I’m not sure how I can help, milady.’
‘I wondered...is it true His Lordship was free of them before he went down to the Abbey?’
‘Yes. They disappeared completely when we moved here to Foxbourne, but even before that they were few and far between. He suffered much worse as a child.’
‘Thank you, Drabble.’
Jane wandered downstairs, deep in thought. The maids were busy polishing and sweeping so, needing time alone to think, she set off for a walk. She’d had little time as yet to explore the estate, so she headed down the carriageway, pondering Alex’s nightmares. After last night, how could she doubt these latest dreams were linked to his mother’s death?
She turned on to a winding path through a wood, still deep in thought. It wasn’t until the canopy of the trees thickened, blocking out the sun, that her steps faltered. The outline of a thicket bordering the path ahead sent her heart racing and she was seized by an irresistible urge to look over her shoulder. She told herself not to be stupid, there was no one there, but fear still roiled in her belly. She retraced her steps, breathing easier as she emerged into the sunlight, but exasperated by her fearfulness.
Even when she was back on the carriageway that feeling of vulnerability persisted, so she headed back to the house, her thoughts tumbling. She’d worked so hard to banish Pikeford’s memory, telling herself it could have ended so much worse, and she was angry he had undermined her confidence so badly she was too scared to walk on her own through a wood.
Determinedly, she diverted her thoughts to the subject of Alex’s nightmares. According to Drabble they had gone away before, so why were they now getting worse? Could it be because Pikeford had attacked her so close to where Alex had found his mother? Had that somehow unlocked his memory of that day? Alex had never been able to remember finding his mother, according to Olivia, and his father had felt it was better for him that way.
How dreadful if the attack on Jane had somehow prompted him to remember it after all this time.
* * *
Eleven o’clock saw her at the stable yard and she pushed her worries aside as Alex lifted her up on to Pearl’s saddle. When they had finished, they walked together up to the house and she gathered her courage.
‘I have been thinking about your nightmares, Alex.’
‘I don’t want to discuss them, Janey. I told you.’
‘But—’
‘No!’
His brows lowered, his mouth set in a stubborn line. Jane frowned, considering. She’d had enough of biting her tongue for the sake of a quiet life with Stepmama. She recognised this mind your own business Alex of old...it was how he had always kept his family and friends at bay. She’d thought he was improving...that the barriers he erected against the world were slowly crumbling. This felt depressingly like a reversal.
As Alex’s friend, Jane had never had the right to probe deeper. But...as his wife...
She grabbed his hand to pull him to a halt. ‘Alex...please... I truly think it would help if you—’
‘I said no.’ He snatched his hand away. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘But I wanted to tell you about...’
She watched him stalk away, back to the stables, frustration humming through her. They never spoke about Pikeford’s attack—each protecting the other, she had no doubt—but she’d decided to tell him what happened in the woods earlier and also that the memory of that attack would sometimes catch her unawares; that the feelings she’d had at the time would burst upon her and it would almost be—just for a few seconds—as though it was happening all over again.
She’d hoped it might help him to confide in her. But he’d given her no chance.
* * *
The seething mass of his emotions drove Alex to seek solitude. He threw a saddle on Frost, his favourite gelding, and set off for the nearby hills where he could gallop his frustrations away. Except that didn’t work. When they halted, breathless, on the brow of a hill, that cauldron of guilt, shame and resentment still bubbled away inside, making him feel sick.
Jane didn’t deserve the way he had spoken to her. That was the guilt. But it wasn’t powerful enough to persuade him she needed to know about his damned nightmares. How could he
tell her, when they always began with Pikeford? She’d done so well to overcome the attack and it was his role as her husband to protect her not only from that memory, but also from the responsibility she would feel at being—as she would see it—the cause of his nightmares. Because that was Jane—she blamed herself and felt responsible even when the fault lay with other people.
Jane had made his life so sweet and he cared for her so very much...she had crept into his heart in the short time they had been wed and now he simply couldn’t imagine his life without her. But that didn’t mean he would willingly discuss his nightmares. Hell, he didn’t fully understand them himself, so how could he explain them to anyone? Somehow, he must convince her to avoid the subject in future. They would both be happier, he was sure.
