The Marsh Hawk (26 page)

The dowager surrendered her cold oysters au gratin in anticipation of the larded pheasant being distributed along with a delectable array of entremets and removes.

Jenna was certain her face had turned crimson. The heat in her cheeks had narrowed her eyes. Her heartbeat echoed in her throat. She imagined Rupert lashed to a tree, imagined Simon's fury wielding the horsewhip that buckled his knees. She knew full well the rage that had driven his heavy hand, and why. She'd seen it herself, held in check all through the wedding and afterward, before another passion took its place, at least for a little while. Rupert had paid for his trespass on Rutherford soil, and his assault upon her person. That's what Simon must have just returned from when she'd made her discovery in the tower. That's what he was evidently reporting to the vicar when she pounded so frantically upon the vicarage door and made the confession that had cost her the only man she had ever loved, or ever would love.

The pheasant on her plate swam in her tears; she would not let them fall. Simon was watching her, and she would not give him the satisfaction. She hated him for making her such a watering pot. She hated her heart for loving him—hated her body for betraying her even now, for she longed to fling her arms around his neck and pepper his face with kisses just as Evelyn had done earlier.

Instead, she was utterly alone at the table with the vicar who had betrayed her, the husband who had abandoned her, and the woman who, albeit differently, had captured Simon's heart in a way that she never could. Not to mention her mother, who, for all of her yearlong spiral into mourning, seemed more moved by the advent of Rupert Marner's encounter with the Marsh Hawk than she had been with Jenna's father's death.

Anger dried Jenna's tears, but she would not show it. She took her anger out instead upon the succulent larded pheasant on her plate. It tasted like straw, as did the venison, and braised potatoes in parsley sauce that followed. Not even the dessert wines, vol-au-vent of pears, Charlotte Russe, or raspberry tart could sweeten that moment.

When time came for the ladies to repair to the parlor for coffee, leaving Simon and the vicar to their brandy and tobacco, the dowager begged off, complaining of gastric distress, which didn't surprise Jenna one bit after having watched her inhale everything edible in sight. That, however, presented Jenna with the awkward situation of being alone in Evelyn's company. It only took one furtive glance in the girl's direction to discern that Evelyn wasn't looking forward to the circumstance any more than she was.

Neither really wanted coffee, and it remained on the tray growing cold. Finally, it was Jenna's sigh that broke the strained silence hanging like a pall over the dreary antiquated room.

“You don't like me very much, do you, Evelyn?” she said.

“It isn't a matter of ‘liking,'” the girl said frankly. “I just don't believe you are right for Simon, that's all.”

“Well, well! And, what sort of woman would you approve of for your uncle, then?”

“Someone who would appreciate him,” the girl flashed, looking daggers.

“Evelyn, you would not approve of
any
woman your uncle chose,” Jenna accused. “No, wait!” she cried to the girl's back as she sprang toward the door. “We're going to have this conversation whether you like it or not; it's long overdue . . . and necessary.”

“There's really no point, Jenna. You shan't change my opinion.”

“Perhaps not; that remains to be seen, but you will hear me out. Please come back and sit down. No matter what you think, I am not your enemy. It saddens me that you obviously think so.”

Evelyn hesitated a moment, and then, tossing her golden curls, she floated back to the Chippendale chair at the edge of the carpet she'd fled, and resumed her seat with flourish.

“Thank you,” said Jenna. “I wish to know why you do not think me suitable for your uncle.”

“Simon is
Simon
. I do not think of him as my uncle.”

“That is the problem, I think. He
is
your uncle, you know, whether you think of him that way or not. There can never be anything between you, Evelyn. Certainly you know that.”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you mean,” the girl said, bristling.

“You are a bright young woman—no jingle-brain with attics to let. I think you know exactly what I mean. You are quite blatantly infatuated with your uncle, and I threaten those feelings. You don't dislike me personally; you don't know me well enough. That is something I hope to change. You resent me, however, just as you would anyone who encroached upon your space where your uncle is concerned. That is understandable, considering your situation in that he is your benefactor and you've formed a natural attachment. But . . . is it fair, now that you are . . . enlightened in the matter?”

