Tarleton's Wife (36 page)

Julia’s face puckered. She sneezed. She might love the herbs but they didn’t return the favor. She blew her nose, then haltingly, with considerable embarrassment, the story came tumbling out. “If Oliver…if any of the Tarletons find out, I think I shall die of humiliation,” Julia confided when she finished the tale of the brawl in her bedroom. “If I had not seen the room this morning, I might have convinced myself it was simply one of my nightmares. The place was a shambles. A complete shambles.”

Sophy Upton offered little consolation. “It is too bad,” she agreed absently. “I had hoped you and Nicholas… Forgive me, my dear, I am a silly old woman. Were you able to speak to Nicholas about the Guy?”

Julia looked even more morose. “I tried but…the time wasn’t right. Nicholas said he’d be back at teatime. I hope he’ll be willing to discuss it then.”

“You must put a stop to all this, my dear. Do whatever you must. Do you understand me, my dear? There are too many lives at stake.” The certainty of wisdom and experience shone in Miss Upton’s eyes. “Fortunately,” she continued, “I am convinced what is best for the cottagers and best for the estate is also best for you. End it, child. Any way you can. Even if it means humbling your pride and taking your husband to your bed. No need to blush, my girl. I may be a spinster but I am not ignorant of the ways of the world. Swallow your hurt and do what must be done.”

Slowly, Julia closed her eyes. A whisper of a sigh escaped her lips. Her nod of agreement was barely perceptible.

* * * * *

In the ancient tradition of rural neighborhoods, by noontime there was scarcely a person who did not know that Major Nicholas Tarleton and Ellington’s bastard Jack Harding were sporting remarkably similar black eyes, swollen jaws, cuts and bruises. Each was as prickly as a hedgehog, wearing a stiff mantle of belligerence crowned by natural-born arrogance. Men stepped out of their paths. Women paused to stare and speculate behind gloved hands. There was a certain grim satisfaction in knowing that outrageous little chit at The Willows was like to get her comeuppance at long last. Then again, being the bone of contention between the two most dashing men in Lincolnshire was not without a certain distinction. Odd. One did not expect a woman with so little feminine delicacy to entice devotion from two such admirers.

Nicholas finished his business in Grantley and rode off toward Nottingham, leaving behind a solicitor as chastened as his estate agent. If he had not been so preoccupied with dire thoughts of his own, he might have caught the echoing chorus of whispers and conjectures. But speculation about his fight with Jack Harding was not what turned his countenance grim, almost sullen, as he rode at last toward home.

He was furious with those who worked for him. Furious with himself. He should have known. He should have come home sooner. No one had forced him to join the
guerillieros
. And after Carlos’ death, he had lingered in Spain when he should have known—even without his persistent dreams of Julia—that he was needed at The Willows. He had betrayed his responsibilities. His people.

The wife he didn’t know he had.

Nicholas pulled up his tired horse before the stables, tossed the reins to a waiting groom. He stalked toward the small hedged garden at the back of the house which screened the outside entrance to the secret room. Making no effort to hide the tramp of his feet upon the stairs, he strode into Julia’s room, finding it clean and neat, though somewhat sparse of furniture. Nicholas tossed his cloak, hat and riding crop onto the dining table, then threw himself into one of the upholstered chairs before the fire. High tea had been set out on a low table drawn close to the fire. The cups on the silver tray rattled, then subsided into silence.

Julia, sitting in a facing chair took one look at her husband’s set face—made all the more grim by bruises now turned a virulent shade of deep purple—and gave up all hope of amicable agreement. The possibility of compromise seemed as fragile as the porcelain teacups.

“I hope you feel better than you look,” she ventured, reaching for the teapot with a hand which shook.

“No,” Nicholas responded shortly. “Save the tea. Madeira will do for me.”

Julia did as she was bid, then offered a well-filled plate of tarts, biscuits and tiny cakes. Nicholas sampled two tarts, grudgingly, as if disdaining to admit he was tired and hungry. As he washed down the pastry with a second glass of wine, Julia’s spoon rattled against her teacup. Not all the food, wine and tea in Lincolnshire was going to diminish the tension between them.

