The Heart Denied (38 page)

She managed one exhausted nod. "Aye...before."

"M'lord," Bridey broke in plaintively. "Ye must let her rest now." She approached the bed with a determination that defied all authority.

"Rest now," Thorne murmured close to Elaine's ear. "We'll talk again." It took all the self-discipline he possessed not to touch his lips to her cheek in plain view of the cook. "Can she be moved tonight?" he asked Bridey.

A glad light came into the old cook's eyes as she replied in the affirmative, but Thorne saw guarded speculation there as well. He supposed he'd broken several rules of class distinction as well as decorum this eventful evening, and Bridey wasn't stupid. Too, he realized that some self-examination and soul-searching were in the offing, but just now the welfare of the new mother and child were his only concern. "William, make a bed in the cart with some of these linens," he said kindly to the anxious youth. "The 'miss' is coming home."

"Aye, M'lord!" The smile on William's face was infectious, and Thorne felt a lump rise in his throat again, this time one of gratitude for the solicitous care given Elaine by this loyal young servant. A reward of some kind was certainly in order; he would enjoy deciding its nature.

For the first time in months, his heart began to lighten.

* * *

"The largest of the guest chambers on the south side," Thorne repeated to his stunned housekeeper.

"Will she require attendance?"

"She will indeed. Byrnes should do nicely."

"For how long, M'lord? I ask only because Byrnes is assisting Markham."

Thorne stared at her pointedly. "For as long as I deem appropriate. That is all for now."

"Aye, M'lord." Her curtsey was deep and exaggerated. She turned to go.

"One thing more, Dame Carswell."

As if moving through mud, she faced him. "M'lord?"

"I shall say this once and only once. Elaine Combs' child is my niece, a member of my family, and as such shall enjoy full rights and privileges in accordance with her station."

The housekeeper hesitated only a moment. "Certainly, M'lord, there was never any doubt. With your permission, I shall find her a proper nurse."

"She has a nurse. Her own mother. Leave it to you to call the propriety of nature into question. And until her mother is in the pink of health, she'll recuperate in the comfort of my home."

Though the housekeeper's narrow jaw had taken a set and the light of battle was in her eyes, her voice was admirably controlled. "Of course, M'lord, and when Combs is up to it, perhaps you'll reinstate her as Markham's assistant. 'Twould be a fine arrangement. She could easily visit the nursery for the child's feedings."

Thorne's mouth quirked at one corner. "Ah, I see your logic. Quite sensible, really. The woman can resume her duties, hence being no burden to my household, and, except for the occasional nuisance of wet-nursing, can forget she ever bore a child."

"Aye, M'lord." Carswell appeared somewhat mollified. "She'll have spent little time with it, a few days at most, and things would be much easier on her if 'tis given into the care of an experienced woman of higher rank. Two years hence, when it no longer requires a wet-nurse, Combs will be left to her principal duty, that of seamstress in your house--if, indeed, you should even wish to keep her on."

Thorne's smile was benign enough, but if the housekeeper had been less determined, she might have noticed the ice in his eyes. "I should remind you that this 'it' of whom you speak is a 'she,' Dame Carswell. Now then, let me clarify your proposal for my own understanding. When two years have passed, Combs should forfeit all claim to her natural-born daughter, that being the time when her mammary glands are no longer needed to serve. Have I got it right?"

"
Sir
!"

"Forgive me, ma'am, if I've insulted your fine sensibilities, but I tend to be blunt on those rare occasions when my authority is challenged by a servant, even one so erudite and highly ranked as yourself...you are my servant, are you not, Dame Carswell?" At her mumbled affirmation he said heartily, "Good! For a moment I thought perhaps I'd only dreamed it. Then kindly carry out my orders as I've given them. And send Byrnes to me directly."

Dame Carswell's silent indignation barely allowed her to execute a curtsey. Thorne made a mental note to put a word of inquiry about Northampton, perhaps London, for a new housekeeper. This time she'd come dangerously close to outright insubordination, and just as before, the bone of her dogged contention was Elaine Combs.

"By God, I suffered my wife to slander her, time and time again," he muttered to himself as she glided away, "but I'll be damned if I'll endure the same from you!"

* * *

"Good afternoon, M'lord," Elaine said softly.

Giving Byrnes a nod, Thorne approached the bed.

No longer in pain and in far more comfortable surroundings, Elaine fairly glowed. Her muslin wrapper was faded, but spotless, and Byrnes had brushed the tangles from her hair and woven it into a thick plait, leaving it to cascade over her bodice and onto the velvet counterpane. It was as much for that picture that Thorne smiled as for the sight of the sleeping infant in the crook of her arm.

"And how are the ladies today?"

"Quite well, thanks to your lordship." Elaine darted a glance at Byrnes, who waited by the open door. Thorne was quick to interpret the look, and asked the maid to leave them alone for awhile. When she'd gone, he leaned down to caress the baby's cheek.

"Like satin," he murmured. "She has your complexion."

"Thank you."

Thorne pretended not to notice her blush.

It was the fourth day of shelter for the two refugees. Each day he'd visited for a longer period, but today was the first time he'd been alone with his charges.

The baby stirred and whimpered, rosebud mouth puckering. Her eyes opened, squinted. The whimper quickly amplified, and she beat tiny fists irregularly against her chest.

