A Rose in Winter (23 page)

"Three thousand!" Avery called and lifted a hand. "Who'll make it more? Thirty-five? Thirty-five? Who'll say thirty-five?"

Silence answered his plea as Silas continued to count, and the others conversed among themselves. The gleam in the eyes of the gray mouse grew brighter.

"Thirty-one? Before it's too late, gentlemen, I beg ye consider the prize."

The man on the folding stool slammed his book closed, placed the quill firmly into his case, and rose from the rather questionable comfort of his seat. "Five thousand pounds!" he said bluntly and coldly. "Five thousand, I say."

A sudden silence fell over the crowd. Silas Chambers stopped counting; he could not muster another bid. The gray mouse's face fell in disappointed defeat. Even the tippler from the back knew that the bid was well past his means. Five thousand pounds was a sum that could not be readily challenged.

Christopher's expression was one of disbelief. He looked Erienne over carefully, as if to judge her for her worth, and appeared dubious as he crinkled his brows. At that precise moment Erienne was certain that if he had been near enough for her to reach, she would have tried clawing his eyes out.

"Five thousand it is then!" Avery declared cheerily. "Five thousand! I say it once. Yer last chance, gentlemen. Five thousand twice!" He glanced about but found no takers. "Five thousand it be then! Ter this gentleman here." He clapped his hands together and pointed to the dapperly garbed man. "Ye've purchased a rare prize for yerself, sir."

"Oh, I'm not buying her for myself," the man explained.

Avery's brows shot up in surprise. "Ye were biddin' for another?" At the man's stilted nod, he queried, "And who might that be, sir?"

"Why, Lord Saxton."

Erienne gasped and stared at the man in surprise. Beyond a nightmarish form that flitted like a shapeless ghost through her memory she had no face, no shape to give to the man who had tended her through her illness.

Avery was not completely convinced. "Have ye some proof that ye come in his name? I did hear at one time his lordship was dead."

The man withdrew a letter marked with a wax seal and handed it up to Avery for his consideration. "I am Thornton Jagger," he explained. "As the letter will attest, I have been a barrister for the Saxton family a number of years. If you have doubts, I am sure there are those here who can confirm that the seal is authentic."

A buzz of voices rose from the crowd and quickly became a confused medley of gossip, conjectures, and some truths indistinguishable one from another. Erienne caught the words, "burned," "scarred," "hideous" among the jargon and a slow feeling of horror began to send cold shivers of apprehension through her. She fought to remain calm as the barrister mounted the steps. The man dropped a bag of money onto a small table that served as a desk and began scratching his name across the bottom of the banns, identifying himself as agent of Lord Saxton.

Christopher pushed his way through the crowd and climbed to the platform. He waggled the packet of bills beneath Avery's nose. "I claim it all but fifty pounds, and that I leave for your own convenience. Four thousand, nine hundred fifty pounds is my price for these. Any objections?"

Avery gaped up at the man who towered over him, wishing there were some way he could keep a larger part of the fortune for himself, but he knew with what he had left unpaid in London and the settlement of the gambling debt he had with Christopher, it added up to well over five thousand. It was at the very least a fair deal, and he could do nothing but nod and give his mute consent to the matter.

Christopher picked up the pouch, quickly counted out fifty pounds, and dropped the coins on the table. He tucked the remainder inside his coat and thumped a finger against the bundle of debts. "I never thought you would come near to matching these, but you have, and I am satisfied. From this day forth we are finished with the debts between us, Mayor."

"A pox on you!" Erienne snarled near Christopher's shoulder. His banal dismissal of the affair provoked her beyond the anger she felt toward her father. Before any could stop her, she jerked the packet from his hand and grabbed up several of the coins. She fled from their presence, never wanting to see any of them again.

Avery made to follow her but was delayed as he had to sidestep Christopher several times. "Get out o' me way!" he cried. "The twit's taken me money!"

