The Rebel (25 page)

“Roger,” she called.

Henry’s groom immediately turned and,
recognizing Clara, doffed his cap.

“Why, Miss Clara! A fine good day to ye. I
was just coming up to the house to deliver a letter from the
parson.”

“Perhaps I can take it…since I am here…and I
am going that way.”

The other groom nodded politely to her and
walked away with Roger’s horse. The messenger took a letter out of
his pocket and offered it to Clara.

“Thank ye, miss.”

“Is it for my father?”

“Nay, miss…I mean aye, miss. Now that I
think of it, Parson Adams didn’t say which one of your parents to
deliver it to. I just thought to give it to Fey, though I believe
there is a name on the outside, is there not, miss?”

Clara looked at it. “Indeed, there is.”

“Does it say Lady Purefoy, miss?”

“I didn’t know you can read, Roger.” Clara
tucked it into her pocket. “That’s exactly what it says.”

“Reading is something I’ve ne’er had time
for, miss. But I thought, ‘tis about Miss Jane, so it must be meant
for your mother.”

“I shall take it up to her directly.”

“Thank ye, miss.”

“Would you mind waiting a few moments before
you return, Roger? My mother might wish to send a message back.
Also…I have a letter that I would like you to take to Ballyclough
for me.”

“As ye wish, Miss Clara.” He nodded politely
again. “I need to be seeing to the parson’s horse, anyway. The old
devil threw a shoe at the bottom of the hill, just now.”

Clara started up the hill, but instead of
thinking about what she was to write, her attention focused on the
message in her pocket. Roger had said that the news was about Jane.
For too many days now, Jane had been flitting in and out of
Woodfield House. For the past two days, Clara had not even thought
to worry about her when she hadn’t shown up for meals. She knew,
though, that their parents hadn’t bothered to notice any of Jane’s
coming and going, either.

As soon as she left the paddock, she crossed
over and took the path through the gardens. When she was safely out
of sight, Clara took the envelope out and stared at the Henry’s
seal. Lady Purefoy always asked her to read and respond to
correspondence anyway. So her curiosity of what was inside—her
worry about Jane, Clara corrected herself, pushed her to break the
seal.

Leaning against a tree, the young woman let
her gaze wander over Henry’s graceful handwriting before the actual
words began to register.

Jane was in Ballyclough today. Henry was
letting Lady Purefoy and Sir Thomas know that their daughter was
visiting some of the families in the parish. And since she was also
determined to spend some time at the bedside of an ailing child in
the village, the parson’s recommendation was for her to stay at the
parsonage overnight rather than risk traveling home late at
night.

It took a moment for the words to sink in.
When they did, though, a jealousy she had never before experienced
clawed sharply at Clara’s entrails. Tears hot and sudden stung her
eyes.

Henry no longer cared for her. He was
smitten with Jane, and Clara should have known. She crumpled the
letter and stuffed it in her pocket before running for the
house.

She should have seen it, she thought
bitterly. For all these years, Clara had secretly admired him,
watched him, had been in love with him, but his attention had
always been on Jane.

Clara blindly climbed the stairs to her
room.

She had rejected his offer six months ago,
not only because of her parents’ plans, but partly because of that
continuous measuring with Jane. The day before his proposal, Henry
had spent the entire afternoon with Jane. The week before that—and
a dozen times since—it had been Jane’s opinion that he’d come
seeking at Woodfield House. Time and time again, he would ask after
Jane’s health…or her art. Indeed, he was the only one that Jane
would invite to her workroom in the attic.

Clara seethed to think how much time the two
of them spent up there together. Alone. Now she knew the
real
reason Jane had not made any fuss about not going to
London.

She banged open the door to her bedchamber
and slammed it shut behind her. The tears had stopped somewhere
along the way, and a cold fury had taken their place.

“How blind!? How blind could I have
been?”

She started pacing the large room. Even Mrs.
Brown had hinted at Henry’s concerns and interests last week, but
Clara—too blind to recognize the obvious—had thrown herself at
him.