He slid from Frost’s back and sat on a rock to think while the horse cropped grass.
He was honest enough—with himself—to admit shame at his own weakness also played its part in his reluctance to talk about the nightmares. He was ashamed that he had nightmares over that damned attack whereas Jane was not only strong enough to overcome her initial fear of lovemaking, but she also slept like the proverbial babe. Perhaps his family had been right all these years, seeing him as always troubled and needing their help and protection. He’d always resented it and now he was damned if he’d allow his wife to see him that way, too.
It was his place to be the strong one.
He swore to himself he would work doubly hard to make Jane happy. He would do anything for her. Anything except talk about his nightmares. They would disappear soon enough, as they did before.
* * *
Several days later, Alex strode in the direction of the stable yard, hurrying to beat the shower that threatened, his head full of last night’s dream, determined to make sense of the few fragments he could recall in his efforts to banish his nightmares for good. He remembered the colour yellow...but how did that fit in? It made no sense.
Then a memory flared and his breath caught as he slammed to a halt with images filling his head—the lake at Cheriton Abbey, the sound of a scuffle, the image of Pikeford on top of Jane, as clear as the day it happened. But then...those memories were replaced with a vision—a swirl of yellow skirt, polished top boots, voices, low, angry, arguing, the words unclear. Almost as soon as it erupted into his consciousness, it scattered, leaving his heart slamming into his ribs and sweat breaking out on his brow.
He stumbled across to the fence and grabbed the top rail, his breaths ragged and urgent, a vice tight around his chest.
What the hell...?
His fingers thrust through his hair, dislodging his hat, then lingered at the back of his head, his nails digging into his skull as he struggled to recall exactly what that had been a memory of. His viewpoint...he must have been on the floor. But neither a carpet nor cool, smooth tiles. His eyes screwed shut. Another memory whispered—that of rough wooden planks against his cheek. He swallowed, lifting his chin to ease the action. Everything throbbed.
His head. His chest. His throat.
His brain.
Was it a memory...or a remnant of his dreams?
Slowly, steadily, the vice loosened its grip and his breathing eased. A drop of rain splattered on the back of his hand, still clutching the top rail. He tipped his face skyward, welcoming the cool rain on his heated skin. He swallowed again. Everything felt looser. Easier.
The distant recall of a dream. That was all.
Alex turned once more for the stables, thrusting aside the black mood threatening to envelop him—the sort of black mood that used to drive him to excess in his desperate bids to escape. Well, he was that man no more. He was happy. He would do everything he could to stop his demons from sullying his new life. And he would continue to protect Jane from the memory of Pikeford’s attack. She did not need reminding of what had happened, not when she was recovering so well and seemed so happy.
Happy with him, as he was happy with her—a feeling he cherished and one he would fight to preserve.
* * *
Alex’s resolution to make sense of his dreams didn’t go as planned and he soon reverted to trying to block out his nightmares in the face of increasingly distressing visions and new, disturbing suspicions that taunted him. But those visions proved almost impossible to stop now they had started—it was as though he had opened Pandora’s box and, try as he might, he couldn’t shut the lid again. The only good part was that the more often the daytime visions occurred the less frequent his nightmares became.
They always began with the memory of Pikeford’s attack...but then they would slide into something different.
Something dark and dangerous.
Something his instinct told him he must suppress at all costs.
He dared not reveal even a hint of what his memories—if they were indeed memories—implied. Because it was no longer simply about protecting Jane from any reminders of Pikeford’s attack. Because now, bubbling deep in his past—swirling in a murky cesspool of fear, disgust and horror, and creeping ever nearer—was something so huge...so dark...so dreadful...that Alex fought with every fibre of his being to stop that clouded vision from sharpening and becoming clear.
Because...once it did...once he knew...he feared there would be no going back.
Chapter Ten
‘I must go into High Wycombe this morning,’ Alex said one day as they breakfasted together. ‘Would you care to accompany me, Janey?’
