by Mary Balogh
Martin interrupted the rambling tale. “I assume that money eventually talked,” he said. “And I sent you with a bundle. What was his answer?”
“There were a Mr. Christopher Atwell on board during his last crossing, sir,” the servant said, “but no Earl of Trevelyan.”
Martin’s eyes gleamed with triumph. “One out of the two is quite good enough,” he said, and he crossed his room to a small bureau, handed a roll of banknotes to the man, and sent him on his way before smiling with satisfaction and slamming one of his fists into the palm of the other hand.
“I knew it,” he muttered to the empty room. With the passing of the days he had become more and more convinced that Atwell’s—Trevelyan’s—return could be the only explanation for Elizabeth’s disappearance without trace. The fact that he had indeed returned just a day or two before the wedding was too much of a coincidence for there to be no connection between it and her kidnapping.
Martin had found her at last. He was in no doubt that Trevelyan would have taken her to Penhallow. It was said to be a lonely and remote place, more of a medieval castle than a civilized gentleman’s home. That was where he would have taken her. Martin was so sure of the fact that he changed his earlier plan, which was to send someone down to Devonshire to discover if they were there. Precious days would be lost with that plan, he decided. He would go himself.
And yet it did not take many minutes for his early elation to fade. He had found her, yes, or he was almost convinced that he had found her. But she had been gone for almost two weeks. And all that time she had been with Trevelyan. The two of them had been alone together on a lonely estate.
Martin clenched his fists until his knuckles were white. What was the explanation? Was she being kept there against her will? If so, was she being molested? Or was she staying there from choice? She had come to hate Trevelyan over the years, but then hatred could be a more dangerous emotion than indifference. And she had been besotted with him once. What if she were staying there from choice? Martin almost preferred the mental image of her confined in a dungeon.
He was breathing in short gasps. If there was one man be had hated more than any other during his life it was Trevelyan. Atwell had been twenty-four years old when he had met Elizabeth for the first time, and he had thought within no time at all that he could lay claim to her love, that he could carry her off to live with him for a lifetime. And she—sweet impressionable Lizzie—had fallen for dark good looks and sweet words of love and had forgotten those who had loved her all her life.
Well, Martin thought, stretching out his fingers and flexing them, he had rescued her once. He would rescue her again—even if she was staying willingly at Penhallow. But he did not think that was the case. Elizabeth had done a great deal of growing up in seven years and was not nearly as impressionable as she had used to be. Even he, Martin, did not have as much influence over her as he had once had.
He and Macklin would be leaving for Devonshire at first light tomorrow, he decided.
Two weeks after her accident had robbed her of all personal memories, Elizabeth felt more than ever that icing could be too sweet without the cake to go with it. And a honeymoon could be too sweet when there was no courtship, no relationship, no wedding to precede it. The two weeks had been too sweet. She felt guilty and ungrateful for thinking so because undoubtedly the sweetness had been wonderful.
In many ways those days had been an idyll. She had nothing to do but gradually to relearn her surroundings and become reacquainted with those she loved. Christopher spent the mornings about the estate with his steward, but he devoted the rest of each day and all of the nights to her. They walked and rode and talked and laughed. And loved. Physically and every other way there was to love. They were deeply in love—she knew that she was not alone in her feelings. They were like young lovers, new to each other and new to the emotion.
It was wonderful. It was delirious. Though she tried very hard sometimes to remember, to trick or jolt her memory back, she also dreaded remembering. For they could not be in love in quite the way they were now, and she was afraid of what the reality might be. Perhaps their love had matured into something deeper and more lasting than that wild youthful passion they were experiencing now. Or perhaps it had cooled and become something mundane and dull. Perhaps they both felt their marriage to be empty with no children to give it depth.
She dreaded remembering. She wanted things to remain as they were now. Forever. And yet she was not quite happy even now and felt guilty for her unhappiness. Everything was too sweet, too perfect, too—oh, it was too much without challenge. Both Nancy and Christopher were protecting her as if she were a fragile doll or as if she were—a prisoner.
The thought made Elizabeth unhappy with guilt. How could she feel confined when they were both so good to her?
They both protested against her leaving the estate. Elizabeth wanted to go visiting with Nancy. She wanted to go to church with Christopher. It was true that she would not know friends and neighbors she was expected to know, she admitted when they voiced that objection, but people would understand when the facts were explained to them. She would have to get to know them again some time if her memory was not going to return.
But both of them urged her to give herself time, to give her memory a chance to return and save her from the distress and embarrassment of going out into a world that she no longer knew. And because she loved them both and trusted their love for her, she agreed. But unhappily. It was as if life had been suspended and she had lost the power to bring it into motion again.
And so she spent her days willing her memory to come back and dreading that it would do so. She loved Christopher so much, she thought sometimes when she looked at him, especially at night when she woke up and he slept beside her, his arm always about her shoulders. She loved him so much that it was almost painful. And she was afraid of what their marriage had been like before she lost her memory—an unreasonable fear since they were together now and clearly loved each other. But she could not quite shake anxiety from her mind.
