The Reluctant Bride (8 page)

Not even the beauty of the passing elms, bright in their sunset-coloured foliage amidst fields of golden corn in a new and different country, could dispel Angus's gloom.

I don't think I could have borne this sorrow with you by my side.

Her words scored his heart like the pain of a thousand lashes, but at least she wasn't going to be alone. The baby had been born during the night and had breathed for half an hour before it had died. Before the priest had come.

Caroline, as good as her promise, had been there, arriving only an hour after he had. Instead of putting up at the Black Crow in modest comfort, she'd insisted on attending Emily so that Angus could leave first thing in the morning on his mission to France.

She'd also promised to lay out the dead child.

Angus delayed his departure until the last moment although Emily seemed not to register his parting kiss.

He would visit Emily's father on his return, certain that despite what Emily declared, nothing would be more calculated to restore her spirits than her father's acceptance.

With Emily in the good care of his capable sister-in-law, Angus realised he must turn his attention to the future. His and Emily's. Fantastic possibilities had opened up his horizons. He was about to direct his talents towards the good of his homeland while his personal rewards extended well beyond that. He could provide for Emily: a fine home, a carriage and a wardrobe full of gowns.

He slumped back against the squabs of his post-chaise. What good were fine trappings if Emily did not love him … and perhaps never would now the reason for their union was gone?

Restlessly, he shifted in his seat. He wished he'd chosen hard riding to this endless jolting over rutted roads, but he'd decided there were advantages to not arriving travel-stained and exhausted wearing muddied riding clothes. Even if riding clothes
were
pretty much the extent of Angus's wardrobe these days. Lord knew, he was on few invitation lists.

He swallowed, his throat dry. He must make an effort and emerge from his reclusive ways to promote his lovely wife into the arena she deserved. Once he'd settled upon a handsome house, ideally not far from Honeyfield House, he envisaged the determined-though-nurturing Caroline directing operations with her usual efficiency, grooming Emily for her new role as one of the foremost ladies of the district.

If this pleased Emily, Angus didn't mind swapping his riding breeches and boots for formal attire, on occasion. That was a small price to pay for seeing her smile.

As he consulted his timepiece he wondered rather gloomily if he'd ever see Emily smile again.

The countryside was changing and he remembered Woodhouse's description that indicated the distance covered. He should be at Monsieur Delon's within the next hour, but exhaustion was fast claiming him. Angus knew his strengths and the few traits that he believed recommended him: he was tenacious, discreet and he could sleep anywhere. But he was a terrible sailor, and by God the crossing had been slow and rough.

The Delons lived in a handsome stone house in the centre of the pretty Cathedral town of Saint-Omer, twenty-eight miles, or three hours' travel from Calais. French aristocrats, they'd survived the Reign of Terror, fleeing Paris twenty years before, making connections in England, and then being reaccepted by France's new regime. Monsieur Delon was a canny local politician and, Angus had been informed, a secret campaigner for a Bourbon restoration, a goal shared by the English bureaucrats who'd recruited him.

Peace
. Angus had spent too much of his life at war and he relished his role in this mission. He remembered the euphoria that had gripped him and his countrymen eleven years before when the Treaty of Amiens had brought short-lived peace. As an eager art student he'd been on the verge of seizing the opportunity to indulge his passions when suddenly the treaty was dissolved and hostilities were again the order of the day. As one son amongst so many, the army had offered him a livelihood.

Since then he'd seen too much horror. The thought he might in some way contribute to a more permanent peace between warring nations would make him feel his life had been good for something.

The house was silent as Angus was led by the parlour maid to an elegantly decorated drawing room. He recalled Emily's mention of the Delon daughter, Madeleine, and listened for the sounds of playing. The thick stone walls filtered the noise from outside and he could have heard a pin drop, indoors. Madeleine must have no boisterous brothers. He knew nothing about girls but supposed that one small one, alone, would make little impression on a household like this.

