The Bride Sale (25 page)

“Do you think he might be dangerous?” Verity asked. “Liable to cause some sort of mischief?”

“Poor man,” Borra said. “It must be hard to lose a child.”

“Aye, and that child were all he did have,” Kate
said. “After his Gracie died, he doted on that boy. That fire at Pendurgan might as well o' kilt him, too, fer all the misery it did cause. The man ain't never been the same.”

“Kinda like what did happen to Jammez, ain't it, Kate?” Grannie said.

Kate snorted but did not reply.

Verity stayed and chatted until Davey returned and dragged her to the smithy. The quoits were ready, and they soon set off back up the path to Pendurgan. Before they had reached the main drive, they saw Captain Poldrennan coming from that direction. Verity sent Davey on ahead and waited for the captain's approach.

“Good afternoon,” Verity said, offering a cheerful smile. “I did not expect you today or I would have come back earlier. Would you like to come in again and share a pot of tea?”

He looked somewhat surprised, and not especially happy to see her. His smile did not quite reach his eyes. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you, Mrs. Osborne,” he said. “And I thank you for the offer, but I have just had tea with Agnes.”

“With Agnes?”

“Yes. I visit her from time to time. She and I are old friends, you know.”

“No, I did not know,” Verity said, and wondered how she could have been unaware of his visits. “I am pleased to hear it, though,” she said. “Poor Agnes always seems so lonely and does not seem to want to be friendly with me, much as I try. And she's become more and more irritable as the festival nears. I worry about her.”

“It is hard for her to see someone taking Rowena's place.”

“But I am not—”

The captain cocked a brow. “Aren't you?”

“When I offered to plan the festival,” she said, “it was not with any thought of supplanting the memory of Lady Harkness. It was merely to help James restore his good name in the district.”

“Ah, yes. The festival. I am so looking forward to it. How are plans coming along? It is but a few days away, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. And the planning has gone extremely well. Have you not heard of my famous lists?”

He gave a genuine laugh that softened the look in his eyes. “I have, actually. Wellington could have used you on the quartermaster general's staff.”

“I sometimes feel like a general directing my troops.”

“Then may you have the luck of Wellington at your midsummer siege.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“I predict it will be the most brilliant event this district has seen in many years.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Oh, it will be.” He flashed her a broad smile. “Believe me, it will be.”

Verity told him how she had found enough local musicians so that none had to be hired from outside the district. He told her how he had arranged for the tar barrels to be delivered the morning of the festival and how they would be set up all about the estate. He
seemed to have lost the oddly strained manner he had shown at first, and was now the amiable gentleman she'd come to admire. They continued chatting for what must have been a half hour before Verity recollected they were standing in the middle of the path. She again invited him back to Pendurgan but he declined, and they parted in high spirits.

Verity's mind was thoroughly distracted on the walk back to Pendurgan. There were so many details, so much to be done in the next two days. She did not even notice the carriage on the far side of the central courtyard.

She pushed open the big oaken doors and entered the Great Hall. She turned toward the corridor leading to the main staircase, but was halted by Mrs. Tregelly's voice.

“Pardon me, ma'am,” she said. “But there's a gentleman here to see you.”

Verity stuffed a list back into her pocket and looked up at the housekeeper. “Pardon?”

“A gentleman, ma'am. He asked for you. I put him in the New Drawing Room.”

“A gentleman?” Verity stared at Mrs. Tregelly, her brows lifted in question. Surely there was some mistake. She had met no gentleman other than Captain Poldrennan and he had just left Pendurgan. Who could it be, then?

“Do you know who it is?” she asked.

“No ma'am. But he was adamant he would speak only to you.”

Verity sighed. Whoever he was, she would simply have to deal with him. She hoped he would not take much of her time. But perhaps he had come to discuss something about the festival. Perhaps he had
heard of the plans, which were spreading like wildfire throughout the district, and represented some troupe of players or musicians or merchants, someone who wanted to participate in the event.

“I must certainly see him, then,” Verity said. “Would you take my bonnet please, Mrs. Tregelly, and my pelisse. Heavens, I am dusty from the walk. Do I look a fright?”

“Not a bit, ma'am. There is one loose curl, just there. That's it. Now you look fine as five pence. Shall I send in tea and biscuits?”

“I don't know,” Verity said. “Let me see what his business is first. I will ring if I need you.”

“As you like, ma'am.”

Verity checked her reflection in the high polish of a Civil War breastplate hung on the wall. She plumped her hair as best she could, shook out her skirts, and rubbed the toes of her half boots against the back of her stockings. It was the best she could do. She proceeded down the opposite corridor to the east wing.

The door to the drawing room was open. She could see the flickering light of a fire inside. She entered and found a man standing with his back to her, facing the fire.

“Sir? I understand you wish to see me?”

The man turned, and Verity gasped as she looked into the eyes of her husband, Gilbert Russell.

 

Jago Chenhalls was oddly quiet when James returned from the fields, but James was so exhausted he did not have the energy to wonder about the man's strange behavior. James and Mark Penneck
had been mowing hay and it had been a long, tiring day. It was on days like this that he most missed having a steward.

James had depended heavily upon Mark Penneck over the months after Bargwanath's departure. It had been uncomfortable asking for help since Mark's attitude toward James had been no different than that of the other locals. But the Penneck holding was the largest on the Pendurgan estate and Mark was the most experienced farmer, so James had approached him.

