Not Quite Married (12 page)

When next she awakened, she was fully aware of people around her, calling to her.

“Where . . .” she rasped out in a voice that sounded like the smoke had damaged it. “Where am I?”

A woman’s voice came through the fog. “You’re at Tremaine, my dear. They brought you here after the fire. Squire Hennipen and I have charge of you while you recover.”

As she struggled to sit up, gentle but firm hands pushed her back against the soft bed. “No, no, dear, you mustn’t. You’re far too weak. Just rest.” Those same hands lifted her head when she called for water and put a cup to her parched and swollen lips before she lapsed again into darkness.

The third day she awoke with a much clearer head and a howling thirst. She surveyed the darkened room and struggled up, blinking. Her eyes felt full of sand, her face felt swollen, and it seemed she had to fight for every breath.

The door to the cheerful blue-and-yellow room opened and a plump, well-dressed lady entered. Brien recognized Mrs.

Hennipen, the wife of a squire whose lands bordered Byron Place.

“Thank Heaven, you’re awake.” She felt Brien’s forehead and cheeks with a cool hand. “You’ve given us all quite a scare.”

“How long”—Brien’s voice cracked—“have I been asleep?”

“It has been three days since the fire.” Mrs. Hennipen looked away, clearly troubled by the mention of it.

“Fire . . .” Brien started up clumsily. “Where . . . how . . .”

“You’ve had a narrow escape, dear.” Mrs. Hennipen gently pushed her back down. “You must concentrate on get-ting well.”

She busied herself tucking the covers around Brien.

“Byron Place burned?” But she supplied her own answer out of memory. “I saw the smoke and flames and ran, but—” She stopped, squeezing the older woman’s hand, suddenly remembering more. “Raoul. Where is Raoul?”

“He’s gone, dear. The fire . . .” The woman halted with tears filling her eyes.

“Gone?” Brien grasped the woman’s arm. “What do you mean?”

she demanded. “Dead? Tell me!”

“Yes.”

Stunned, Brien released her. “No,” she said fervently. “There’s been a mistake. He just hasn’t been found.”

“No, dear. They found him . . . after. Your father identified him.

I’m afraid there’s no mistaking it.”

Mrs. Hennipen admitted the physician who had just arrived.

Brien continued to entreat them for details of the fire and its aftermath until a sleeping draught took effect. Mrs. Hennipen sat with her until the earl came that evening from burying his son-in-law. He confirmed Raoul’s death and watched Brien’s stunned and emotionless response.

Uneasy at her lack of reaction, the earl insisted on sitting with her that night. She awakened in the wee hours, sitting bolt upright and screaming with everything in her. It was a ragged, unearthly wail, brought forth from intense pain and desolation. The whole household awoke to the screams in the deathly stillness. Her father finally succeeded in calming her by holding her tightly and rocking her as if she were a child. In her thrashing her nightdress slipped to reveal her shoulder—and the fading but unmistakable imprint of a set of teeth.

That bite mark wrapped a cold band of horror around his heart.

Who could have done such a thing to her? He could scarcely draw breath as he clasped her to him and faced the fact that it had to have been Raoul. Sickened by that evidence that the man he had forced his daughter to wed was capable of true brutality, he stayed by her all of that night and the next . . . troubled by her wild grief and fearful of his part in the making of it.

The next day Brien began the slow journey back to normalcy.

Exhausted, weakened by her illness, and damaged by the smoke and heat, she slept a great deal . . . untroubled by dreams. Soon she was able to manage some solid food and bathe and present a rational mien. She sensed that all visitors to her room eyed her warily, but was unable to remember the unsettling events of recent nights.

When they were alone, Brien asked Mrs. Hennipen for the details of Raoul’s death and the good lady recounted that his lifeless body had been retrieved just before the collapse of the main roof.

He had not been burned, but had died of smoke and heat. Lord Weston himself had identified the body and had seen to the burial.

The servants had escaped to safety, and each had a different story about how or where the fire started. Some traced it to the grand salon, but the stablemaster identified the kitchen as the starting place. The house was utterly destroyed.