The silence of the Delon residence, disturbed only by the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, reminded him of the Micklen household, but he was relieved that his greeting from Monsieur Delon was a good deal warmer.

As the parlour maid announced him, the exquisitely attired Monsieur Delon rose from his wing-back chair before the fireplace, declaring in perfect, accented English that any foe of Napoleon was a friend of his.

‘A message came last night that we were to expect you, Monsieur McCartney.' From beneath Monsieur Delon's elegant, grey eyebrows a pair of bright eyes regarded him with interest and good humour. ‘My daughter and I have been eagerly anticipating your visit.'

Angus judged him to be in his sixties. He spoke with pride of his daughter, before outlining his plans to present Angus later that evening to the most important figure in their operation. ‘Count Levinne heads
Le Congregation de la Roi
and we greatly anticipate that your delivery of the necessary documents on such short notice is a prelude to greater involvement in an operation that aids a cause which we hope is as close to your heart as it is to ours: freedom and peace. Ah, Madeleine, our guest has arrived.'

Angus turned as his nostrils were assailed by a waft of peony scent, the assault on his senses intensified as he beheld an exquisite apparition in white, her lovely pale arms holding an arrangement of hothouse blooms which she placed on the sideboard, her long dark hair simply bound in an ivory comb. Smiling, she swept back an escaped tendril.

For a moment Angus was speechless, the sudden constriction of his airways forcing him to straighten while he composed his features into registering nothing but neutral, courteous interest. Meanwhile his mind whirled and the surface of his skin tingled with an extraordinary combination of admiration and disgust.

Madeleine Delon was remarkably like Emily on first glance, with her glossy dark hair, clear-eyed gaze and perfect skin and features. She was also at least a dozen years older than the child he had been expecting.

Her simple white muslin gown moulded her shapely body, which she moved with an obvious understanding of the allure she must hold for most men.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur McCartney,' she murmured as she curtsied before advancing towards him with the languid grace of a young woman confident of her powers of attraction.

‘I see it was not a good crossing,' she added, raising one eyebrow in amusement as her eyes met his.

She was exquisite but he forced aside the admiration, imagining her instead sizing him up like a well-fed cat sized up its prey; wishing he didn't care that she'd found him wanting after the rigours of his journey.

‘I shall have the kitchen prepare something soothing.'

In only a glance she'd accurately summed up the reasons for Angus's obviously pallid looks. Now she took his arm and led him to a chair while her father set about procuring them both a glass of Madeira. ‘Poor Major McCartney,' she crooned, ‘We shall do what we can to make you feel better.'

Angus was uncomfortably aware of his vulnerability. Mademoiselle Delon exuded an incredibly powerful magnetism.

After arranging the cushions to facilitate his comfort, the young woman moved to the mantelpiece from where she regarded him with sharp interest as she draped one arm languidly along the marble. ‘Captain Noble, now he was a good traveller,
n'est ce pas
, Papa? We were saddened to hear of his death but are very happy such a brave man has replaced him. Our cause needs you, Major.'

The perfect symmetry of her face reminded Angus of a Gallic Madonna with impish eyes. Now she no longer reminded him of Emily, though both were of similar height and build, each with a smile notable for their small, white pearly teeth.

To his embarrassment he realised he was looking directly at Madeleine's mouth, full and sensuous, the lips moist and slightly parted, and he shifted and swallowed, feeling the heat in his face as he realised she was studying him with equal interest.

He forced his thoughts under control. Madeleine, the poised beauty with her raven tresses and confidence of her place in society and appeal to the masculine sex, was no match for Emily's purity and modesty.

He returned Madeleine's smile with the courtesy required while his skin prickled with the knowledge that this was the Madeleine after whom Jack would have Emily name their child. What duplicitous swine would do such a thing?

‘Though the crossing was bad, I hope you recovered while riding over our excellent roads, Monsieur.' Mademoiselle Delon smoothed her glossy coiffure, smiling at Angus as her father handed him a drink.