Elaine smiled down into the reddening little face, glancing briefly at Thorne. "She's hungry. There, don't fret, sweeting, I shall feed you presently."

"May I..." Thorne began, feeling as awkward as an adolescent, then tried again. "I'd like to watch her nurse."

Elaine smiled, lowering her eyes, and nodded.

Thorne pretended to look away while she discreetly unlaced the bodice of her wrapper and shift, but his peripheral vision caught her gathering the babe close and touching a nipple to her cheek. Instantly the infant rooted for it, latching onto it and suckling as though she knew her very life depended upon it.

"You may look now."

He was taken aback to find himself physically aroused by the mere sight of a milk-swollen mammary. But he was emotionally stirred as well, by the intimacy between mother and daughter, and subsequently filled with self-loathing for envying the babe that intimacy, not to mention her right to suckle from that breast. Amazed and shamed by his near-rampant erection, he made a quick check of his buttoned waistcoat and prepared to take his leave, murmuring something--later he would forget what, as it was a total fabrication--about a call from his solicitor.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he mumbled, and strode quickly from the chamber. Unable to resist a backward glance, he saw that neither mother or daughter paid any mind to his departure, each caught up in the other as they should be.

His questions had waited for months. They would wait another day.

* * *

The next afternoon Thorne arrived at the guest chamber armed with determination and a certain book of poetry. He was delighted to find that Byrnes was out for an hour or so: time enough to make his inquiries.

Elaine greeted him warmly, but Thorne wondered if she could be nearly as pleased to see him as he was to see her. It had occurred to him that she might be grateful for any company at all, lying in that big bed with little to do but rest, read, eat, and feed her daughter, who at present was asleep in the bedside crib.

"Please, draw up a chair," Elaine bade him. "You looked so uncomfortable standing there yesterday."

He complied without comment.

"You've come to read to me?" She looked surprised and intrigued.

"Aye. I thought you might like this book in particular." Willing the tremor in his hand to still, he leafed through the book until he reached the page he sought, and began reading in a low voice--although he could have recited the words from memory.

"Thou art blind tho' thou doth see--

Search thy mem'ry--discover me

Met long ago--yet twained by fate--

Thou know'st me not--here at thy gate

His quick glance at the luminous gray eyes revealed that Elaine was either mesmerized or in shock. He made himself go on, trying hard to keep his voice evenly modulated.

Tho' oft-times now thou speak'st to me--

Thine eye hath yet to know

The face that came'st to love thee

So many years ago

When he'd finished, it took him a moment to brave her inscrutable gaze.

"Why did you read that particular selection to me?"

"I think you know," he said quietly.

"I should like to hear the reason from you."

"Very well then. 'Twas the last book I saw in your hand before you...disappeared." He watched her intently. "And because I discovered my full name written in the margin, in a hand I suspect is yours." He held the book out for her to see, but she made no move to take it.

"Aye, 'tis my hand," she admitted.

"How is it you know my full christened name? I'm the only one who uses it, and rarely at that."

Elaine looked down.

Thorne leaned forward, closing the book. "Tell me," he said, trying hard to conceal his eagerness. "Is the verse on that page somehow significant to you?"

She bit her lip, then sighed. "Do you remember how on the first morning you saw me about my duties, you wondered if I had served here as a girl?"

"I do indeed. You seemed oddly familiar. But you quickly rid me of that notion with your ready reply."

"Yes, I did." She returned his gaze for a few moments, then indicated the volume of poetry. "Will you read it to me again? But this time," she added softly, "read it as if I were the poet, and you the person to whom I've written."

* * *

Thorne Neville's dubious gaze eventually fell to the page; he began to read again, but silently. When he'd finished, he glanced at Elaine, then perused it again, and afterward sat and stared blankly at the page.

All the while she said nothing, allowing him any time he might need to assimilate his thoughts.

"Having read it in that context," he said at last, an edge to his voice, "I must conclude that I should know you from another time, that your face was familiar to me for good reason."

Elaine made no denial, only waited hopefully.

"Rubbish." Rising abruptly, he tossed the book aside. "If we had been previously acquainted, I'd remember." His sun-browned visage seemed a shade paler than normal, and Elaine sensed that somewhere within his subconscious mind he'd guessed the truth, perhaps even before now. For some reason he wasn't ready to acknowledge it; indeed he seemed to be fighting it tooth and nail.

She was loathe to force him into confronting it, fearing irreparable damage to the strange and wonderful bond woven between them in the past year. She fought back tears of frustration--after all,
she
had dealt with her unique circumstances for years; how could she expect
him
to accept it all in one evening? She cautioned herself to be patient.

"I must go," he said tersely. "Arthur expects me for tea this afternoon."

It was a lie, she knew, but she also knew that he couldn't stay another moment in her presence, on the brink of what he obviously sensed was some terrible revelation.

"Good afternoon, my lord," she said faintly, as he strode from her bedchamber.

There was no reply.

* * *

By the stroke of five that evening, Thorne was ensconced alone in the library. By six he'd downed half a decanter of Scotch whiskey.

At half-past six, he was asleep in the overstuffed chair. An hour later, when Jennings woke him for supper, he requested that a tray be sent to his room.

By eight of the clock he was into the decanter on his sideboard, his food untouched. Until the hour of ten or thereabouts, he drank and slept intermittently, sleep being the only sure method by which he could stave off conscious thought. No amount of liquor seemed able to curtail it.