“
Fair
? What has fair to do with anything? Is it ‘fair' for you to continually refer to Simon as my uncle, when you know I dislike it?”

“That is what he
is
, Evelyn,” Jenna pointed out. “I'm trying to make you see that you need to acknowledge it.” She hesitated, then said on an audible breath, “I was jealous of you, you know . . . in the beginning, because you occupy a place in your uncle's heart that I can never touch, a part of him that I can never reach. Never enter. I told him that I wanted to apologize to you for that.”

“Y-you've discussed all this with Simon?” Evelyn shrilled, surging to her feet again.

“Of course,” said Jenna. “I discuss everything with your uncle. He is my husband, Evelyn.”

“Y-you told him what is in my heart . . . that . . . that I—”

“Oh, no, I didn't have to,” Jenna interrupted. “He already knew that. Your uncle is most intuitive. He loves you very much. You are his brother's child, and important to him. Nothing will ever change that. You occupy a special place in his heart, as I've said, as does Crispin. What is needed here is that you recognize and stay in that place, for the good of your own heart, as well as your uncle's. Because, while you pine over what cannot be, you miss an opportunity that already exists on another front, and that will sadden your uncle dreadfully, considering the nature of it.”

“You make no sense. What opportunity? What . . . other front?”

“I was hoping that by now you would have seen it for yourself,” Jenna said, hesitating. “But since you haven't . . .”

“Yes?” Evelyn prompted, tapping her foot on the carpet.

“I will have to break a confidence to tell you,” Jenna went on. “Not that it matters anymore. But if I can see some good come from all this before I . . . Well, never mind. The truth is, there is someone right under your very nose, you silly goose, whose heart is bursting with love for you, and you don't even know he's alive!”

“And, who might that be, pray—Phelps, I suppose?” Evelyn snapped. “Or the good Vicar Nast, perhaps?”

Jenna didn't answer. Meeting Evelyn's blue-eyed rage with a steady gaze that spoke for her, she folded her arms, inclined her head, and waited.

Clearly shaken, Evelyn sank like a stone into the Chippendale chair, her moist eyes flashing as though she were viewing past events on the wall, on the floor, in the very air in front of her.

“W-who told you such a thing?” she breathed.

“He did,” Jenna returned. “Have you never noticed the way he looks at you? Just now in the dining hall, he scarcely took his eyes from you, Evelyn.”

“I saw no such thing.”

“No, you wouldn't have, would you, pouting so over not being able to sit beside your uncle. It was painfully obvious to everyone else.”

“I don't believe this—believe you! Why, he's
old
! He's positively—”

“He is no older than your uncle, and he worships you. Don't take my word for it; see for yourself. It shouldn't be too difficult. The poor man wears his heart on his sleeve, and his pain in his eyes.”

“Oh!”
Evelyn sobbed. And before Jenna could reply, she'd fled the room.

It took two brandies and one pipe full of his special blend to loosen Simon's tongue in the matter that needed addressing, and even at that, he wasn't sure speaking out was wise, since the vicar had only downed one glass—not even. There was nothing else for it, however. Jenna was right. How had he never seen it? More to the point, why had Rob never broached the subject with him? He was almost angry. It was, of course, the perfect answer all the way round. All that remained was to make the bufflehead see it.

Another brandy first. He poured it, flushed some down, and leaned back in the carver's chair, openly studying his unsuspecting companion.

“What?” said the vicar to his scrutiny. It was that obvious.

“Why have you never told me?” Simon asked, laying his clay pipe aside. The ash had grown cold in the bowl and it tasted foul.

“Told you what?” the vicar replied around a nervous laugh.

“Christ, don't fence with me, Rob. Don't insult my intelligence. You're in love with her! You're in love with Evy. How could I not have seen it until now? Am I all that self-centered, then?”

The vicar lost his posture and looked away. “Jenna's told you,” he murmured.

“I saw for myself tonight.”