Guarding her words carefully, Brien began to piece together her own story, recounting how she had awakened in the night, just before dawn, to find herself alone. Gripped by the fresh memory of the thick, terrifying smoke, she recalled that she was lost and confused and finally collapsed. Mrs. Hennipen patted her hand and insisted that she rest. The good woman hurried down to the anxious earl and related his daughter’s story in full.

Lawrence Weston sat with his daughter that afternoon, not sure how to comfort her, or indeed if she needed comfort from him.

She seemed calm enough, despite an occasional tremor in her voice.

“I worried at first when Raoul’s message about your illness came,” he said, avoiding her searching look. “But he assured me that it would pass quickly and that your wedding voyage was only postponed for a short while.”

Brien was distant and preoccupied; the pieces of Raoul’s treachery were slowly fitting into place. “How good of him to inform you. What did he say about Ella?”

“He wrote nothing to me personally. But I had luncheon with Magistrate Derringer and he told me the facts of the case. It must have come as quite a shock to you. Still, I suppose she must have stolen quite a bit over the years.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “All of these things happening so quickly—it’s been trying for you.”

“Yes” was all Brien could manage.

Raoul had charged Ella with stealing, to see her disposed of quickly. God only knew where she was and what had befallen her. While Brien was conveniently “ill” during the first few days of their marriage, no one—not even her father—had come to call on the newlyweds. Raoul’s plan had been flawless. Except for one thing. The fire.

“Thank you for seeing to the arrangements.” She turned her face away from him on the pillow. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to rest.”

With a few more days of restoring sleep and nourishment, Brien felt much stronger and insisted on being allowed to sit by the window for a bit of sun. The window of her room overlooked the side yard where servants frequently came and went.

A figure in the yard below caught her attention. She could not see him clearly, but there was something familiar in his slow, rolling gait and the broad slope of his shoulders.

Mrs. Hennipen breezed in just then, carrying a vase of flowers from her garden.

“Who is that stacking wood in the yard?” Brien asked.

Peering out the window, the plump little woman smiled. “Oh, my dear, that’s your man, the mute one. He’s the one who carried you out of the house the night of the fire.” She halted, seeing Brien pale. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. He rode with you in the cart and refused to let anyone carry you. He seemed quite fierce and determined, so we let him stay until the doctor arrived.

Sat outside the kitchen door for two days. My servants offered him food and shelter, but he would take none. When I told him you were awake and would be all right, he took nourishment and seized an axe. He has cut enough wood for two winters since that time.”

Brien’s eyes misted. “He was my husband’s servant. Dyso is his name. Thank you for your kindness to him.”

“He’s an odd one. But you draw breath this day because of him.”

Two weeks after the fire, Brien dressed and came downstairs for dinner, insisting afterward on walking outside in the midsummer gardens. The air was heavy and still, saturated with moisture. She had been forced to promise that she would not stay long, and after picking a few flowers, started back into the house.

As she rounded the step, she was startled by Dyso looming over her path. She stepped back, staring up into his large, dark eyes.

He smiled at her and made some hand motions. Brien knew instinctively that he inquired about her.

“Yes, I’m much stronger now. I have you to thank for that. You saved my life.” She straightened, feeling an odd surge of warmth for him. “There will always be a place for you with me, unless you wish to return to France.” She was surprised as he went down on one knee in the grassy carpet.

“You will stay?” she guessed.

He nodded and looked up with a smile. There was a certain peacefulness now in his battered face. He rose and pressed something into her hand before lumbering away. It was cold, and she found herself looking down at a large black key. Recognition flowed over her as she watched her rescuer’s broad shoulders sway as he returned to his chores.

Ten

THE HENNIPENS INSISTED Brien stay with them in the country while she recovered, and she gratefully accepted. She seemed to flourish in the clean air and sunshine, and the prospect of a summer in London held no appeal. Part of each day was spent helping Margaret Hennipen in her flower garden, and Brien came to cherish those quiet times with her fingers in the soil and the sun on her shoulders. She even began to plan a new garden for Byron Place when it was rebuilt.

