The Heart Denied (37 page)

When the next streak of lightning illumined the landscape, his eyes were fixed on that specter-plagued stretch of road. Except for a few battered roses the gusty wind had dashed into the mud, the road was empty. Relief flooded his veins, and with it came a sense of gratitude. He lay back down on the bed to ponder his strange dream while it was still fresh in memory.

Katy and Gwynneth?
What irony! Two such juxtaposed lives; yet, had they ever met, their reactions would most likely have been directly adverse to their aspirations: Gwynneth's the least tolerant, Katy's the most charitable. Understandable enough, Thorne had to admit, considering it would have been a meeting between wife and former lover. Why was it, he wondered, that so often in dreams things were illogical?

And what of the babe, with eyes that mirrored his own...how could it be Gwynneth's unborn?

Of course! He felt a fierce sense of triumph at his intuitiveness. It wasn't her actual unborn, the child of Hobbs, the babe that died with her; it was her abstract unborn--the child that he, Thorne, had denied her by refusing her amorous but belated advances.

So, despite her sweet smile, she wants only to torment me with visions of what might have been!
How typical of her, he mused; then he frowned. Why in his dream had Katy, of all people, presented him with the child he had denied Gwynneth? Again his mind was ready with an answer. No doubt it was Gwynneth's snide way of telling him that she was aware of his past relationship with the "harlot."

It was a dream, and dreams seldom parallel reality
,
he reminded himself tiredly. His true antagonist was not Gwynneth, but that bitter and unwelcome acquaintance known as "guilt," come calling in his sleep when he was most vulnerable and likely to receive it.

For the remainder of the pre-dawn hours he slept undisturbed, and for nearly a week more, nights at Wycliffe Hall passed without incident.

* * *

The second thunderstorm arrived in mid-March, at an hour when most residents of the Hall were preparing for bed. Still disenchanted with late evenings in the library, Thorne pored over accounts in his study while enjoying the disharmonic symphony outside. An hour later, after all within the Hall had settled for the night, an extended roll of thunder trailed off into a rather peculiar noise for a storm. Thorne decided it had come from inside, perhaps from the west wing. Peering up the east hall, he saw nothing, and had just turned back to his desk when the sound came again.

Swift and silent, he reached the great hall just as the noise commenced with a sudden flurry. He headed for the kitchen door and stood outside it to listen.

The larder! He might have suspected as much, though it had been some time since he'd heard any complaint of theft. Slowly he turned the handle and pushed the door inward, taking advantage of each clap of thunder to make bolder progress, then stood stock-still in the doorway.

In the corner on top of a wheat-flour barrel, a stub of candle had been stuck into a mound of its own wax. Scarcely a yard from its sputtering flame, a hand extending from a worn sleeve was hurriedly opening and closing one cupboard door after another.

For a few minutes Thorne only observed, curious to see what would finally catch the thief's interest. But after several swift and futile searches, the intruder swore under his breath and scratched his head.

"Perhaps I can assist, William."

The boy cried out in alarm as Thorne stepped into the room.

He went to the barrel and lifted the candle near William's face. "What is it you seek?" he asked gently.

The youth's fear waned to wariness; his mouth worked in mime as he tried to explain. "'Tis for a friend," he finally stammered, his pubescent voice cracking under tension.

"
What
is for a friend?"

"I've got to find the cam--chamo-" William broke off, worry creasing his young brow.

"Chamomile?"

"Aye!" The boy sighed in relief. "Some chamomile and some honey."

"For whom, and why?"

William stared down at his wet shoes and shifted from one foot to the other.

Thorne chucked him under the chin. "For whom?" he said more sternly.

"The miss, sir," came the grudging reply. "The miss what lives in the little shack off the Wycliffe road."

Thorne frowned. "You mean the Gypsy, the person who has sheltered in the shack all winter? I thought he--or she--would have moved along before now. Why should she be needing these things at such an odd hour, and why the devil bid
you
to confiscate them?"

