Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (17 page)

Look at her daughter. She was still shaking.

Through the carriage window, she searched the landscape for the figure of a lonely, scared boy, apologizing silently to him for exposing him to this terror. There was no sign of him.

Perhaps he was still at Hartwell. Perhaps she should turn back. But the Ardens had promised to look for him, and take care of him. She trusted them that far, or rather she trusted Beth. She didn't know about men anymore.

As soon as they arrived home, she searched the cottage but Bastian wasn't there, not even in his favorite hiding places. Of course he wasn't. He couldn't walk home as quickly as the carriage had brought her. Judith was tempted to start back for Hartwell again, hoping to meet him on the way.

Rosie began to sob again, and so Judith took her onto her lap and forced herself to be calm. Leander wouldn't harm the boy now that he no longer had the right. The
right!
What right did anyone have to bully an innocent child.

Well, not entirely innocent.

Judith looked at her sniffing daughter and stroked her hair. "It'll be all right, darling. Everything will be all right." She didn't know how. Perhaps she should have kept the diamond.

Rosie ducked her head. "It's all Bastian's fault for going to look at the horses."

"No, dear. It wasn't such a terrible thing to do."

Rosie wailed. "Then... then it's
mine!"

She would have buried her face again in Judith's bodice but Judith held her off to look at her as she handled this. "No, dear. How could it be yours?"

But Rosie was sobbing beyond coherence. Eventually Judith caught one word. Boat. The Ardens' punt.

She felt a chill shoot through her. "Did you get in the boat, Rosie?"

Gasping sobs, and a frightened look.

"You know that's not allowed."

A nod.

"If you'd fallen in the river, you could have drowned. You can't swim."

"Papa Leander stopped me falling in."

Judith swallowed against an ache in her throat. "Did you nearly fall in?"

Rosie looked down. "I was just looking for fishes."

Oh, sweet heavens. The whole picture was filling in. No wonder he'd been furious. She tried to tell herself this was all Leander's fault. Bastian would never have dreamed of sneaking off to the stables and leaving Rosie before he'd been indulged in daily rides.

"What did Lord Charrington do to Bastian, Rosie?"

"He called him back. Then he told him off something terrible. He told him he was irr-e-spons-i-ble."

"And then what?"

"Bastian started blubbering," said Rosie not without a touch of satisfaction, for Bastian was always accusing her of being too quick to cry.

"Bastian cried?"

Rosie nodded. "And ran away."

"Lord Charrington must have done something else, or threatened to. Bastian doesn't cry, and he doesn't run away. What did he do?"

Rosie shook her head. "He just said things. But he was so cross."

Judith stood Rosie up and went to the door, not knowing what to make of any of this. "Oh, where are you, Bastian?"

Instead of her son, she saw Hubble walking toward her with a large packet. For a second she thought it was some bizarre parting gift from Leander, but then she saw it had come on the mail.

Hubble smiled cheerily. "This come yesterday and got forgot-like, Mrs. Rossiter. Asked if I'd bring it over on my way back from the Dog. I'll set it in the house, will I? It's a mite heavy."

"Yes," said Judith absently. "Have you seen Bastian, Mister Hubble?"

"Aye, the lad's down in the graveyard, ma'am."

Judith was swamped with relief, and said some heartfelt prayers of thanks. She went to collect Rosie and found her studying the package with interest, her spirits reviving rapidly. She clearly didn't understand the consequences of this day's work.

Judith glanced at the package without much interest. There was no sign of what it could be and she didn't care. She had more important matters on her mind.

She had to admit there had been some justification for Leander's anger, but not for whatever he'd done to terrify her child. She should be glad she had seen the truth before she had committed herself to him. In fact, she felt a sickening sense of loss.

She took Rosie's hand and went out to find her son.

He was sitting on the lump of granite, staring morosely at the water, tearstains on somewhat grubby cheeks. Judith sat beside him and gathered him to her side. "It's all right, Bastian," she said gently. "It will be all right."

"No it won't," he muttered.

"Yes it will. Lord Charrington and I are not going to be married."

He put his head on his knees and started to sob. For a moment she thought it was relief, but then she began to have doubts. She grasped his shoulders. "Bastian, what is it? What's the matter?"

"It's all my fault!" he choked out. "I knew he'd not want me as his son!"

She pulled him up against her breast. "It's
not
your fault, dearest. You don't have to put up with his cruelty. We'll manage..."

He drew away and fought to control himself. "He wasn't cruel, Mama, but I could tell he didn't like me anymore. And he was right. I
was
irresponsible. I
shouldn't
have left Rosie. I
do
deserve a whipping."

"No, you don't," she said fiercely.

He looked miserably down. "I think I might rather that than no riding. But I don't suppose there'll be any riding anymore...."

"Bastian," said Judith, "you can't let him bribe you with horses!" Then she paused, taking it in. "Is that what he threatened you with, no more riding?"

He glanced at her. "Not threatened. That's what he said. No riding until we got to his home, Temple Knollis."

"And that's why you ran away?" She had to admit that it was a fair punishment, and one that would hit home.

"No," said Bastian scrubbing at his eyes. "I ran away because I could see he didn't like me anymore. Then he was angry 'cos I'd run. And I knew I'd torn it for sure."

"Oh darling," Judith said and gathered him in again. "Of course he likes you." It was an inane thing to say and yet she knew it was true. Leander had doubtless been disappointed in Bastian's behavior, just as she was, but his feelings in the orchard had been more worry than anger.