It was the fear of the unknown. And the longing to remember so that at least the fear could be faced. And the equally compelling longing never to know, never to have to face what might be an unpleasant reality.
Christopher was feeling irritable. He had wasted the whole of a gloriously sunny morning at the cottage of one of his tenants who had a grievance—admittedly a genuine grievance that would have to be looked into, as Christopher had agreed at the time—yet now when he and Elizabeth were both in their dressing rooms getting ready for a ride along the valley, clouds had closed in and rain was imminent. There was no point in trying to convince himself that they were not rain clouds.
He wondered for a moment if they should go anyway, since a ride along the valley last time had meant a ride to the beach and along under the cliffs to the cave and an afternoon of lovemaking. But even so it was a long ride. They would not even make it to the end of the valley. A few stray raindrops were already spitting their warning against the windowpanes. They would have to remain indoors. He would have to share her with Nancy unless they were blatant about their desire to be alone and retired to his bedchamber for the afternoon.
He had had a nasty row with Nancy before luncheon. She had pointed out to him that they could not continue to keep Elizabbeth a prisoner at Penhallow for much longer without telling her quite bluntly that she was just that.
“She is restless and unhappy, Christopher,” she had said. “She needs wider horizons. She needs other people and other activities.”
“She is not unhappy,” he had said harshly. “She loves being here.” Even to his own ears he had sounded like a petulant schoolboy.
“Yes. God help her,” she had said, her voice cold, “I believe she does. And she loves you too. But love does not necessarily bring happiness, Christopher.”
He knew it. And he knew she was right. He had abandoned himself to an enjoyment of these days too and could no longer deny that his feeling
s for Elizabeth involved far more love than hate. Yet he too was not quite happy. How could he be with such a burden of guilt on his conscience? He had always a sense of waiting—waiting for something to happen, waiting to move on to the next scene of the drama. There was no possibility of totally relaxing into the wonder and magic that these days were undoubtedly bringing them both.
And of course Elizabeth was his prisoner. Why else would he have told no one outside the house about her? And why else would he have instructed his servants to say nothing in the village about her presence at Penhallow? Why would he not let her leave, even to go to church with him and Nancy? She was his prisoner as surely as if he had her locked in chains in a dungeon.
And now the afternoon with Elizabeth he had looked forward to was spoiled. It was, he supposed, the perfect opportunity to begin to put things right. The change in the weather was like the warning of the end of an idyll. He should make up his mind to end their liaison. To tell her the truth. To adjust his own mind to reality. The reality was that she had no part in his life or he in hers. The reality was that she had destroyed him in the past, that he had made something of his life despite her. The reality was that he hated her.
But for all the good sense of his thoughts he knew that he would not tell her. Not yet. The temptation to try to prolong the idyll would be just too strong when he saw her again.
There was a tap on the door of his dressing room even as he turned to it, and it opened before he reached it. Antoine Bouchard came right inside and closed the door behind his back.
“You ’ave a visitor, m’sieur,” he said. “I was passing through the ’all when ’e arrived and said I would inform you.”
“Blast!” Christopher said. “Who is it, Antoine? It will have to wait until tomorrow. I am otherwise engaged for this afternoon.”
“Captain Jamie Rice,” Antoine said.
Christopher frowned. “Captain Rice?” he said. “What the devil does he want?”
“Except,” Antoine said dramatically, “that ’e is not the captain, m’sieur. This man I never see before.”
“Ah,” Christopher said. There was almost a feeling of relief. So someone had found him.
“I fear you ’ave been found out,” Antoine said. “And ’e is ’oping to get you downstairs unsuspecting. It was a good thing I was there, eh, m’sieur?”
“Yes,” Christopher said. “It looks that way. Where is this visitor, Antoine?”
“In the visitors’ salon,” the Frenchman said. “Only one servant came with ’im, m’sieur, but I do not trust the situation. I will come with you with a gun, non?”
“Good Lord, no,” Christopher said. “I had better see who it is and what he wants.” He walked purposefully from the room and down the stairs, still feeling that strange relief along with some apprehension. Something was finally happening. Anything was perhaps better than nothing, though he said a regrettable good-bye to his idyll as he crossed the hall and nodded to Hemmings to open the doors into the salon. Who would it be? he wondered. Chicheley? Poole? Or someone quite unconnected with his kidnapping of Elizabeth?
“Martin!” he said, stepping into the room and waiting for the doors to close behind him. Of course, he might have expected that of all people it would be Elizabeth’s stepbrother who would come. He had been with her and the duke outside the church in Hanover Square, had he not?
Martin was standing with his back to the fireplace, his usually good-humored face looking decidedly grim. He took his hands from behind his back as the doors closed and pointed a dueling pistol directly at Christopher’s heart. He held the gun with both hands.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Elizabeth?” Christopher said. “Upstairs. You do not need the gun, Martin.”