And although Angus replied appropriately, he could only wonder how much Madeleine knew about Jack Noble's betrothed and whether she'd entered into the malicious fun of deceiving Emily.

After refreshment had been taken, Monsieur Delon laced his hands across his neat, round, beautifully upholstered belly and gave a sigh of appreciation.

‘You would, Major, probably care to rest for an hour or two before dinner. I'd hate Madeleine to weary you with her childish prattle.'

Father and daughter nodded in familial accord, and Madeleine swayed against her father's side as she focused her amusement upon their visitor.

‘I would, sir,' Angus said stiffly, his thoughts turning to how much Monsieur Delon knew about his daughter's dealings with Jack Noble and whether the personal deceptions practised in this household compromised the operation.

He forced a smile. ‘As you accurately surmised, Mademoiselle Delon, the crossing was diabolical but the carriage ride was not as bad.'

‘Perhaps you'd like me to rub your neck with lavender balm,' the young woman suggested. Her bright amber eyes raked him with undisguised appreciation. ‘Captain Noble found it helped ease the ill effects of his journey.'

‘I'd prefer to sleep, but I thank you.'

‘Then go to your bed, Major,' his host exhorted him. ‘Madeleine will show you the way.'

Monsieur Delon's words sounded a hundred miles away. Angus forced his chin up as Madeleine placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

‘Count Levinne is looking forward to meeting you at tonight's
soirée
, Monsieur,' she said as she led him from the room. ‘The loss of Monsieur Allaire's papers has put us all in a difficult, if not perilous, situation should his identity become a matter of curiosity.' Leading him through darkened corridors, she stopped and pointed. ‘Your room is in the attic. If the house is for any reason searched, the ladder can be pulled up. Many brave men have been housed here but none so brave as poor Captain Noble and now'—fleetingly, seemingly unconsciously, she ran her fingers down his arm—‘yourself.'

Even in his current state of exhaustion, her smile sent uncomfortable tremors though him. She was so like Emily in certain lights.

Ignoring Angus's protests that he needed no further help, Mademoiselle Delon insisted on accompanying him to his chamber.

He finally gave up protesting when Madeleine pushed him back upon the bed and knelt to remove his boots. The truth was, he didn't think he could have torn off his Hessians without help in his current state of exhaustion.

‘No doubt you have someone to do this for you at home.' The look she sent him when she glanced up as she knelt at the base of his bed was sly, the fleeting touch of her quick, deft hands both horrifying and uncomfortably erotic. Jessamine had been the last woman to have removed his boots. He closed his mind to the thought.

‘I manage,' he mumbled.

‘You do not have a wife?' She arched an eyebrow. ‘Poor Monsieur. Every man needs a wife and you are so handsome—'

‘I have a wife,' he cut her off, wincing at the relief of lying on a comfortable bed in stockinged feet, aware of the unintended sharpness of his tone.

She straightened, stepping back to regard him curiously from the centre of the wooden floor. With speculation in her eyes she looked nothing like Emily, though he wished Emily would look at him like this.

‘Ah yes, but you are newly married,
non
?'

Obviously she had been well briefed.

‘Newly married, Mademoiselle, and very tired.'

‘Yes, you must sleep.' Her lips curved in a secretive smile as she leaned over him, her breast brushing his cheek as she tucked the blanket under his chin. ‘You have important work to do if you are to satisfy our organisation and to make your new bride proud. When you have rested you must tell me all about her. I take great interest in the brave men who lodge with us, and the women at home who make their own sacrifices.'

Consciousness lapped at the periphery of Emily's brain and although she knew someone was in the bedroom she wasn't ready to emerge from the netherworld just yet. She held her dream fiercely to her as she gave her mind free rein to wander. She and her infant son were tumbling in the sweet green grass beneath a clear blue sky surrounded by a dozen gambolling lambs. Jack's eyes stared out at her from her child's cherubic face as he extended his chubby fists to be picked up. Invisible bonds that could never be broken bound them together.