Christopher condescended and stepped aside. As Avery departed in haste, Farrell grabbed Christopher's sleeve and angrily accused, "Ye did that on purpose! I saw ye!"

The Yankee lifted his shoulders in a casual manner. "Your sister has a right to whatever she took and more. I only made sure she had a head start."

The younger man could find no further argument in the face of the statement. He picked up the rest of the coins and stuffed them in his coat pocket, then holding his lame arm, sneered, "At least we'll be free of ye."

Christopher looked at him with the same tolerant smile until Farrell's gaze dropped. Brushing rudely past, Farrell descended the steps and hurried after his family.

Avery chased after Erienne with coattails flying, anxious to get back the coins she had taken. By the time he reached the cottage, he was sweating and gasping for breath. Slamming the door, he found her in front of the parlor hearth, staring into the growing flames that licked greedily around the packet of bills.

"Here, girl! What do ye think ye're doin'?" he demanded. "Those papers are important. They're me only proof that I paid that rascal. And what have ye done with me money?"

" 'Tis mine now," Erienne stated coldly. "My dowry! My share of the bride money! A small pittance of worth that I'm taking from here. You would do well to see that all matters are arranged for tomorrow, because this will be the last night I spend in this house. Do you understand, Father?" She stressed the title with an acid smile of contempt. "I will never be back."

Chapter Eight

THE rickety livery from Mawbry was hired to deliver the Fleming family to a church on the outskirts of Carlisle, for it was there that the services would be conducted. The day had dawned crisp and cold, with a bone-chilling wind buffeting the trees into a wild frenzy of motion. The aging of the hours lent no hope for a warming, for noon had passed and still the air was frigid, much like the silence that filled the coach.

The conveyance bumped and jolted along, adding greatly to Farrell's discomfort. He held his aching head in his hand and closed his eyes, but he could find no part of that sleep he had lost during the previous night's revelry. Avery was no better off, for it was not every day a family gained a lord into their fold, and he had spent until the wee hours of the morning drinking and boasting about their good fortune. It was the opinion of his friends that Lord Saxton was a generous soul, having wasted an extravagant sum to purchase the chit, and it was probably just as well that she was marrying him. After her stay at Saxton Hall, rumors and conjectures had been bandied about, and more than a few wondered if his lordship had taken some liberties with the girl. But if he had, at least he was correcting the matter by speaking the vows with her. Of course, the gossips were still wont to make much ado over the whole affair, and they seized and savored every tidbit that drifted their way, wringing it for whatever sweetness it might produce. For the duration of the ride, Erienne kept her thoughts to herself, having no wish to appear amiable to her father. She held to the corner of the carriage, where she huddled in her cloak, trying to find a bit of warmth in the drafty conveyance. In preparation for the day, she had dressed herself in what had become her best gown. She had no bridal garb. In fact, she preferred a dowdy appearance, since it expressed her lack of joy. Still, it was the day of her wedding, and she had carefully bathed herself and brushed her hair to its best luster. It was the least she could do.

The carriage rattled through the narrow streets of Carlisle. Leaning out, Avery shouted up to the driver, giving directions that in a few moments took them to the small stone church on the outskirts. When they arrived, Lord Saxton's coach was already in the lane in front. The coachman and footman, dressed out in white stockings and matching coats and breeches of a deep forest green trimmed with black, were waiting near the team of silky blacks. The conveyance itself was empty, and since there was no evidence of his lordship's presence in the yard, the mayor was quick to assume that the man was awaiting his bride inside.

Avery plowed through the doors, abruptly gaining the attention of Thornton Jagger and the good parson who stood together near a tall, narrow desk at one end of the pews near the front. Just inside the front portal, a barrel-chested man dressed in a black coat and breeches had taken up a waiting stance, having braced his feet apart and folded his arms across his chest. There was no one else in the chapel. Though the man's attire was certainly more somber than Lord Talbot's, Avery allowed that there was no accounting for the varying tastes of the gentry. He cleared his throat.

