Leslie LaFoy (48 page)

He was right; what she hadn't once believed of him, of his fellows, she now did. “Then let—”

He put his fingertips over her lips and shook his head. Only when she'd sighed in resignation did he take them away. Reaching into his coat, he extracted a folded piece of parchment and handed it to her, explaining, “I asked Edmund to draft a petition for you to present to
the court when you get there. It asks the court to grant you title to Crossbridge Manor in recompense for your service to England. I think they're likely to do so. Ephram will stay with you until you're safely settled there.”

She stared up at him, the paper clutched numbly in her hand. Crossbridge. He wanted her to go to Crossbridge. So he'd know where she was. So he'd know where to send the letter to call her home. Relief flooded over her. It wasn't forever. She could endure.

“Will you, in turn, see that Ephram strikes out on his own as a free man?”

“Of course.”

“And I'll ask you to do something for me when you reach England.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to petition the Crown for a divorce.”

The words struck like a physical blow, shattering her hope. “No. I will
not
do that,” she declared, stepping back.

His fingers tightened on her shoulders, holding her firmly in front of him. “Yes, you will. I'm going to commit treason, Claire. Knowingly and willfully. If you remain my wife, you're subject to the same punishments that'll be brought down on me. Crossbridge Manor will be seized and you'll be thrown into prison. There will be no one to come to your rescue, no one to petition the Crown for leniency and mercy. You'll die there.” His eyes darkening and his breathing ragged, he gave her a tiny shake, demanding, “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she answered, her eyes filling with tears. “But you can't make me do that, Devon. You can't make me abandon you.”

He closed his eyes and pulled her hard into his arms, holding her tight for a long moment before he exhaled a shuddering breath and said quietly, “If you truly love me, you'll remove yourself from harm's way so that I'm
not constantly worried about you. Please, Claire. Ask for a divorce, either on the grounds that you were forced into the union against your will or that I'm a rebel leader. They'll grant it for either cause and you'll be safe.”

“Why should I be safe when you're not?” she demanded.

He set her from him tenderly, taking her face in his hands and tilting her head up until she met his gaze. “You were thrown into my life, my circumstances, against your will. This isn't your fight, Claire. And you shouldn't have to suffer the consequences of it because of a twist of fate. You have nothing to gain in standing with me except certain poverty and likely widowhood. I love you too much to want that for you. Please give my soul some peace. Promise me that you'll stay in England, that you'll petition for the divorce, and make a happy life for yourself.”

Her heart was tearing. She couldn't breathe and didn't want to. “But I—”

“Promise me,” he whispered raggedly. “Give me that as the last of the gifts of your heart.”

“I love you, Devon.”

The boatswain's final call rang out over the dock, chilling her blood and draining the strength from her body. As though from a great distance she heard Ephram say, “Sir, there's no more time.”

The longing and heartache in Devon's eyes was an echo of that resounding through her soul as he bent down and kissed her. She clung to him, desperately willing him to relent.

“Sir.” Ephram's voice was anxious. “They're getting ready to haul up the gangplank.”

God, if she could hold him just a few seconds longer. It would be too late. Her body trembling, she gathered his lapels into her fists. And then his lips were gone and he was pulling away from her grasp.

“Take care of her,” he said, his voice rough as he thrust her, stumbling, into Ephram's hands.

Through the blur of her tears she saw him turn and walk away. “No, Devon,” she whispered as Ephram pulled her toward the boat. “No. Please.” He didn't pause, didn't look back, and what was left of her heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces as Ephram picked her up and carried her over the plank.

“B
ACK TO
W
ILLIAMSBURG
, Z
EKE
,” Devon barked, ripping open the door of the carriage and vaulting in. “I have work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

He slammed the door closed behind himself, stumbling onto the seat, blinded by scalding tears. And as the carriage started forward, he sagged into the corner and surrendered to the wracking sobs of a grief deeper and more abiding than any he'd ever known.

LAIRE TWEAKED THE POSITION
of a salad fork and then stepped back to survey the table. Her mother's best china glowed in the late morning light streaming in through the windows. The silver that had been blackened from years of disuse now gleamed. The linens, so long packed away, were white again and crisply pressed. The food—an assortment of cold meats and cheeses, breads, puddings, and salads of which Hannah would be proud—was prepared and carefully covered with damp towels to keep it fresh. Claire smiled ruefully and turned away.

As she stood in the doorway of the dining room, her gaze passed slowly over the main room of Crossbridge, touching the familiar objects of her childhood. The settle, the hearth, the wheeled chair. Her father's pipe. Her mother's prized crystal vase. The small, gilt-framed drawing a traveling artist had done of her brothers the year before they'd died. They were such small things, their value in shillings and pounds nothing when
compared to the beautiful and costly furnishings of Rosewind.