The partnership had been awkward at first. Over the months of working side by side, however, the two of them had gained a new respect for each other and the work had gone well. It occurred to James that Verity's reasoning in regard to his black reputation might have some validity. Keeping his distance might indeed have merely increased the hostility toward him. What Verity did not seem to understand, however, was that keeping his distance had never been a choice. It was necessary.

James ducked beneath the low archway into the central courtyard and then stopped to stretch his back. His muscles ached like the very devil and he was likely to be stiff as a corpse in the morning. He pushed open the heavy oak doors to the Great Hall, and groaned at the effort. Lord, he was getting old. He would like nothing better than to soak in a hot bath. Perhaps Verity had some herbal remedy to soothe the strained muscles in his back and shoulders and hips.

Before facing the climb up the long staircase to his tower room, James wanted to check the day's post.
He was expecting a letter from Woolfe regarding an enlarged steam cylinder, as well as a new issue of
The Edinburgh Review
. If they had arrived, he could take them both upstairs and leisurely read them while soaking in a hot bath.

He walked into the library and over to the desk where Mrs. Tregelly always left the daily post for him to review. A fat leather purse sat on the center of the desk.
What the devil?
James lifted the purse. It was heavy with coins. He drew aside the leather thong holding it closed and saw a mass of gold coins inside. There must have been well over a hundred of them, maybe two hundred.

A cold shudder of fear crawled down his spine.

A folded and sealed note lay next to the pouch. He picked it up gingerly, as though it might scald his fingers, terrified of what it would say. His throat dried up so that he could hardly swallow and his breathing became ragged. He stared at the parchment for several long moments before garnering the courage to break open the seal.

A second folded paper fell out and dropped to the desk. James ignored it as his eyes scanned the brief words written in a spidery scrawl.

It was as though a large fist had punched him in the gut and knocked the wind out of him. He could not breathe. He could not move. He could only stare at the words on the page, reading them again and again, as though another reading would somehow change their meaning.

I am taking my wife home.
James studied each word, the way the letters were formed, the way the ink broadened here and thinned to wispy lines there.

He stared and stared until a huge knot of despair began to twist in his belly and worked its way up through his chest and into his throat and out his mouth.

“No.” It was little more than a hoarse whisper, almost a whimper. “No. No. No.”

She was gone. Verity was gone.

His fingers closed slowly around the crisp parchment, which crackled as he crushed it into fanlike folds. James looked about him and felt lost, disoriented, the way he sometimes felt after a blackout.

She was gone. He could not seem to get his mind around the idea. She was gone. Russell had taken her home.

But
this
was her home. She belonged here as surely as James did. How could she be gone?

How could he go on without her?

James closed his eyes tightly, fighting against the pain building up behind them. Misery and despair threatened to overwhelm him. Those few penned lines had ripped a vast hole through his soul, leaving him dry and empty and dead inside.

He had no right to love her, should never have allowed himself to fall in love with her. But he had, and now she was gone. He wanted to die.

“No!” He crushed the parchment into a tiny crinkled ball and tossed it across the floor. He picked up the money pouch and flung it as hard as he could against the opposite wall. It struck a Chinese vase and sent it flying to the floor with a thunderous crash amidst a rain of gold sovereigns.

“My lord?”

The noise had brought Mrs. Tregelly. Oh, God, he was not prepared to face anyone just now.

“My lord?”

He took a deep breath and concentrated on the anger flickering in his breast. Anger was something he understood. He knew how to deal with it. He knew how to use it. He knew how to take refuge in it. He tested it, enticed it, savored it until it had spread throughout him as pure, unadulterated, all encompassing rage.

He spun around to face his gentle housekeeper. The raw fury in his eyes sent her retreating back a step.

“What the devil happened here while I was gone?” The roar of his voice reverberated against the thick stone walls and shook the very air with its rumble.

Mrs. Tregelly flinched slightly, but kept her sweet, sorrowful eyes on him. “She's gone, my lord.”

The words tore through him like a blade. “I know she's gone, goddammit,” he shouted. “What happened?”

“She left with that young man, Mr. Russell. She said he was…her husband. She was quite upset, my lord.”

“Good God. Did he use force? Did he—”

“No, my lord. She went quietly with him, took all
her things, too. It was a dreadful thing to watch. Gonetta and Cook sobbing to break your heart, and little Davey clinging to her neck and begging her to stay. Poor Tomas had to pull the boy off her. By then, Miz Verity was crying as hard as Davey.”

Her voice trembled and she paused to wipe a hand across her eyes. “She hugged every one of us,” Mrs. Tregelly continued, “just like we was family. She wanted to wait until you returned, but Mr. Russell wouldn't have it. Said they had to leave then and there. She left a note for you, though. On your desk. Did you see it?”

“No.” James whirled around and bent over the desk. He picked up the paper that had fallen out of Russell's note, but it was only a copy of the bill of sale, the same receipt James had kept safely locked away all these months. “I don't see it,” he said and riffled through the papers on his desk. “Where
is
it? Where is it?”

“Here, my lord.” Mrs. Tregelly pointed to a sealed note propped up against the inkwell on his father's silver writing set.

James grabbed at the note, upending the pounce pot and spilling the fine powder across the desk. “Lord Harkness” was written on the folded sheet in an elegant, flowing script. Not even “James,” only the formal title. He choked back disappointment, ripped open the seal, and read hungrily.