‘I should like that. Thank you.’
Jane kept the frown from her forehead. Where had the friendly, easy banter disappeared to? She didn’t understand it, but she sensed a growing distance between them. She was certain it wasn’t her imagination that Alex appeared to be holding her at arm’s length. Not physically—he still made love to her most nights with tender skill—but Alex himself, the man, was steadily becoming more unreachable.
He hated her asking if anything was troubling him, but it was hard to stay silent when every instinct she possessed told her something was wrong. Was he tiring of married life already? Had she simply fooled herself that the bond between them had been strengthening since their marriage? Had she imagined their growing closeness and intimacy? Was it wishful thinking on her part—the feeble hope her childhood dreams could really come true?
She tried to ignore her doubts as she went upstairs to change into her new yellow carriage gown, admiring herself in the pier glass: the colour really did bring out the colour and shine of her hair. She donned her dark blue spencer and bonnet, picked up her gloves and her cloak, and hurried downstairs. Alex was waiting at the foot of the stairs and Jane saw some strong emotion flash across his face.
‘What is it?’ Her stomach tightened with the familiar anxiety that had plagued her in the presence of her stepmother. ‘Have I kept you waiting?’
His gaze swept her from head to toe, a muscle bunching in his jaw.
‘Do you not like my gown?’ Jane persisted when he did not answer her. She saw the effort it took him to smile at her.
‘It suits you very well, Janey,’ he said. ‘I shall be the envy of every man in High Wycombe.’
That empty compliment did nothing to reassure Jane as Alex helped her with her cloak. Her thoughts whirled as she tried to understand what had upset him, but she couldn’t work it out and to question him further would likely only result in an uncomfortable journey for them both. She wanted to enjoy this outing, so she let the subject drop, suppressing her sigh at her avoidance, yet again, of a contentious subject. She had always known Alex was a complex man—she mustn’t expect him to suddenly turn into an easy man to understand. But she would keep trying.
* * *
High Wycombe, one of the principal towns of Buckinghamshire, was a leisurely hour’s drive from Foxbourne. The sun was shining, but a breeze kept the weather fresh and Jane enjoyed the journey through the beautiful Buckinghamshire countryside, with its rolling
Chiltern Hills and wooded valleys, the trees a stunning autumnal mix of russet, orange and gold as their leaves turned colour before they dropped.
In town, Alex dealt with his business and then escorted Jane along the High Street, a broad thoroughfare where the market was in full swing. Jane, still planning ahead for their Christmas visit to Devonshire, bought a pretty ivory hair comb for Susie and set of brightly painted wooden toy soldiers each for Thomas, Julius and Sebastian. She hadn’t yet decided what to make for baby George, but she had enough colourful fabric at home to make ragdolls plus matching hair ribbons for Christabel, Florence, Sophie and Daisy and she’d found some beautiful ruby-red satin in a trunk at Foxbourne with which she planned to make a waistcoat for Alex.
Alex treated Jane to a beautiful shawl of flowered silk, edged with local lace, and, after she admired a pair of the Windsor chairs for which High Wycombe was famous, he bought those, too, arranging for their delivery to Foxbourne where Jane planned to put them either side of the fireplace in the morning parlour. After a pleasant few hours, they returned to the Red Lion, where they had left the horses, and enjoyed a glass of wine and a sandwich before setting off on the journey home.
* * *
‘Well, Janey? Did you like High Wycombe? It cannot offer the variety of goods you can buy in London, but it does boast a decent collection of shops.’
‘I loved it, Alex! Thank you.’
‘You don’t have to thank me, Janey. We’re a married couple. You are welcome to accompany me whenever I go into town.’
‘Many married couples spend little time together, Alex. You need not feel obliged to invite me along every time you go into town.’ She captured his gaze. ‘Earlier, when I came downstairs, I thought you regretted asking me to accompany you.’
His brow furrowed. Then it cleared and laughter danced in his amber eyes as he grabbed her hand, pulled off her glove and pressed hot lips to her bare skin.
Christmas with His Wallflower Wife Page 9