"She ain't a Gypsy, M'lord." William shook his head earnestly. "'Tis the miss what once lived at the Hall and stitched. She's having her babe, and 'tis almost here!"

For a time Thorne forgot to breathe, and stared at William so intently that the boy retreated a step.

"Begging ye're pardon, M'lord, I ain't a thief, leastways not truly! I take only what she needs, and for a lady what's carrying a babe, she done without most all but what I fetched for her, and even most of that she didn't ask for-"

"'The miss,'" Thorne interrupted in a choked voice, for it seemed his heart had caught in his throat and would suffocate him at any moment. "Is 'the miss'
Elaine
Combs
?"

"Aye, M'lord, and she's in sore need of this--this cam-"

"Chamomile," Thorne said tersely, already turning toward the other cupboards. "Get a lantern in here."

William ran to the kitchen, no longer concerned with stealth.

"Now," Thorne said, all but grabbing the light from him, "go and wake Mistress MacBride."

"But the miss says to wake no one, sir-"

"And
I
said wake Mistress MacBride, damn it!"

"Aye! Aye, M'lord!" William was already halfway across the kitchen.

"Where the deuce does she keep it?" Thorne railed, searching each shelf with frenetic energy and shoving tins, bottles and jars right and left in the process.

"Here now, M'lord!" Having come from the kitchen on a shuffling run, wrapper half closed and nightcap askew, Bridey practically shoved Thorne aside to open another cupboard door. "Here we are!" She grabbed a small crock and opened it to show him some dried yellow flowers. "Surely she has a kettle?" she asked breathlessly, turning to William.

"Aye, mistress. But she could do with more linens."

"Och, of course she could, poor soul. We must hurry. Run and fetch clean ones from the big chest topstairs, William, and wake Janie while ye're at it, but do it quiet-like, she's in the bed nearest the door. Let's see, I'll need my cayenne, and some shepherd's purse in case the bleeding don't slow as it should..." She took a deep breath. "M'lord, ye might's well send for Dobson to bring the coach 'round, I can't sit a horse, much less mount one."

"The devil take this bloody weather!" Thorne fumed, starting toward the cloakroom. "The road may be too muddy for the coach."

"Send for a cart, then," Bridey said soothingly. "A bit of rain never hurt nobody. We'll manage, ye needn't fret." Thorne gave her a grateful look.

William returned with the linens and was immediately dispatched for a cart. The dozen minutes it took for the horses to be harnessed and hitched and led through the gardens seemed a lifetime to Thorne, who had felt like running the whole considerable distance on foot from the moment William revealed his secret.

The cart, drawn by two horses to help prevent the wheels from sticking in the mire, made slow but steady progress. The devil must have seen fit to take the weather after all, for by the time everyone had boarded the cart, the downpour had abated to a fine mist.

According to Thorne's pocket watch, checked every few seconds by lantern light, five-and-twenty long minutes had passed when they finally reached the shack. Slivers of dim light sliced through rag-stuffed chinks in the squared logs, and he fought a tide of helpless anger as he wondered if Elaine Combs had known a minute's warmth over the winter.

William was first through the door. Thorne tried to be patient as he helped the women off the cart. With a low command to the horses and a few long strides, he was soon over the rotting threshold.

Immediately noticing that the room was too smoky, he forced himself to ignore the muffled moans of pain from the little cot, where Janie and Bridey were already busy. He rolled up his sleeves and poked a stick of kindling up the chimney, smelling the hair on his arms singeing as he cleared caked soot, rotted leaves and bird nest debris from the chimney. Satisfied once the fire was producing less smoke than heat, he wiped his hands on his breeches and went toward the cot.

"Now, now," Bridey chided, glancing over her shoulder at him. "Ye might as well wait by the fire, M'lord, or outdoors with William. Men have little stomach for these things."

"
This
man," Thorne retorted, "has birthed foals, lambs, calves and pups, and managed to keep both his stomach and his wits. Stand aside, woman, if only for a moment...for by God, I
will
see her."