She had misjudged him again, and this time emphatically put an end to the whole affair. As Bastian would have said, she'd torn it for sure.

She gave him one last hug then rose wearily to her feet and began the walk home, an arm around each child. It was as well she hadn't worn any of her finery. Perhaps Lettie Grimsham would take the clothes back for part of the cost.

Back at the cottage she wondered dully whether there was any point in apologizing, but despaired. He was surely pleased of a lucky escape.

The children asked if they could open the tantalizing parcel, and she absently said yes. She mechanically set about preparing their supper, thinking about the complications and embarrassment of canceling the wedding, wondering if she could hold on to the cottage. There were new tenants ready to move in.

She would receive her quarterly allowance from Timothy Rossiter in the New Year. Thank heavens she had not yet written to tell him it was no longer necessary. She added figures in her head, and wondered whether she should start to wear Sebastian's rings again now, or whether she could sell them to keep them all from the workhouse.

She realized there had been no comment from the children on the package's contents, and turned. Any distraction would be welcome at the moment. "What is it, then?"

They were using the string to play with Magpie. "Just more of Papa's books."

Judith wiped her hands and went over, puzzled. As soon as she saw the contents she recognized the handsome editions in blue leather and gilt. Sebastian had paid for his poems to be produced in this opulent style, and then given them away as gifts. He had always sent one to the Regent, and received a brief acknowledgment from a flunkie.

No wonder he'd never made any money. She wondered what on earth she was supposed to do with this belated batch, and picked up the letter which accompanied them.

Dear Mrs. Rossiter,

I hope these elegant volumes of your husband's exquisite poems are a cause for sweet remembrance, not renewed grief. It has been a cause of some distress to me that these special editions of his last opus were delayed by problems in acquiring precisely the leather he requested.

I knew, however, that as in life his standards had been immutable, so in death he would wish to be the same.

I know you take comfort from the warm regard in which your husband's work is held by all who read it, and who share in your loss.

There is a small sum outstanding for these specially bound editions.

Algernon D. Browne

Judith appreciated the careful phrasing. So Sebastian's work was held in warm regard by all who read it. Perhaps true. What a pity it was such a small number. Probably readers were put off by having to purchase the poems in cordovan leather with heavy gilding.

There was another sheet of paper. With horror she saw it was a bill. For twenty specially prepared issues of
Sweet Light of Angels,
A.D. Browne, printers, was owed one hundred and four guineas.

Judith looked at the books as if they were a nest of vipers. A hundred and four guineas! That was nearly two quarters' allowance. Could she return them? No, even if it were legally possible, how could the Weeping Widow do that? Oh, did that matter anymore?

Could she sell them? She laughed aloud at that thought. Would Prinny be disappointed not to receive his copy? She couldn't even afford the cost of sending it.

Could she preserve her dignity, and pay for them? Only by destroying any chance of solvency. She wanted to weep, but fought it for the children's sake. They mustn't know how frightened she was.

There would always be a place for her with her parents, she reminded herself, but there would be little money for training or dowry. Her throat was aching. This cruel twist of fate on top of a cruel day, was almost too much for her.

There was a knock at the door. Judith simply couldn't take any more. "Bastian, please..."

He went to answer it, and she saw he wasn't fooled. Both her children were very sensitive to atmosphere. Dear heavens, but only a few weeks ago they had possessed a kind of contentment, a satisfaction with so little, and a joy in simple things. Then Leander Knollis had turned their lives upside down.

But that wasn't fair, it really wasn't.

Bastian returned and gave her a note. "From Hartwell," he said.

She turned the crisp white paper in her hand. It was simply addressed to Judith Rossiter. It could be from one of the Ardens, or from Leander. It could be from the butler if it came to that. She knew none of their hands.

Her own hands were shaking as she broke the seal. She didn't know what to expect, what she hoped for.

My dear Judith,

We've bounced into absurdity again, haven't we? I could offer you an apology, but I am not sure what I would be apologizing for. There are clearly matters that need to be discussed, but I am convinced our separation is due to a misunderstanding rather than intent.

If you are of the same opinion, I will be in the churchyard until the light goes.

Leander

Judith found that she was standing staring at the books and knew it was not by accident. She wasn't at all sure a marriage between her and Leander Knollis was practical, but now she had no choice. She had to marry him.

She looked up and saw Rosie and Bastian watching her with solemn, fearful hope. They at least had no doubt as to the desirable outcome.

She glanced out of the window. The light was already beginning to go. She picked up a woolen shawl and flung it around her head. "Bastian. Look after Rosie. And this time,
do
it."

* * *

He was leaning sacrilegiously against Sebastian's tomb, looking tall and formidable in a long riding cape, and solemn enough for a graveyard.

"One can't expect much," he remarked, "from a courtship that mostly takes place around graves."

Judith came to a halt, facing him across the grave, not knowing what to say.

He straightened. "I gather Bastian is safe?"

"Yes."

"Was he terrified of me?"

She swallowed. "No." She was aware of an atmosphere of misty gloom and ghosts.

"I should perhaps have left the matter in your hands, but I was first on the scene, and scared by what-might-have-been. I have begun to think of myself as his father. In addition, I felt somewhat responsible as I had reintroduced him to horses."

Judith seized on it. "He wouldn't have been so thoughtless a few weeks ago."

He raised a brow."Are you laying that at my door? "

Quite apart from the fact that she
had
to reconcile with him, that wasn't fair. "It's the excitement," she admitted, "and you are only the indirect cause."