“She doesn't know I'm alive, Simon.”

“Whose fault is that, I wonder?”

“That isn't fair. I'd rather take it to my grave than be held up to ridicule for it.”

“Why did you confide in Jenna and not me?”

“For the same reasons Jenna confided in me and not you.”

“And they are?”

“Simon . . .”

“Please. I want to know. Am I so difficult to talk to? Did you think I wouldn't approve? Did you think I would laugh at you? What?”

“I don't believe I could have stood it if you had.”

“You don't know me—either of you.”

“Simon, I am a man of the cloth. People are
supposed
to confide in me, and I had nothing to lose in confiding to Jenna. Besides, I didn't confide in her—not really. She found me out, and I asked her to keep my confidence.”

“I'm glad she didn't. I might not have noticed otherwise; I'm too caught up in my own coil these days.”

“What are you going to do about that, Simon?”

“Don't shift the subject!”

“You can't let her go. You love her!”

“I can't chain her in the wine cellar, either, Rob. I tried locking her up. I can't keep her here against her will.”

“You were of a mind to do just that. What changed your agenda?”

“We struck a bargain—to put up a front until after Evy's come-out ball. Hah! I wondered why she insisted upon having that blasted ball here instead of the town house. Now I understand. She wanted to have it close enough to give you a fighting chance.”

“It won't matter, Simon.”

“I'm going to have a little talk with Evy.”

“If you do that, it will mean the end of our friendship. I swear it! I will never forgive you.”

“Then you stand up and press your suit before some foppedup Corinthian snatches her right out from under your nose at that bloody ball, ruins all of our lives and everything I've worked so hard to achieve for that girl all of these years.
That
would make an end to our friendship; you can bet your blunt upon it!”

Jenna had blown out the candles. She hadn't bothered to light the lamps when she came up to retire. Across the way, the hearth gaped empty, like a yawning creature of myth. It was far too warm for a fire.

The window was ajar. The fragrant garden smells laced with the tang of salt wafted in on a light breeze drifting landward from the sea. It stirred the dust motes to life on the shaft of light piercing the panes. She watched the tiny particles walk the moonbeam as if they had a purpose. She almost envied them. In that lonely moment, she could find none for herself.

Tears stung her eyes. She refused to indulge in them. She had made a bargain and she would keep it, but not for Evelyn's sake—for Simon's. She owed him that, after all. She'd nearly killed him, hadn't she? The worst of it was, the real culprit was still free.

Though Simon's dressing room door came open in a gentle hand, the windowpane rattled in its fretwork casing with the displaced air, and Jenna sucked in her breath as Simon's dark shape emerged from the blackness beyond. He was wearing his dressing gown. But he couldn't mean to . . .

She vaulted upright in the bed, clutching the counterpane to her trembling bosom as he drew near. “What do you think you're doing, my lord?” she demanded.

“I am beyond exhaustion, my lady,” said Simon, “riding down your highwayman all last night to no avail, not to mention what went before. Then, returning here to find my house under siege with come-out madness. I haven't slept in nearly three days, and I am going to bed.”

“Not in this bed, you aren't, my lord!”

“This is my bed, madam, and I assure you I will sleep in it.”

“There are scads of bedchambers in this mausoleum, my lord. If you will not play the gentleman, since I have already retired, then I shall find one. Kindly stand aside.”

“And have you arouse the whole house with news of our . . . estrangement? I think not, my lady. Your mother and Evy are roaming about making ‘lists' of what needs to be done to set this house to rights by Saturday, and will be doing so half the night if I am any judge and your mother has her way, which seems inevitable.”

“You've a lounge in your dressing room, my lord.”

“I do, and it's an arm's length too short for a comfortable lie-down with this deuced leg. This will do quite nicely, thank you,” he said, throwing back the counterpane.

Uttering a stifled gasp, Jenna scrambled to the other side of the bed and made a bold attempt to escape, but Simon hopped around the foot of the four-poster, gingerly though swiftly on the lame leg, and blocked her exit, capturing her in strong arms she tried to dodge.