Bridey squeezed her bulk past him without meeting his eyes. "I'll just see to the hot water," she mumbled.

Thorne's heart leapt with his first glimpse of the swollen-bellied woman lying on the straw-stuffed mattress.

"M'lord," she whispered, smiling through her pain. She held out her hand, a gesture which opened Janie's eyes wide with its impropriety, but Thorne took it without hesitation and held it firmly in both his. Riveted by her eyes, he drank in the quiet strength that radiated from them even in the midst of her labor.

"How do you do?" he asked urgently, feeling inane and inadequate as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Her smile widened. "As well as can be expected, I imagine...oh!" she gasped, and suddenly Bridey was immediately behind Thorne.

"Come, M'lord, yield me quarter now. The babe is on its way."

Thorne gave Elaine's hand a gentle squeeze. "You'll be fine," he assured her, wanting desperately to say more but at a loss for words. She tried to smile at him, but winced dreadfully at the next onslaught of pain.

It was more than he could bear. Taking Bridey's earlier advice, he grabbed his damp cloak and stepped outside, silently cursing himself for not thinking to bring a flask of whiskey. Then he remembered the brandy Bridey had brought along for disinfecting. But no, he would feel humiliated asking for even a little of it, and the cook would be quite bemused.

The wait seemed an hour or more; in fact it was less than half that time. Bridey's chubby face fairly beamed when she opened the sagging door to tell Thorne it was over.

A pre-arranged consensus seemed to ensue as she and Janie went hastily to the other end of the shack. Scarcely aware of them at any rate, Thorne defied convention by sitting on the edge of the cot. Gently he stroked the downy head of the sleeping infant, though his attention was on the mother. "Bridey didn't say--'he' or 'she'?"

"I've a daughter," Elaine said with a tired but grateful smile. "And you've a niece."

He pressed his lips together, then said quietly, "I gather William has kept you informed."

"Aye." She gathered the swaddled child closer. "'Tis a shame Mister Hobbs would have none of her...though I'd like to think he sees her now, and knows she is his." She touched her lips to the baby's wrinkled little forehead.

Pierced through the heart by that simple maternal gesture, Thorne had to look away. "Hobbs was a fool for disowning the babe," he said huskily, "and I told him as much."

Elaine smiled, closing her eyes. "You were ever my champion, Thorne," she murmured. "I haven't forgotten." Her eyes flew open to find him staring at her intently. "I...I beg your pardon, M'lord, for speaking familiar...'tis just that..."

"Just that what?" he whispered harshly, every nerve of his body feeling inexplicably raw, as if he were about to be flayed.

He was dismayed to see tears trickle from her eyes. Unmindful of the servants, he gently wiped them away with the backs of his fingers. "Tell me," he entreated her, his voice choked with a tenderness the depth of which he'd never experienced. "I cannot bear to see you unhappy."

A small sob escaped her. "You never could."

Thorne heard the bustle of skirts behind him. "Leave us," he said tautly, and heard the skirts retreat. He stroked the infant's head again. "Why," he murmured, making no effort to mask the pain in his voice, "did you go?"

Elaine looked sadly touched. "'Twas necessary."

Cold anger slithered through Thorne's veins and hardened his features. "Lady Neville."

"No," Elaine whispered, and shook her head weakly. "I'd have gladly suffered her abuse to remain in your house."

"Then what?...who?" He squeezed her hand.

"Lord Whittingham," she answered, then seemed to hold her breath.

"That whoreson threatened you, made overtures? God's blood, he
was
in my house the night you disappeared, and he did the same to my guest!"

"No," Elaine whispered with a shudder. "He didn't threaten me. I made certain of it."

Thorne heard a stir in the room; the midwifery team was about to swoop down on him again. He held a staying hand out behind him, saying to Elaine with soft urgency, "I don't understand...had Lord Whittingham threatened you before?"