The Reluctant Bride (9 page)

‘My daughter killed any good opinion I harboured towards her.'

Time had not softened Bartholomew Micklen, Angus noted as he accepted a glass of sherry, wishing the interview over and heartily regretting the deviation he'd made on his return from France. He'd so hoped to broker a reconciliation, but Emily had been right. There was no forgiveness in Bartholomew Micklen's heart.

Beneath a jutting forehead over which dangled the tassel of his smoking cap, Micklen's eyes appeared slits of malice which he focused on Angus whom he'd directed to a low chair while he chose to stand. ‘I'm sorry, Major, but if you've just left Emily's bedside with her petition ringing in your ears, you've come in vain.'

Angus looked down at his glass and wondered how to terminate his visit. The room was warm and stuffy. He ran his finger around the inside of his stock, forcing himself to mount one final appeal.

‘You don't know how much your forgiveness would mean to her.'

‘Really?' The older man's laugh was ironic. ‘Emily is like all the women in her family.' He jerked his head towards his wife, bent in her chair by the fire but clearly following the conversation. ‘She'll say whatever she thinks is to her benefit, regardless of truth. My daughter doesn't value my good opinion. Never has.'

Angus placed his sherry on the little side table and rose. It was not often he was roused to anger. Prudently, he decided it was time to beat a dignified retreat. ‘I'm sorry to have troubled you, sir—'

‘No need to be so hasty. I haven't ruled out my forgiveness entirely.' Mr Micklen waved Angus back into his seat. ‘I simply want Emily to understand that her behaviour has consequences.'

‘I think she is well aware of that, sir.'

Mr Micklen's smile did not have the effect of making his expression any pleasanter. ‘I confess I am surprised by your visit but I'll consider your request. Emily has learnt a painful lesson. Perhaps she is not yet beyond redemption.'

When his son-in-law had gone, Micklen stared thoughtfully through the window into the orderly garden beyond. He knew it was pointless waiting for his wife to break the silence and for once regretted terrorising her to such an extent that the sport of cutting her down was now a thing of the past.

‘You are surprised by my softened heart, Marguerite?' he asked, not turning.

‘Nothing surprises me any more, Bartholomew.' Her voice was deliberately neutral; it amused him to think of the efforts she'd be expending right now to subdue her fear. He could hear it, as carefully controlled as a bow across a too-taught violin string. ‘I can only think you have some motive for pretending to grant Emily latitude. You've never loved her.'

‘How astute,
ma chérie.
' He turned. ‘Perhaps if she'd been my daughter …' He left the sentence hanging.

Marguerite swivelled her eyes to meet his. ‘You see benefit in courting Emily's noble husband, yet I cannot see why, for he is nothing like Jack Noble.'

Micklen sighed. ‘Jack Noble was the ideal son-in-law, it is true: greedy, unpatriotic and amenable to reason.' He left the window and began to pace in front of the fire.

Marguerite twisted in her chair to follow him with her gaze. ‘Angus McCartney is none of those things. Certainly not amenable to the kind of reason you would have him see. Don't risk Emily's happiness a second time, Bartholomew, I beg of you. Major McCartney will be good to her. She may even come to love him. But if you—'

‘Silence!'

Obediently, Marguerite Micklen pressed her lips together and lowered her eyes. Their exchanges rarely came to this. She had learned her place long ago.

Bartholomew rubbed his chin. ‘Emily is half French. Why should her patriotism be confined to English interests? You heard the major. Like Jack Noble, Angus McCartney has been sent across the channel. Why?' He chuckled. ‘It stands to reason Woodhouse has recruited McCartney in place of our ignoble lately lamented Major Noble.' He turned to warm his back, his smile contemplative. ‘Fanchette is in need of assistance.'

‘You have heard from Fanchette? After all these years …'

Micklen smiled at the strangled surprise in his wife's voice before answering roughly, ‘Fanchette deserves to be punished for foisting her useless sister upon me. Granted, there were benefits at the time, but now you are a millstone around my neck.' His lip curled. ‘A hideous cripple.'

Marguerite's breathing quickened in defence. He could almost smell her terror as she croaked, ‘The only reason you stand where you are is because of Fanchette.'