And he’d rejected her. He had
rejected
her, not because of the reasons he’d listed, but
because he wanted her ruined sister.

Hurt…anger…revenge…emotions so long
suppressed churned within her. She felt ready to burst when a
persistent knocking finally drew her attention. She stormed to the
door and yanked it open.

The young servant took a step back when she
saw the wrath blazing in Clara’s face. “What?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss. Someone saw ye
coming up to the house. Yer mother wants to know what the message
was from…”

“Take her this.” Clara tore the crumpled
letter from her pocket and threw it at the girl. She was ready to
slam the door shut again, when the girl put out a hand
plaintively.

“Pardon, miss. She was asking if ye have
something to go to…to Parson Adams, as his man is waiting.”

“No! Nothing.” Clara’s hand gripped the edge
of the door. “But there is something you can do for me.”

The servant nodded worriedly and waited.

“Find out if the baronet is back. If he is,
then have the cook prepare a picnic basket and ask Paul to get an
open carriage ready. He and I are going for a ride.”

“And if he is not?” she asked nervously.

“Then come and get me as soon as he is.”

Clara continued to hold the door even after
the serving girl disappeared down the hall. Her parents were
right—her mother especially. She was too fine a creature for a
place so coarse as Ireland. She was too beautiful and well-bred not
to be able to make an advantageous match for herself.

Nicholas Spencer hadn’t asked for her hand
in marriage, that was true. But it was only because, since leaving
London, she had worked on hiding her charms, her pleasing attitude,
her intelligence and her wit.

Now that she was resolved that he would do
for a husband, the handsome baronet didn’t have a chance. They
would be married in a fortnight.

Her mother was always right, she thought
with bitter clarity.

***

Slumber was finally taking the children into
her soft golden arms. Daniel’s eyes drifted shut for a long moment,
and then immediately opened wide. He clearly didn’t want to miss
any of the story. Maire’s two small hands were clutching one of
Jane’s, and the young girl’s green eyes became huge when Jane
reached a particularly exciting moment in the tale.

Despite the significance of the news he had
to share, Henry Adams couldn’t bring himself to intrude on this
serene scene. The two children shared the bed. Jane sat beside
them, telling an Irish tale in Gaelic. He watched her reach over
and caress the little one’s hair.

A new awareness washed over Henry, taking
him by surprise, as his gaze was drawn to Jane’s face. He didn’t
remember ever being so taken by her beauty. She seemed to shine
from within. A softness, a maternal side of her that he’d never
known, made his heart ache and recall how cruel her own society had
been to her.

This was her right—to be a woman, a mother.
She had loved once and had suffered greatly in losing her lover.
But people never forgot. They never looked at the person beyond the
gossip and scandal.

She ended the story happily, with peace and
harmony prevailing for the good folk who triumphed over evil.
Daniel’s eyes were already closed, but Maire’s pale face was
smiling. Henry watched Jane lean over the child and brush a kiss
over her brow. The young girl’s hands were reluctant, but finally
released her hand as Jane stood up.

Jane blew out the candle on the table near
the bed. When she straightened up from the children, she noticed
him for the first time. “How long have you been here?”

She smiled and Henry felt another tug of
warmth in his heart. She had been his friend for so long.

“Long enough to be lulled and even enchanted
by the magic of your tongue.”

“After all these years, I cannot believe you
have never learned to speak Gaelic, Henry,” she whispered, giving a
final glance over her shoulder before following him out of the
room.

“How do you know I don’t speak it?”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Because I
have never heard you.”

In the narrow passage, she partially closed
the door to the children’s room.

“You’d be amazed what you might learn about
me if you came around more often.” He took her hand and lifted it
to his lips. “Why is it that you always smell so good?”

She paused and this time gave him an odd
stare. “What are you about tonight, Henry Adams?”

He laughed and, letting go of her hand,
placed an arm affectionately around her shoulder. Together, they
started down the corridor. “You always see through me, do you not,
Miss Purefoy?”

