The Bride Insists (26 page)

Tamsyn and Tegan led her around to a low doorway on the south side. An old woman emerged as they arrived, small enough to walk through the low opening without stooping. She wore an ancient stuff gown, and her white hair was twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. Despite her age, attested by a face as brown and wrinkled as old parchment, her back was straight. Eyes so dark they seemed black danced from one to another of her visitors. She held Randolph's gaze the longest.

“Tess, we've brought Clare,” said Tegan.

“Lady Trehearth,” corrected Tamsyn, then frowned as if wondering if she'd made a mistake.

“She needs to hide,” continued her sister.

“I need a day or two to think,” amended Clare. She peered into the dark doorway uncertainly. Could she really stay in such a place, with a total stranger?

The old woman made no bow or curtsy. She came close and examined Clare with those fathomless eyes. Indeed, she held Clare's gaze for so long that it began to be uncomfortable. At last she said, “All right. Ye're welcome to think here.” A smile shifted her wrinkles into a surprisingly warm expression. With a gesture, she indicated her home. The twins skipped through the entry, Randolph on their heels. Clare followed more slowly. “Careful now,” said Tess. “It's a step down, inside.”

Clare ducked through the opening and negotiated the step. The earthen floor had been dug down almost a foot, so that the ceiling was higher than she'd expected. The dirt was rock hard and swept clean. The circular interior space was also more expansive that it had seemed from without. It held two low beds, one on either side, and a rough table and chairs before the hearth directly opposite the door. A small fire burned there, with an iron teapot hanging over the coals. A covered, three-legged pot nestled among them. Planks had been fixed against the thatch above, so its tiny residents couldn't drop on unwary heads. Little horizontal windows, not visible under the overhanging eaves outside, admitted fresh air but not much light. A candle burned on the table.

The twins seemed very much at home. They'd set their bundles beside the candlestick. “You can sleep there.” Tamsyn pointed at the bed on the right.

“That's where we stayed,” Tegan agreed. She was untying the rope that girdled Randolph.

“Tess takes care of sick people sometimes. That's why she has two beds.”

Clare surveyed the rustic mattress.

“The straw gets changed right regular. And there's pennyroyal and lavender in it, to keep off fleas and such,” said the old woman, as if she could read Clare's reservations in her face. Tess sounded amused.

“We have to get back,” said Tamsyn.

Tegan nodded, setting the valise on the earthen floor. “Before anybody notices.”

“We'll go much faster alone.”

“We can run. No one will know we were gone.”

“Wait,” said Clare. Should she just go with them? Was this a mistake? But she'd spoken too softly. They were out and gone, Randolph on their heels, moving fast. Could she even find the way back on her own?

Tess went over to the fire. If she'd heard Clare's protest, she was ignoring it. “Got a bit of chamomile here. I'll brew up some tea.” She used a rag to remove the iron teapot from its hook and poured steaming water into a china one sitting on the hearth stones. “Be good for you. You should sit down. That's a right long walk for a woman with child to be taking.”

“What? I'm not…” With the words buzzing in her head, Clare swayed on her feet. Calculations raced through her mind, until she was dizzy with them. Her body's timing told its own story. “How… how could you know that? I didn't realize it myself until you said…”

Tess took two chipped cups from a shelf by the fireplace. “It's a sort of knowing that comes to me. My granny had it, too.”

Clare went over and sank into one of the rough wooden chairs. Was this why she'd been so tired lately? But she hadn't been sick or… “Oh, my God.” She was glad and uncertain and excited and despairing.

“Is that why you've really come?” The old woman gazed at her from those deep black eyes. “There's ways to deal with it.”

At first Clare didn't understand what she meant, then she crossed her hands over her midsection and leaned away from her. “No! How dare you even suggest—?”

“There can be reasons.” Tess hung the iron teapot back on its hook. “I have to hear some powerful good uns 'afore I give anybody anything, you understand.”

“I didn't come for that. I didn't even realize… I don't know why I came, really.” That sounded foolish.

“Had a lot on yer mind, eh?” The old woman poured tea and set one of the cups before Clare on the table.

“This won't hurt…?”

“Not a bit of it. Told yer, I have to hear powerful reasons. And I ain't heard any.” She smiled at Clare and took up her own cup, drank a little, then sat down opposite her guest.

Clare was thirsty. She sniffed at the liquid. She'd had chamomile tea before, and this smelled like it.

“Child, I wouldn't hurt you for all the world. My granny taught me healing, and healing's what I do. Naught else.”

Reassured, Clare sipped the warm beverage. “You live here all alone?”