Tears welled in her eyes and she quickly brushed them away, sternly reminding herself that it wouldn't do to have Reverend Graves and his wife arrive for luncheon to find their hostess crying. Squaring her shoulders, she took her shawl from the peg beside the front door and marched outside, resolving to use what time she had to get on with her too-long-delayed survey of Crossbridge's gardens.

She walked along the front of the house, her mind wandering not among the plantings but along the paths of memory. The Reverend Reginald Graves had been older than the hills since she could remember. He'd outlived two wives. His third, Cornelia, a timid, quiet, altogether invisible woman, was only a handful of years older than she was. Reverend Graves spoke for Cornelia whenever he wasn't too busy speaking for God. And if Reverend Graves wasn't free to offer Cornelia's opinion, then Cornelia didn't have one.

Claire sighed. What had she been thinking to invite them to luncheon? Why hadn't she simply responded to their request to call by saying that Crossbridge wasn't yet ready to receive visitors? Because, she answered herself, that wouldn't have been the truth. Crossbridge was ready. For the last three weeks she'd spent her every waking moment trying to make it all that she remembered it once being. It had never looked better. And never had it felt so empty, so lifeless.

No, the truth was that she wasn't ready to receive visitors, wasn't ready to pretend that her life was serene and that she was happy. She'd invited the Graveses to dine in the hope that having to fulfill social obligations would engage not only her mind but her heart. It had been so long since she'd felt anything except a kind of numbness. In the beginning it had been a blessing, wrapping
first her voyage and then her appearance before the grand jury in a soft, gentle fog.

It had dissipated a bit when she'd been handed the title to Crossbridge; she'd actually had the wherewithal to stammer some genuine words of gratitude. It had cleared a little more when she'd walked back in through the door and realized that she'd achieved all that she'd so long hoped for. But no matter how hard she worked, no matter how hard she tried to smile and dream, her heart remained distant and shrouded. Out of reach and numb. Fearfully numb.

And so, in a moment of weakness and desperation, she'd invited Reverend Graves and his mute-as-a-post wife to luncheon. God. Better numb than bored mindless. Or having to hear of God's lowly opinion of mankind in general and of womankind in particular. If he mentioned that damn apple… A tiny smile tickled the corners of her mouth as she imagined leaping across the dining room table to choke the good and very righteous Reverend Reginald Graves. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea to have invited him to dine after all. There were some in the community who would be forever grateful if she put an end to their weekly dose of misery.

A gust of cool, damp wind whipped around the corner of the house and Claire pulled the shawl closer about her shoulders, breathing deeply the scent of turning leaves. Were they changing colors in Virginia, too? In her mind's eye she saw the drive of Rosewind canopied in gold and rust, the warm brick of the house glowing in the morning light, the smoke curling up from the chimneys. And Devon riding toward her, coming in from the fields, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his jacket draped over the pommel. She watched him draw near, the beat of her heart matching the rolling cadence of hooves…

“Good day to you, madam!”

Shoving her thoughts aside, Claire turned to the couple coming up the front walk and forced herself to smile. Reverend Graves hadn't aged a day since she'd last seen him. Cornelia, as always, floated along on his arm looking both dazed and a trifle apprehensive. Claire looked past them for a second to see whether the carriage was the same one as always and if the ancient horse was still alive. They were. Four, almost five years gone since her father's death, and nothing had changed. It was a comforting realization, and holding it close, she moved forward to meet her guests.

“Please forgive my inattention,” Claire began, extending her hand. “Plans for putting Crossbridge Manor back to rights have a tendency to make me oblivious to anything else. Welcome. It's lovely to see you again after all these years.”

“We had hoped to see you in church this past Sunday,” Reverend Graves said, the censure in his voice belying his smile as he wrapped her hand in a nest of wrinkled, bony flesh.

Claire resisted the urge to pull away from his grasp. With a shrug, she gave him the simple truth. “Coming home has brought back memories. Unfortunately, not all of them have been good ones. The last time I was in Good Shepherd Church was for my father's funeral. I'm afraid that I haven't had the strength necessary to face that particular memory yet. I'm sure I will in time.”

His hands tightened around hers. “The sooner you face the demons of the past, the better. The less power they have over you. When I look out from the pulpit next Sunday, I will expect to see you sitting in your family's pew.”

Deep inside her, something sparked. It was a startling sensation, quick and unexpected, but delightful in its warmth and vibrancy. Extracting her hand from his grasp, she gestured toward the door, saying politely,
“Won't you and Cornelia come inside? Our meal is prepared and waiting.”

As she expected, the minister cocked a bushy gray brow at her small rebellion. The spark inside her brightened, and reveling in it, she turned and started up the steps of Crossbridge, not caring whether they followed or not.