"Er ... yer lordship ..." he began.

The fellow raised his brows in mild surprise. "If ye be talkin' ter me, sir, me name's Bundy. I be Lord Saxton's servant... his man, sir."

Avery blushed at his mistake and chortled to hide his embarrassment. "O' course ... ah... his man." He glanced about the interior of the church, finding no other whom he could lay the title to. "Where is his lordship?"

"Me master is in the rectory, sir. He'll join ye when it's time."

Avery straightened himself, wondering if he should take offense, for the servant's tone was tinged with a bluntness that dismissed the possibility of the future father-in-law joining his lordship. The mayor would clearly have to bide his time if he wanted his curiosity appeased.

The front door came slowly open, and Farrell made his way inside, holding his head carefully upright, as if he feared it would fall off. He eased himself into one of the back pews and closed his eyes. There he would remain, hopefully undisturbed, until the service was over.

Erienne moved on to the front bench, her own back ramrod stiff. Her life, as she knew it, was about to come to an end, and she felt very much like a felon who was readying himself for the final event at Triple Tree and wondering if the noose would be the end of his sufferings or if there were truly a hell beyond. With trembling limbs, she sank to the seat and sat quietly alone in her misery, having no doubt that her father would inform her when the affair was to begin.

The Reverend Miller seemed unconcerned with the groom's absence as he prepared the documents, inspected the wording, and placed his seal and signature on the banns. Thornton Jagger scrawled his name with a flair, identifying himself as a witness, then her father bent low over the parchment and carefully penned his own beneath the barrister's. Beckoned to the fore and handed the quill, Erienne endured the moment and masked her trepidations by an extreme effort of will. Though the documents blurred before her eyes, the only hint of her agitation was a rapidly pulsing vein that throbbed in her neck just below a finely shaped ear.

The proceedings dragged to a halt when the prospective bridegroom failed to join them. Avery grew vexed with the waiting and questioned sharply, "Well, is his lordship comin' out o' his hole? Or did he intend for his barrister ter conduct the affair again?"

Reverend Miller hastened to allay his fears. "I'm sure Lord Saxton will want to speak the vows for himself, sir. I'll send his man for him now."

The clergyman gestured to Bundy, and the servant hurried along a dark hall through an alcove at its end. He disappeared through the arched opening, and an eternity meandered past before footsteps were heard again in the corridor. This time they were odd ones. A thump, and then a scrape, like the sound of a step and then something being pulled or dragged. As Erienne listened, the words of the crowd tore through her memory.

Crippled! Hideously scarred!

The haunting echo of the footsteps died away as Lord Saxton's form came partly into view, at first only a black shape with a flowing cloak covering most of his body. The upper part of his body remained obscured in the darkness of the hall, but when he passed where the light was better, Erienne gasped as she saw the reason why he moved with an odd, twisting motion. The boot of his right leg bore a thick, heavy, wedge-shaped sole, as if for the purpose of straightening a clubbed or twisted foot. After each step he took, the weighted foot was dragged sideways to meet the other.

Erienne's mind froze, and she stared in congealed horror. She was so cold and scared and so utterly unnerved that she knew she could not have moved a muscle to flee had the opportunity presented itself. She waited as one transfixed, not knowing what to expect of the rest of him. Almost reluctantly she raised her gaze, and when the candlelight finally touched his full form, Erienne's knees nearly buckled beneath her. What she saw was more frightening than anything she had ever imagined or even tried to prepare herself for.

Lord Saxton's face and head were completely covered by a black leather helm. Two slitted holes had been cut for the eyes, two tiny ones for his nostrils, and a row of small, square openings formed a mouth for the mask. It was a neatly stitched creation that had been shaped to fit over his head without giving any hint of the features beneath. Even the eyes were hidden in the shadowed depth of the slashed openings.