“Aye. Though I get a good bit of company from those wanting this and that. Some just come to the spring 'round t'other side of the hill, to tie up bits o' cloth or ribbon for luck. You'll want to stay inside when I tell you to, else you'll be seen.”

“But how do you live? Do you farm?” She hadn't seen any sign of it. Wondering how Tess survived so far from any village took her mind off her own worries.

“I've a vegetable patch, along with my herbs, but no, I'm no sort of farmer. I trade for what I need in the village. And people bring me bread and such when they come looking for a salve or a tincture. And even when they don't, betimes.” Tess smiled, showing surprisingly white teeth. “Staying on my good side for when they might need one, y'see.” Her enjoyment of this fact seemed quite good-humored.

Clare finished her tea. When Tess started to rise, she held up a restraining hand and bent to refill her own cup.

“And now and then I have a visitor who needs to be safe away for a while. Betimes they need dosing and betimes they need rest. Or they want a quiet place to ponder, like you maybe. They bring along some provisions.” She gestured at the bundles Tamsyn and Tegan had carried.

“You kept the twins here.” Clare didn't quite approve of that.

“Well, they kept themselves. Showed up with that lummox of a dog and flat refused to leave. Mayhap you think I should have sent word up to Trehearth.”

“They're children,” Clare pointed out.

Tess nodded. “It was a near thing. But they kept after me, day and night. They're not ones for listening to ‘no.'”

That was certainly true.

“Point is, I was afeard they'd run off someplace less safe if I told or turned them out. And then…”

“What?” asked Clare, wondering at the bemused expression on the old woman's face.

“Somethin' told me it were best that you and his lordship come home. And that were their reason for running, after all.”

“Best? What ‘something'?”

Tess shrugged. She rose and busied herself putting away the food the twins had brought. Clare drank her cooling tea and hoped it would calm the whirling chaos of her mind.

As the sun sank toward the western horizon, Jamie rode home whistling. The day had gone very well. Each project he visited had shown progress. He felt as if the massive work of restoring Trehearth was actually happening. It had seemed overwhelming at first, and so slow. There was still much to accomplish. But step by step, it was moving along.

Leaving his horse with Albert in the stable, he went into the house. The entryway was quiet, servants busy elsewhere at this time of day. Slanting light fell across polished paneling and a rug in deep notes of cobalt and ruby. Furniture gleamed with beeswax polish, and lavender scented the air. Jamie felt a great contentment hum in him. Somewhere in his home his wife went about her tasks, making it ever more welcoming. His sisters were in their room or out in the gardens with Randolph demonstrating their… not docility. That would be unnerving, and he didn't even wish for it. Call it a new willingness to compromise, or an appreciation of the value of cooperation. Jamie smiled. Selina Newton might be here, or down at the vicarage, as she increasingly was. Jamie was very happy for the older woman, and Carew as well. She'd make a fine vicar's wife. He was pleased that she'd be nearby as a friend for Clare, and even more that she would be out of their house. Despite Mrs. Newton's amiability, he never felt absolutely at ease with her. It was always so clear that if it were a question of sides, she took Clare's.

Jamie walked down the corridor that led to the estate office. He needed to note down some tasks for tomorrow and a list of materials to order from Penzance. Then he would go and find Clare and tell her about the nearly completed cottage at the northern boundary of the Trehearth land, and the fine new roof on another nearer the manor. He'd discovered that a great part of the pleasure of the work came in recounting it to her, and explaining how the investment would improve both the tenants' lives and the profitability of their acres. Moving by old habit, he started to pour himself a small celebratory brandy from the decanter on the side table, then remembered his resolutions and replaced the stopper. He didn't need to numb his senses, he reminded himself. He was a happy man. He sat at the desk to make his lists.

A fat document lay there, one he didn't remember seeing this morning. Puzzled, he pulled it closer and scanned the first page. Jamie frowned, reread, and scowled with bewilderment. This was incorrect and outrageous. He'd authorized no suit against Clare. He never would have done such a thing, not even in his angriest moments. Chancery court was a mire of time and expense that had swallowed more than one fortune.

He flipped quickly through the rest of the maze of legal language and came upon Simon Greenough's note beneath the legal copperplate. What was the man talking about? Claiming to be “present” in the solicitor's offices when Jamie signed the authorization. He'd signed no such… Thinking of Clare's cousin, a vague memory stirred. Greenough had dragged him out one ghastly morning, when his head was splitting, to some sort of business premises. It was all very fuzzy. Chiefly, Jamie remembered his gratitude when Greenough had urged a restorative glass upon him. There'd been another at the place they ended up, and he'd attended to little else. Jamie groped for a clearer recollection. Perhaps… there had been some sort of paper. Had he…? Perhaps a pen had been thrust at him. Jamie's pulse accelerated. He supposed he might have… had… signed something, just to make them leave him alone. And when they'd let him go, the whole incident had swiftly fallen out of his consciousness. There'd been so much else to worry over. But he'd never meant anything like this! These pages were an outrage; he'd write immediately to put a stop to the suit.