She bent down to scoop him into her arms, her heart filled to bursting at the anticipation. The thought of his soft curly hair tickling her cheek, his little arms wrapped about her neck made her breath come more quickly as she savoured the excitement.

She opened her eyes suddenly. He must have darted out of reach. Stumbled perhaps.

But no. He was not there and this was no rose-coloured reality or even a wonderful comforting dream. It was her reality. Her painful reality: a cramped bedroom in a soldier's barracks, devoid of physical comfort or friends or love. The only thing to recommend it was that it was free of the man who now had complete control over her.

She gave a sob. The child was to have been her future. It was to have been a little Jack protecting her from loneliness, providing her with a reason for existence, a reason for her marriage. It was … everything.

Groggily, she forced herself to confront the truth beneath the covers of a strange bed belonging to a man she'd known less than a few weeks … in her husband's house and more heartsick than she could remember.

She registered once more the rustle nearby, smelled the familiar smell of chamomile and the strange one of – what was it? Orange water? – and finally acknowledged she was not alone.

A tantalising aroma of bacon wafted through from the rear of the dwelling, and when she half opened one eye she saw someone sitting on the chair at her bedside. For a moment she thought it was her mother and excitement surged through her, quickly extinguished as an unfamiliar voice directed the maid, ‘Miranda, a nice cup of tea, please. Mrs McCartney's awake.'

Mrs McCartney.

Emily jolted upright and stared at the stranger, a plain, pleasant-faced woman in her early thirties. Her cream muslin gown was simple but fashionable, her fair hair drawn back from her face, a style which accentuated her best features: fine, hazel eyes through which she regarded Emily with a mixture of interest and compassion.

‘I'm Caroline McCartney, your sister-in-law, and you've slept a long time but I think it was just what you needed.' When the woman smiled she no longer looked plain and efficient. Her smile was the most heart-warming smile Emily could remember in a long time, but she clamped down the flowering she felt in her heart and imagined Caroline must be a fine actress to hide the disgust she'd no doubt be feeling. She'd regard Emily as no better than a woman of easy virtue, a fallen woman, a Cyprian … and goodness knows how ghastly it must have been for her to have tended to her for all this time.

Giving no indication that this was the case, her sister-in-law went on. ‘I came here the day before yesterday and you've been in and out of consciousness. We were worried and loath to move you.' Glancing around, raising her eyebrows at the pictures turned to the wall, she added, ‘I think you will be more comfortable with us. My husband, Jonathan, is preparing the carriage for your removal now. In case Angus hasn't told you, Jonathan is his older brother and rector of St Barnabus, a little over an hour away. Less, of course, on horseback but although the carriage is slow, it
is
comfortable.'

Although Caroline withdrew the hand she'd extended towards Emily, her smile remained, despite Emily's lack of response. ‘I believe you have no wish for your mother to be sent for, but if there is anyone …'

Her mother. Emily quivered with longing at the thought. Even if her mother could manage the journey her father would never sanction it.

‘There is no one,' she whispered.

Nevertheless, she regarded Caroline with interest. Like herself, she was Mrs McCartney – the eldest brother's wife. And she was being kind to Emily.

Her sister-in-law took the steaming cup of tea Miranda handed her and said, as if reading her thoughts, ‘Angus asked me to see to your comfort, Emily, but I think you also want someone with you who understands your grief.'

To Emily's surprise, Caroline touched her cheek, her eyes full of sympathy. This was not what she'd expected. Her dead child meant nothing to anyone else; except as an interloper by family members doing the arithmetic.

Emily did not withdraw from Caroline's touch this time. It had been so long since she'd enjoyed the comfort offered by another human being without fear of what she must provide in return.

‘I understand your grief, Emily, for I lost my first child within a week of giving birth and my third was stillborn.'