Micklen clicked his tongue. ‘Reminding me of my place, eh? My, my, you are becoming bold, Marguerite.'

Marguerite lowered her eyes to her trembling hands. ‘You are rich thanks to Fanchette's generosity—'

‘Thanks to her treachery, I think you mean. She sacrificed her family to the guillotine for a fortune which she spent on those she loved. God knows why she was so fond of you, but the fact you still have a head on your misshapen body proves she does have some redeeming qualities, I suppose.' Gratified by the fear his wife was unable to hide, though disgusted by the drool she hurriedly wiped from her trembling mouth, he added, ‘Fanchette parades herself as the heroine of French liberation, but her black, immoral soul is a foul canker on all society. Should such a creature be rewarded?'

Marguerite managed to raise her voice above a whisper. ‘All I want is the best for Emily. It's all I've ever wanted …'

Micklen laughed as she began to sob. Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘The time has come for Emily to join the family firm, my dear Marguerite. Noble was supposed to be the means to bring that about, but the fool got himself killed. Now it's time Emily started paying her mother's dues, eh Marguerite? For twenty years you've been nothing but a drain on me … an affliction I've been forced to bear.'

His wife's distress always afforded him great sport and tonight he was particularly restless, so when she managed, between gasps, ‘Why so many secrets, Bartholomew! Tell me who came knocking at the door … when was it, five years ago? You took her away in your carriage. Emily told me but I was too afraid to quiz you. Was it Fanchette? Was it my sister?'

Micklen just laughed louder. ‘Cripples must discover these secrets for themselves.'

‘Lucy was too afraid to tell me, too, until I made her. You threatened her, didn't you, Bartholomew? It was Fanchette, wasn't it? Lucy said she never learned her name but that she was French and in rags, half-starved.' She shivered.

Amused, Bartholomew watched her battle with the desire to challenge him and her well placed fear of the consequences. To his surprise, she pressed on. ‘If it wasn't Fanchette it must have been Jessamine. Lucy said she had dark hair and large eyes. Fanchette told me in the last letter she wrote me five years ago that Jessamine had run away.' A choking fit bent her double.

Disgusted, Bartholomew turned from the sight of her spraying spittle, yet despite her apoplexy, Marguerite struggled on. ‘If I had known how incapable you are of forgiveness, Bartholomew … and your capacity for evil, I'd have chosen to be ripped apart by the mob in the Abbaye rather than become your wife.'

Bartholomew laughed louder. ‘You should speak your mind more often, Marguerite. It's infinitely more diverting than watching you hide your quaking terror. As for forgiveness, I do not forgive those who have wronged me – and your sister wronged me greatly.' He fixed her with a level look. ‘It appears Fanchette thought Gerard Fontenay's pockets would be deeper when he made an honest woman of her, hence her interesting petition for my help.' He pursed his lips and raised one eyebrow. ‘Now that we have a replacement for Jack Noble and – if Emily plays her cards right – access to the diplomatic pouch, perhaps we can help each other.'

Listlessly, Emily remained in her bed at Honeyfield House.

Grieving.

And plotting.

The death of Jack's child had taken with it any necessity for Emily to have a husband.

She need not have married Angus.

It was a bitter reflection.

Jack had tapped the deepest of passions within Emily. Passions she'd not known existed. The fiery responses he'd aroused had been shocking and profound. What she'd felt with Jack was real love: the explosion of the senses, the heightened sense of living. No man in her life could ever again compete with Jack. No man could arouse the sensations he had aroused.

With growing certainty, as she wallowed in her misery and tossed, despairingly in her bed, she reasoned it was unfair on Angus that he be afflicted with a wife who could never love him.

Finally, she roused herself, and reached for her writing box.

Perhaps, she suggested in a letter to her Aunt Gemma, a bargain could be reached in terms of the dowry her aunt had intended granting Angus for Emily – a sum which obviously had not yet been paid.

With the child dead – another man's child – she was certain an annulment could be procured, with her aunt's assistance.