Jamie threw the packet back onto the desk in disgust. And then it felt as if his heart stopped beating for a long moment. How had this document gotten here—opened? He rustled through the pile and found the direction written on the outside. It was addressed to Clare. She'd seen it, read the contents. But she couldn't have believed that he plotted this treachery. On the other hand, why wouldn't she, with the evidence laid out before her? She'd put it here for him to find. Good God, how must she feel? Jamie's pulse resumed, pounding like a frantic drum. He stood so quickly that his chair toppled backward and ran to find his wife.

She wasn't in the solar, where she often sat at this time of day. She wasn't in her bedchamber changing for dinner, nor in the kitchens consulting the staff about the meal. She wasn't with the twins, who were romping with Randolph in the courtyard. Jamie rushed to the stables, only to be told that she hadn't taken out a horse or sent for a carriage. Receiving increasingly odd looks, he questioned every servant. None of them knew where she was. He stood with his fists clenched, at a stand, then cursed aloud. One person would know. He should have gone first to her. His brain wasn't working properly.

Jamie had glimpsed Selina Newton returning to the house as he raced from stables to kitchen. He went to knock at her bedchamber door. Receiving no answer, he dared to open it. The room was empty. He found her in the solar, sitting on the sofa, hands idle in her lap. This was so unlike Mrs. Newton that Jamie knew his suspicions were correct. “Where is she?”

“I don't know. What has happ—?”

“Don't lie to me!”

Perplexed and deeply disheartened, Selina didn't bother to object to his tone. “I would do so if I thought it necessary. But in this case, I'm telling the truth. Clare left me a note…”

Seeing a folded sheet of paper in her lap, Jamie snatched it, propriety be damned, and opened it so hastily that it tore a little. He devoured the words and found a maddening lack of information. “She can't just say she's going away for a few days and not tell me where!”

Resisting the impulse to say that she had, Selina eyed him. “What has happened, Lord Trehearth?”

Jamie crushed the notepaper in his fingers.

“Do you know
why
she's gone? I think perhaps you do.”

Jamie turned away, throwing the note into the fireplace.

“Lord Trehearth.”

Her tone made him turn despite himself. He couldn't control his expression.

“Clearly you do,” Selina said. “If you have done something to hurt Clare, I swear I…”

“Let me be!” He fled to the estate office, closing the door and locking it behind him. Automatically, he headed for the decanter on the sideboard. Before he'd even thought, his hand had poured a large brandy and was bringing it to his lips. He stopped the glass inches away, then held it out, gazing at the amber liquid in the last of the sunlight. Its allure was palpable. Part of him longed for it with a frightening intensity.

Jamie's hand trembled. Drinking had gotten him into this coil. It wasn't going to solve anything now. He had to stop, he realized. Completely. No half measures, fewer glasses, rationed excess. His taste for brandy threatened to bring his whole world crashing down about his ears. He had to excise it from his life.

But he wanted the familiar taste on his tongue, the warmth traveling down his throat and into his chest, the glow that took the hard edges from the world. He wanted them all so much that it terrified him.

Carefully, Jamie set the glass down beside the decanter. He watched his hand hover there, still shaking slightly, reluctant to retreat, and clenched it. He stepped back, away from the sideboard—once, again. Flooded with a longing to destroy something, he started to throw the hateful document into the fire. Only just in time did he realize that he needed the name and direction of the thrice-damned solicitor in order to cancel the suit. He sat down at his desk, yanked out a sheet of paper, and composed a blistering letter withdrawing his previous authorization and ordering the man to cease all activities on his behalf. He signed it with a slash that nearly went through the page, then wrote it all again as a copy for Everett Billingsley, and again as proof to show Clare. He scribbled another missive to Billingsley himself, informing him that the suit was false, and ordering him to make very certain it was stopped immediately.

Folding and sealing the letters, Jamie felt slightly better. At least he was doing something. He ached to move, to act, to mend the balance he'd broken. He would take these down to the village himself and find a trustworthy courier to ferry the packets up to London. He couldn't remember just now when the next mail coach was due, and he didn't intend to wait a moment longer than necessary to send these on their way.

He made the short ride at a gallop. Ignoring speculative looks at the inn, he found his courier and negotiated the arrangements. Back at the house, Anna caught him coming in and told him that dinner was being served. Jamie merely shook his head and returned to his desk.