“I should considering all the years I’ve
known you.” She stopped at the closed door of Bowie’s room. “How is
he?”

“Still running a fever. But he was awake
when I looked in on him.”

Excited about this change, she had her hand
on the door latch when Henry stopped her.

“Be prepared for a surprise.”

His expression revealed nothing, but Jane
remembered his relaxed attitude standing in the other doorway.

“This can only be good.” She pushed the door
open and immediately gasped with delight. “Rita! You are here!”

Bowie was awake and was holding his mother’s
hand tightly. Still, the young woman came to her feet and smiled
tearfully at Jane. “I just arrived…a scant minute or so ago.”

Jane walked in and hugged her fiercely.

“Thank you E…Miss Jane,” the young mother
whispered and cried quietly. “I knew you’d be coming after them. I
knew you would never fail us.”

Behind them, Mrs. Brown entered the room
with a tray carrying a bowl of soup and a loaf of bread. Jane
finally let go of the young woman.

“Maire might be still awake next door, Rita.
Daniel is with her.”

Bowie reached for his mother, and Rita sat
down again beside her feverish but happy son.

“Aye, miss. I’ll go to them in a
minute.”

Too happy for words, Jane turned around and
saw Henry leaving the room. She followed and caught up to him at
the top of the stairs. When he heard her footsteps and turned
around, Jane—overwhelmed by the magnitude of his efforts—threw her
arms around him.

“Thank you, Henry. You are a good man. Thank
you for managing this.”

The arms that had wrapped around her in
return, gently caressed her back. “I wish I deserved your
sentiments. But ‘twas not I who brought Rita back, but Clara’s
fiancée…Sir Nicholas.”

Jane’s head immediately jerked off his
shoulder. Her arms released him, and she looked up to his solemn
face. “But I thought…he left…”

“He left for Buttevant this morning. He told
me he intended to find Musgrave. He mentioned something about some
donation of coins he’d made with your help to some of the needy
families in the area. He told me he was going to ask the magistrate
about the reason for Rita’s arrest. If it had anything to do with
that money, he was determined to demand her release.”

“You didn’t tell me any of this!”

“I didn’t think he had much chance of
succeeding.” He turned to descend the stairs.

She tugged at his sleeve to stop him. “What
do you have against him, Henry?”

“Why ask such a question?” he said
evasively, his face devoid of emotion.

“It is obvious that you two do not like each
other. Why is that?”

“If you insist on knowing, I can name a
number of reasons why I find him objectionable for Clara, but you
will have to ask
him
the reason for his surly behavior
toward me?”

Jane blamed herself for Spencer’s attitude.
She should not have praised one before the other. She might as well
have given a bone to one fighting dog while the other stands
watching.

“Where is he now?”

“I believe he was returning to Woodfield
House.”

“You didn’t invite him to stay for something
to eat? Or asked him if he wished to see me?”

He shrugged. “No! I thought he would be
anxious to return to your sister.”

“Oh Henry! Sometimes you can be so
thickheaded.” She slipped past him on the stairs, and he followed
her down. “How long ago did he leave?”

“I didn’t slam the door in his face, Jane.
And he didn’t ask to see you, in any case.”

Jane gave him a sharp look. “
When
did
he leave?”

“Not very long ago. But you are not going
after him now, are you?”

“I am going back to Woodfield House.” Jane
stated when they reached the front entrance hall. She threw her
cloak around her shoulders.

“How about Rita and her children?”

“Tell them I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“But I sent a message to your mother,
telling her that you would be staying here tonight.”

“She won’t know the difference.” Jane
assured him, giving him a light kiss on the cheek. “Good night,
Henry.”

Lighting a wick from a candle in the front
entryway, she walked out toward the stable where her horse had been
settled for the night. Working quickly, she saddled Mab, blew out
the tiny flame, and led her out.

Nicholas had done this for
her
, she
thought as she tossed the reins up over the horse’s head. He had
gone back to the barracks at Buttevant…and most likely saved the
young mother’s life in doing so. She couldn’t wait to find him and
thank him.