Her final argument in the letter – of which multiple drafts had been written – was that this marriage was as unfair on Angus as it was on Emily. He was a good man who deserved better in a wife: a wife who could love him.

Having sent her letter, a little of the terrible weight of grief fell from Emily's shoulders.

A week since Angus's departure turned into two. She forgot that Angus had been kind and patient and had seemed to genuinely grieve over the death of the little one. While Emily's grief remained overwhelming, her husband was becoming a distant memory.

If she felt troubled that Angus may object to her plan of an annulment, she thought of his mistress, Jessamine. He'd had other women in the past and no doubt he'd find some worthy woman to make his wife in the future. He'd soon forget Emily.

One morning Caroline put her head around the door and said with a smile, ‘Perhaps you'd feel strong enough for a short walk this afternoon, Emily. It's a beautiful day.'

But when Caroline began to sing the praises of her brother-in-law as she drew the curtains, Emily deflected her seemingly favourite topic of conversation by asking the tantalising question which seemed to paint Angus's dealings with women in an uncharacteristic light. ‘Please tell me about Jessamine.'

Yes, it was scandal and surely not a topic Caroline would consider fitting for the ears of Angus's wife, but it was something to dwell on, other than the baby. Besides, the brief reference to Jessamine in the carriage indicated Caroline clearly knew more than Emily did.

‘Jessamine?' Caroline repeated the name in a tone of deep disquiet as her hand dropped from the curtain, and Emily felt a twinge of shame because Caroline had shown her nothing but kindness.

Caroline chose her words carefully. ‘Angus
told
you about Jessamine?'

With studied carelessness, Emily traced the embroidery on the bed linen. ‘He said she was long dead.'

Seating herself beside the bed, Caroline took her hand. ‘You mustn't be jealous, Emily. Angus—'

Emily cut her off with a laugh. ‘I'm not
jealous
.'

Caroline frowned and in the silence Emily could imagine her thoughts whirling round inside her head. Emily used to put Lucy on the spot like this, after she'd realised Lucy no longer wanted to tell Emily the stories of her father's heroic background.

Caroline appeared to be vacillating over how much to say. Then clearly decided to say nothing. ‘Jessamine is dead. Let's leave the past as is, shall we?'

Emily, a second ago, had been prepared to dismiss the subject. Now she was deeply interested in the reason for Caroline's clouded brow.

‘She was a camp follower, wasn't she? Angus met her during the Corunna retreat. I gather she was Spanish.'

‘French,' Caroline corrected her, absently.

‘How did she die?'

‘She took her own life.'

Emily was unprepared for such an answer.

‘
Killed herself
?' That meant she lay in unconsecrated ground. A fate baby Jack would have shared had Jonathan not buried him in his own churchyard.

Caroline rose, adding shortly, ‘Angus found her.' She pretended to busy herself, rearranging a drooping flower and changing the subject as she said, falsely bright, ‘I received a letter from Angus today. He's returned to England but has had to go to London on business. He asked me to convey his love and says he anticipates being home in three or four days.'

Three or four days! Emily's shock at the nature of Jessamine's death turned to horror at this latest news.

Her mind worked quickly. Surely two weeks after her miscarriage was too soon for him to expect his conjugal rights? Until she received instructions from Aunt Gemma as to how to proceed with her application for an annulment she must find any excuse to keep Angus at bay. She ought to be a free woman. She had not wanted to marry Angus two months ago and even less did she wanted to be married to him now.

Caroline smiled and brushed away a strand of Emily's dark hair. ‘He is so looking forward to seeing you again,' she said, and despite herself Emily closed her eyes, enjoying the rare sensation of being caressed. She was truly fond of Caroline and sorry she would be disappointing her.

Better to do it earlier, though.

‘Poor Angus,' whispered Emily. ‘His honourable actions towards me will cost him dearly, I fear, for I am not the wife to make him proud – or happy.'

The following day her response from Aunt Gemma arrived.

Snatching the sealed letter from amongst those the parlour maid delivered on a silver salver to the drawing room and with only a cursory nod at Caroline, she hurried to the privacy of her room.

Quickly, she slid her nail under the wax seal and scanned the few lines, her heart racing.

Dear Emily,