Monsieur Lamont himself came from London to arrange suitable mourning clothes and a wardrobe to replace the one she’d lost in the fire. When the little Frenchman saw her, he was speechless.

Brien had not seen herself in a looking glass since before the wedding, except to brush her hair. It came as a complete shock when the
monsieur
became so excited during the fittings that he reverted totally to his native tongue. He insisted on taking several of the gowns back to London to be reworked. Brien smiled, remembering their first meeting—his diplomacy and unfailing politeness. She had been dowdy and rustic, but he had done his best to make her presentable for her marriage to—

Raoul. The very thought of him filled her with an almost physical pain.

When dark suspicions arose in the back of her mind, she couldn’t suppress them. Raoul was a selfish and violent man. Had he died in a tragic accident or been caught somehow in a scheme of his own making? Had he tried to burn down the house he had once pronounced a “heap” and rid himself of a troublesome and uncooperative bride at the same time? She would probably never know. But if not, then she would see to it that no one else knew the truth of her marriage to the volatile Frenchman, either.

Society dictated that she mourn his loss, and she would do so.

But she could not ignore the irony of continuing to live the lie that Raoul himself had created for her . . . after he was dead.

As the days strung together in blissfully restoring weeks, Brien realized that her situation had positive aspects. The few visitors who ventured to Tremaine displayed ill-disguised curiosity toward her, mingled with an exaggerated deference to her slightest wish. She was a widow now, deprived of a virile young husband on the threshold of their life together. No one dared to intrude upon her grief. After a while she would be forgotten and free to do as she wished without interference . . . even from her father.

HARCOURT HOUSE IN London was decorated for the holidays in subdued fashion. The black wreaths that had hung on the front doors were replaced by simple swags of holly tied with black ribbons. The earl himself met her at the door when she arrived, kissed her dutifully on the cheek, and cast an appraising eye over her elegantly attired figure.

“You seem quite recovered. I am glad to have you home where you belong.” He didn’t notice the way Brien bristled at his words.

“I have instructed Mrs. Herriot to take Monique from her household duties and have her see to your needs until you can find a suitable maid. She has already prepared your rooms.”

“Thank you, but I have already engaged a new maid.” Brien was annoyed by his assumption of authority, fearing it might presage new struggles for control of her life. “She will arrive shortly with my things.” Removing her gloves as they entered the drawing room, she decided this was an appropriate time to set matters straight.

“I wish Mrs. Herriot to remain in charge of the house. My future plans are not certain and I wish to disrupt your routine here as little as possible.” She had removed her hat and dark veil, using the action to avoid his astonished gaze.

“You speak as though you won’t be staying long. What other plans could you possibly have?”

“Some travel, perhaps. I am not sure.” She smoothed her severe coiffure in the mirror above the fireplace. “I may purchase a house of my own in London.”

Irritated, he rubbed his chin. “What is wrong with Harcourt? It is your home as well as mine. You will live
here
while Byron Place is being rebuilt.” She turned on him with her eyes flashing.

“I will decide for myself where and how I will live. My own decisions can hardly end worse than those that have been forced upon me.”

“If you refer to your marriage, Brien, you must share the credit for that decision. Your conduct left no other course,” he declared defensively. “I trust you will observe a proper period of mourning, out of respect for public opinion if not for the man.”

“My marriage and my widowhood are
my
concern, not yours. I intend to rebuild my life and put the past behind me.” She hoped her anger was as plain on her face as it was in her heart. “I have no heir for you from my short marriage, and you may not look for one from me.
Ever.
Of that you can be certain. I will never marry again.”

Her words struck him with tremendous force, turning his own anger into insight. A shocked silence spread between them, and Brien opened her fan, plying it briskly to avoid looking at him.

“Was it that bitter for you?”

Something in her stomach settled downward. “I’d rather not discuss it. It is over now.” She looked at the gloves she was twisting into strings.

He moved toward her, feeling powerless to stop the hurting inside her. What had befallen her at the hands of Raoul Trechaud, he could only guess, but she had revealed much by her determination to avoid marriage and motherhood. He put out his hand, but withdrew it without touching her.