“Have her brought down,” Martin said, not moving a muscle. “If you have harmed her in any way, Trevelyan, I am going to kill you.”
Christopher nodded. “I can understand your feelings," he said, “but this can be settled amicably, Martin. I am not dangerous, though I believe my man might be. He is at the window with a far larger gun than yours. If I die, you will be very fast on my heels.”
Martin took one jerky look over his shoulder toward the window that looked out on the courtyard, where Antoine was standing with a large hunting gun trained on the visitor.
“He spent years in the Canadian wilderness, where one shoots first and asks questions afterward,” Christopher said, “and where one does not live long if one does not have a deadly accurate aim. Put it down, Martin, and let’s talk. We used to be friends, didn’t we? You were my only friend at the end, I remember.”
Martin lowered the gun slowly, walked a few steps to set it down on a table, and then resumed his place before the fireplace. Christopher nodded to Antoine, who disappeared from the window.
“Upstairs?” Martin said. “Locked up? Tied up? How long did you intend to keep her here?” His face was grim and his hands trembled at his sides.
Christopher shrugged. “Originally I suppose the idea was to keep her as long as it took to convince her that she should not marry Poole,” he said. “I thought you cared for her, Martin. Why the devil didn’t you talk her out of such a ghastly marriage?”
“Poole is thoroughly respectable,” Martin said. “He is a Whig, of course, but that does not make him a pariah. He is what Elizabeth chose and what she needs—someone respectable and ambitious and socially prominent. The past needs to be wiped out once and for all.”
Christopher ignored the last sentence. “Deuce take it,” he said, “Poole is the dullest dog one could find in London. She would not be happy with him for a fortnight.”
Martin shrugged. “Is she locked up?” he asked. “I want to see her.”
“I’ll bring her down in a moment,” Christopher said. “But I need to prepare you first.”
Martin paled and his hands opened and closed convulsively at his sides. “You have not ... ” He took a step forward.
“No, I have not beaten her black and blue,” Christopher said. “But she did fall—from the carriage when I was bringing her here. She is fully recovered from her bruises. But she has lost her memory.”
Martin stared at him.
“Actually”—Christopher licked dry lips—“actually I could not be happier to see you, Martin. She knows nothing, you see, except what I have told her. But it is time she knew the truth. Perhaps seeing you will jolt her memory. If not, then you and I will have to start telling her what she has forgotten. But gradually, I think you will agree. We don’t want to throw her into a state of shock on top of everything.”
“What does she know?” Martin was standing very still.
Christopher drew a deep breath. “I have told her that she is my wife,” he said. He looked very directly at Martin. “We have been living together as man and wife. Very contentedly, I might add.”
He had calculated the number of steps Martin would have to take to reach the pistol and knew exactly how he would cut him off and make sure that it was never fired. He had also prepared himself for a frontal attack with fists. Or for a verbal blistering. What actually happened was that Martin continued to stand very still, his hands still opening and closing. He pursed his lips after a while. “I see,” he said unexpectedly.
“You know I was innocent, Martin,” Christopher said.
“I believed so,” Martin said. “Against all reason. I liked you, Trevelyan, and thought you incapable of hurting my sister in just that way.”
“You believed so. Past tense,” Christopher said quietly. “You changed your mind?”
“Why did you run?” Martin asked. “It made you look hellish guilty, you know. And then those other things came pouring out after you had gone. Did you think they would remain hidden? Some of it at least had to be true. There could not have been all that smoke without some fire. I wanted to believe you innocent. You were my friend. I like to be able to stand by my friends. And I admired you—I was only eighteen and you twenty-four. You were a type of hero
to me. But in the end I was forced to admit that you had made a fool of me.”
“Those other things?” Christopher raised his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Martin said harshly. “It all came out—every filthy detail—after you had gone. These things tend to happen, you know. I was shocked, I must confess, though I liked to think myself worldly-wise. It almost killed her, Trevelyan.”
“Well,” Christopher said quietly, “perhaps I was in more danger from your pistol a few minutes ago than I realized. It seems that more happened after my departure than I know about. Someone must have hated me with a dreadful passion. But more of that later. Will you cooperate with me on this at least, Martin? You will not try to force the truth on Elizabeth too suddenly if she does not know you when I bring her down? We will discuss together what is to be revealed and when?”
“Bring her down,” Martin said. “You don’t have to beg me to do what is in her best interests, Trevelyan. I have always done what I thought to be best for her.”
“Yes,” Christopher said, extending his right hand, hoping that it would be taken, “I have to give you that, Martin. You have always loved Elizabeth more steadfastly than any of the rest of us. For that I must honor you and still think of you as a friend even if you no longer do the like for me. I assume you have cared for her during the past seven years too—while I fled.”
Martin looked at his hand for a long moment before taking it in his own. “Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps you have reformed your character in the last seven years. I certainly hope so. I have missed your friendship. Now I want to see Elizabeth.”