No longer able to hide behind commonplace civilities, Julia forced herself to confront the trouble at hand, words tumbling from her lips in a burst of nervous energy. “I know you cannot believe me, Nicholas. There is no way you could think anything but the worst of what you saw last night but it wasn’t as it appeared. Jack came uninvited. Out of concern for my welfare. He is a friend, nothing more. A tease and a rogue, if you will. He must break the rules of conduct simply because they are there to be broken…”

“In short, he is a man,” the major intoned.

Julia clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I do not deny that Jack is more of a rogue than most,” she admitted quietly.

“But not your lover.”

Her head came up. She faced him squarely. The pride of the daughter of the regiment was clearly visible from her crown of braids to the soles of her half boots. “Could I have been with you—as I was in our dreams…as I was in your bed—if he were my lover?”

Nicholas appeared unimpressed. “I grant you I’ve never found you duplicitous, Julia…but the evidence of one’s own eyes is rather damning.”

“Then you will go through with the annulment?”

“No.”

Julia blinked. “Nicholas, I do not understand…”

“I went to the mills in Nottingham today.”

“Nicholas…”

“This is not irrelevant,” he barked, effectively silencing her protest. “After what I saw today, I can more readily understand the workers’ complaints. I’ve told Woodworthy he must remedy both the conditions and the wages or he will be unemployed. In the meantime the agitation must stop. Captain Hood has the workers stirred to the boiling point. An unconscionable act that can only lead to violence. I’ll call out the militia if I must. Do I make myself clear?

Cautiously, Julia felt her way through her reply. “I am most pleased you are willing to improve conditions at the mills, Nicholas but I fail to see how this matter is relevant to our discussion.”

The major’s sandy brows arched toward his hairline. “Really, my dear? You are not usually so obtuse.”

Earlier, Julia had been nervous, consumed by guilt. Now she realized her error. The emotion she should have felt was fear. Whatever Nicholas was up to, more was at stake than the fate of their marriage.

“Early this morning I paid a visit to Louis Tyler,” Nicholas enunciated, as if reciting a story for a child. “I asked him how it was he allowed my wife to go into trade. And, after a good deal of hemming and hawing, he told me a most interesting tale of a visit from Captain Hood. A menacing visit from an armed man in a black mask who convinced him he was to be feared more than God or the devil. Even talking of it caused the poor man to go quite green. A color which seems to be catching, I might add. You’re not looking too well yourself, my dear.”

“
Oh, God, Nicholas, you wouldn’t!
”

“Ah, I see you remember our conversation in London,” said the major, his lips curling into a grim quirk of satisfaction, which ended in a stab of pain from his split lip.

She remembered every syllable.
Jack Harding had a talk with him.
And now Tyler had told Nicholas it was Captain Hood. A less than two second deduction for Nicholas to realize that Jack and Hood were one and the same.

“What do you want of me?” she asked in the voice of one who has lost all hope.

“Marriage. Home. Children.” The major’s voice was as devoid of life as her own.

“Why…with me?”

“Rather you should ask how could it be with anyone else. Whether in dreams or in reality, I am guilty of committing carnal lust with you. We are tied, you and I, with cords which cannot be broken. Not by Harding. Not by my family. Not by my pledge to Violante. It should be plain that neither of us has a choice. We do not have to like it, merely to accept it.”

When he received no protest, the major continued inexorably on. “You will take your rightful place at my side and in my bed. I pledge that my family will not trouble you further. In return, you will leave the matter of trade to Sophy, Daniel and Meg. I intended to forbid it altogether but the enterprise has much merit. If I shut it down I should probably deserve to be burned in effigy.

“As for Guy Fawkes…I doubt very much that Ellington and the other landowners will be pleased for a so-called hero of the Peninsular War to be burned in effigy. At the first sign of trouble the militia will be on the march and you may be sure the very first order they receive will be to burn Sophy’s cottage. “Trust me in this, Julia. I
will
do it.”