Elbows on its polished wood, head in his hands, he tried to think what else he could do. How could he find her? There must be some way. But instead of solutions, his mind filled with images of Clare—laughing, thoughtful, her green tiger eyes drowning in passion. He'd just barely recognized how desperately he loved her, and now perhaps he'd lost her forever. His stomach twisted. If it hadn't been for her odious cousin…

No. It was no good trying to shift the blame onto others. Drunk or not, he…
he
had done the thing that appeared to be an attack on her. Heedless, irresponsible, he'd allowed this tangle to happen. When she opened that document and read… The recurring pain of that picture, and a terrible fear of loss, made him turn to the decanter again. The glass still sat beside it, ready to numb the despair, to help him forget. He wanted it. His hands were shaking again, and his empty stomach was sour. He needed something to get him through the coming night. Jamie went over to the sideboard. He reached out. His fingertips brushed the glass. He picked it up. The familiar bouquet of fine brandy rose to fill his nostrils. Frighteningly, he could feel his whole body react to its lure. What could one drink matter, here, tonight? He felt so desperate. Tomorrow, he would begin… His gaze brushed the note from Simon Greenough, open on the desk. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to set the glass aside.

In the dining room, Selina and the twins ate a mostly silent dinner. Selina was preoccupied, her mind going over the events of the last few days, trying to see what might have made Clare leave without warning. Thus, it took her much longer than usual to notice that Tamsyn and Tegan looked far too innocent. Oh, they'd made a few remarks about Clare's absence. They'd asked questions, but not with their customary relentlessness. And they'd given up far too easily. Selina examined the girls on the other side of the table. Belatedly, again, it occurred to her that they had hidden themselves somewhere nearby for quite a long time. “You know where Clare is, don't you?” she said.

Two pair of dark eyes looked back at her. They didn't appear guilty or worried. Indeed, their direct gaze was surprisingly adult and resolute. It communicated that the twins were ready to resist any pressure she might exert. But Selina didn't feel inclined to badger them. If she knew where Clare was, she'd have to lie—to Jamie, and perhaps to Edward as well. And she hated that idea. She would never betray Clare's confidence. But if she possessed that information, she would be torn by conflicting loyalties and duties. Clare had known that, and she hadn't wanted it. That was why she hadn't revealed more in the note. Selina stifled her doubts and said only, “It's a safe place?”

A flicker of surprise danced in the girls' eyes. They didn't reply, however. They wouldn't be caught so easily. Yet it seemed to Selina that they didn't wish to lie outright either, which was comforting. She decided to be content with this and see how matters developed. If she had to, she could get it out of them. And if she judged it necessary, she would not hesitate.

***

There followed one of the worst nights of Jamie's entire life. Perhaps the night after he'd heard of his father's death had been worse. It had marked the end of everything then. Clare wasn't dead; she was safe and well, he trusted. But if she didn't come back to him… That would be an end of another kind, and he didn't know how he could bear it.

He sat at his desk in the estate office as the hours ground slowly by. Each minute was a millstone added to the weight oppressing him. He paced the floor in front of the fireplace. He couldn't face his bedchamber, next to the room where he and Clare had been so happy together. And since there was no question of sleep, it was better to be here, surrounded by evidence that he could affect his life, could make changes.

The brandy decanter continually tempted him, whispering of oblivion right there at hand, mocking his resolution. It beckoned like a false friend. In the depths of the night, when all the others in the house slept, he carried the tray of bottles from the sideboard to the kitchen and left it there. It didn't stop him longing for a drink, but at least the temptation was out of sight.

The sky was turning gray when he laid his head on his crossed arms and fell into a fitful doze at the desk. Not much more than an hour later, he was wakened by a sharp exclamation when the maid Gwen came in to rake the ashes and re-lay the fire, and was startled to find him in the room. Jamie finally retreated then, going upstairs to splash water on his face and change his crumpled shirt. The man who stared back at him from the mirror was pale and strained.

When he went back downstairs, he discovered that Selina Newton had repeated the message in Clare's note to the servants. Her absence had apparently been accepted without question. His behavior was drawing sidelong looks, however. No doubt Gwen had already spread the tale of finding him asleep in the estate office.

Jamie tried to eat some breakfast. To preserve the fiction that all was well, he should ride out and visit the projects on today's schedule. But he couldn't. He had to be here in case she came back. What if she only returned to pack all her things? He had to be on hand to explain and make amends. If Clare had just waited until he came home yesterday… No, this wasn't her fault. The document, which must have been crushing for her to read, had come of his own weakness and stupidity. He wanted to put that right. He had to be given the chance.