Emily felt the tears begin again but her heart was like a bitter almond, though she tried to appreciate Caroline's words in the spirit in which they were intended.

‘I'm sorry to hear it, ma'am,' she murmured, closing her eyes. ‘It must have been hard for you.'

‘I thought I would die of the loss.'

Emily was aware of being scrutinised in the silence but she refused to open her eyes. She didn't care, now, if she never left these awful soldier's barracks. If she died right here it would be a good thing.

Sighing, Caroline patted her wrist and Emily heard her rise, saying, ‘Let us speak no more of loss for now. No doubt you imagine you could die of it at this moment, but I know better. I know that time will lessen the pain, only it's too early to try and persuade you of that. Now—'

Emily, opening her eyes, was surprised to see the obvious distaste with which Caroline regarded the sparsely furnished room.

‘Angus is disappointed his arrangements for a new house have been delayed but he promises you shall be comfortably installed directly after his return. A good thing, too, though let me assure you, he's doing his best.'

Emily's eyes alighted on the threadbare rag rug by the doorway.

Caroline, following her gaze, gave a short laugh. ‘When you both have repaired to something more commodious than these bachelor's quarters I've no doubt he'll give you full sway with the decorating. Angus is generous to a fault when his feelings are aroused.' She put her hand on the door knob. ‘I see there is not much to pack, so perhaps when you've finished your tea I can help you dress in something suitable for travelling so we can be home in time for dinner.'

A minute ago Emily had embraced death. Now she decided she didn't care where she was going as long as it was away from these dreadful quarters, so perhaps she did have the energy to get out of bed.

Ten minutes later, without objection, she allowed Caroline to help her up and into an old gown with far too generous a waistline, for she possessed no appropriate travelling clothes that would fit her.

Reverend McCartney, a plump, friendly man with an open smile, was waiting by the side of a handsome equipage drawn by four fine bays. A crowd of ragged village children had gathered, staring in awe at the dark blue vehicle. Such a sight would be a rarity in this neighbourhood she thought, before her heart clutched at the sight of the tiny coffin strapped to the back.

Caroline gripped her shoulders as she swayed, her sister-in-law's words of comfort finding their mark as she whispered, ‘Jonathan will bury your child in consecrated ground and you will be there tomorrow for the ceremony. He will not be forgotten.'

Dazedly, Emily allowed herself to be helped by Jonathan into the carriage.

‘You must tell me if you are uncomfortable so we can stop or rearrange the cushions,' Caroline told her as they set off, taking the bumps and ruts with the smoothness of a royal coach.

Emily had forgotten what it felt like to be cosseted. ‘Your carriage is a good deal more comfortable than my own bed,' she remarked, running a hand over the rich plush cushions.

‘I've my wife to thank for that.' The reverend, sitting opposite her, smiled fondly as he patted his wife's arm. ‘You see, I married money.'

‘Just as long as you don't tell people you married
for
money, Jonathan,' Caroline said, lapsing into what Emily soon came to realise was the familiar, bantering tone they used with one another. Even preoccupied as she was with her own feelings, the observation came as a shock. She'd not seen married people behave like this. When she found it too exhausting to offer more than monosyllabic replies to Caroline's efforts at engaging her in light conversation, she listened to the couple discuss their own concerns: Anthony's new school, Jeremy's preoccupation with horses, Jane's wicked toddler ways, the anticipated crop from the apple tree.

They spoke of domestic matters like they were the best of friends, not always agreeing, but with an overriding affection foreign to Emily. Plain Caroline was transformed into an engaging, quick-witted and affectionate wife; Jonathan into an amusing, incisive husband with a teasing manner and a gentle self-deprecating wit.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the swaying motion as the carriage rolled along, so different from the hellish journey she'd endured just after her marriage; then heard Caroline whisper, ‘Jonathan, tuck up Emily's feet and put another cushion behind her,' and Jonathan's tentative, ‘Do you not think I might disturb her, my love?'