“Yes, I know,” his wife murmured, unable to feel half as disturbed by his pronouncements as she should have been. The matter was settled. Not with joy, love, or even the slightest modicum of tender emotion. But settled, nonetheless. “The women have told me the men are being difficult,” Julia demurred. “I’m not sure we can dissuade them.”

“You will have to, won’t you?” Nicholas responded smoothly. “You will also mend your fences with the neighbors. It seems you have managed to offend nearly everyone. From Lady Ellington, who inevitably opposes anything Jack favors, to the Rector and his wife who strongly support the established church. And the church is opposed to anything—no matter how charitable—which might incite rebellion. While the remainder of our neighbors see guillotines springing up on village greens.

“So it’s far too late to protest, my girl! You will swallow your pride and eat humble pie. Or see Jack Harding swing from the gibbet.”

Nicholas, warmed by the fire, the wine, the enveloping comfort of the isolated room, was beginning to wonder if he had used a club to swat a fly. From the floor at his feet he retrieved a sack and held it out to his wife. “Give this to the women for their Guy. I suggest that it is considerably more appropriate.”

Her curiosity piqued, Julia peered into the bag, withdrawing a black top hat, black jacket, gray pantaloons and a charcoal waistcoat embroidered with tiny black silk flowers. No one living in that part of Lincolnshire could fail to recognize the daily apparel affected by Ebadiah Woodworthy, Esquire.

“I cannot argue with you,” Julia admitted dryly, her anxiety threatening to dissolve into a giggle. “I think this may very well be acceptable.” She opened her mouth as if to continue, then snapped it shut.

“Well?” Nicholas demanded.

“What about Violante?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable with her vindication as wife, however backhanded it might have been. “I fear I have had few charitable thoughts about her but she is certainly not at fault in this matter. I find I am concerned for her. I do not wish to cause her any more hurt, for no one knows better than I how she will feel.”

The thin crack in the major’s dictatorial air snapped shut. “Leave Violante to me,” he said shortly. “Don Raimondo and I will find a solution. She is, after all, an heiress of good family and great beauty. Do not trouble yourself unduly.”

“Nicholas,” said Julia between clenched teeth, “I was so overwhelmed by guilt—or the appearance of it—that I have allowed you to ride roughshod over me these past few minutes. I have conceded you the right to dictate terms. But if you do not cease and desist this instant from being such a stuffy, overbearing, insufferable prig, I shall throw a temper tantrum which will make yours of last night the merest mewling of a fretting infant. Cut line, Major. I am not some conquered kingdom to be ground under your heel. I am Julia. Your wife, as you will it. And I will not be patronized!”

Nicholas stood up, his face betraying no sign of emotion. No indication that he had taken the slightest heed of his wife’s tirade. “In addition to the matter of the Guy,” he said, “I would suggest you tell Harding his days in Lincolnshire are numbered. I’m sure Ellington would be willing to sacrifice the services of his estate agent in order to ensure his elder son’s continued presence on this earth. And no, I do not refer to my own feelings. It’s the militia Jack need worry about. They anticipate an English Revolution and see insurrection under every bush, behind every tree. The American Colonies, the French and now a rebellion among our own. Not so farfetched, I think. Jack must find a new line of work. And quickly.

“For tonight you may be spared dining with family,” the major continued his orders, “but I shall expect you to be moved back into your own room before nightfall.” With this final pronouncement Nicholas strode across the room, slid back the secret door and entered the upstairs hallway. He made no effort to listen for sounds of movement from behind the tapestry before exiting the room. He merely shoved the heavy hanging aside and stepped out. Major Tarleton was through skulking about the maze of his tangled affairs. As he was accustomed to do in battle, he solved the puzzle by cutting his way out. Straight through the thick shadows into the light. If it took blackmail to bring his wife to heel? Well, a soldier must be a pragmatist, must he not?

* * * * *