To this Caroline agreed, after which there was a long silence followed by her plaintive sigh. ‘What has your brother done?'

Emily was not about to indicate she was awake.

‘He's fallen in love.'

‘Clearly,' came the quick rejoinder, ‘but surely even you can see he's set himself up for a good deal of heartache. He's not one to act impulsively so it's a pity he's done so over his marriage.'

‘You're forgetting Jessamine.'

After another long silence Caroline said, quietly, with a finality that brooked no returning to the subject, ‘Love had nothing to do with it. Hush, now, Jonathan. We don't want to wake the lass.'

Jessamine, again. Interest pricked though she told herself Angus's amours were of no account. Still, she was astonished that Caroline should know anything about Angus's illicit liaisons and even more so by her cryptic discounting the possibility that emotion had anything to do with the union. Everything Emily knew of Angus suggested he was a man who'd only become involved with a woman if his emotions were deeply engaged.

The thought only intensified her guilt as she shifted restlessly, still feigning sleep.

‘Home at last!'

Emily stirred at Caroline's jolly tone, allowing Jonathan to help her out of the carriage and set her down at the bottom of a flight of shallow stone stairs.

Gazing with surprised delight at the beautiful, honey-coloured vicarage with its mullioned windows and cloak of ivy, she turned at the sound of running feet on gravel.

‘Jemmy, my sweet!' cried her sister-in-law, embracing the grubby-faced little boy. Setting him away, she added with a smile, ‘Jeremy, meet your new aunt, Emily. You didn't know Uncle Angus had married, did you?'

A choking lump rose up in Emily's throat but she extended her hand towards the lad who gave her a shy, gap-toothed smile. ‘Where's Uncle Angus?' he asked, clearly disappointed with the answer that he was away on business, before running off.

The next hour passed in a blur as Caroline showed Emily her room, instructed a parlour maid to unpack the trunk, sent her own dresser to help Emily wash and change, insisted Emily return to her bed after the long journey, then finally came to visit her, the maid in her wake bearing a supper tray.

‘I'm sure you're done in after the journey so I've arranged for your refreshment to be taken here,' she said, easing herself into a stiff-backed chair by the bed.

Emily's room, like the others in the rectory she had seen, was decorated in the latest style and while she had grown up in comfort, she was enchanted by the bold decorating of her new surroundings.

‘Angus asked me to write every day to inform him of your health.' Caroline smiled as if expecting some tender response from Emily. When this was not forthcoming she said without missing a beat, ‘He was terribly concerned at having to leave you at such a time.'

Emily turned her head away and stared at the ceiling. The silence lengthened. She knew a polite response was expected. Something along the lines of how glad she was to hear it, or how she missed him. Instead she whispered, ‘It is very hard to be a good wife.' Turning back to Caroline, she went on with difficulty, ‘You must know that I was to be married to another man before Angus. A brave soldier.' She drew in a difficult breath. ‘I mourn him still and now I mourn the baby, yet I know how much I ought to be grateful to Angus.' She swallowed. ‘But it is so very hard.'

‘I know.' Caroline's tone lacked censure as she handed Emily a handkerchief to stem the tears that spilled onto her pillow. When she touched her arm Emily felt a frisson of warmth and gratitude. A fallen woman was irredeemable and wasn't that what they all knew her to be? Yet Caroline went on as if Emily were not damned. ‘When Angus returns it will be a new beginning even if part of you is in mourning.'

‘When Angus returns I will have to do my duty as his wife and'—Emily slanted a glance at her sister-in-law—‘I don't know how I can bear that.'

Caroline looked thoughtful as she smoothed Emily's pillow. ‘When you have exorcised your grief, Emily,' she said slowly, ‘embrace the good things life is offering you. Including your husband.'

Turning at the door, she added, ‘I've known Angus more than seven years. He's the last to advertise his fine qualities but believe me, Emily, there are few men finer than he.'