The Rogue's Return (37 page)

T
he sun shone for the wedding, which was a bit of a miracle in early December. Jancy looked out of the window of her bedroom, in which she'd slept alone for this one night, cradling the box that held the polished heart, smiling at the sea.

She and Simon had traveled north after the funerals to tidy all the details of her situation. The Entwistles and Cubhouses had been distressed to discover that there'd been a mistake—that Jane was dead, not Nan—but that didn't mean they were sad to see her alive. Her handsome, important husband had been a nine days' wonder.

Jancy had done as she'd thought she'd never be able to do and shown Simon their house, the places she and Jane had played, and Martha's grave. There they'd arranged for a headstone in memory of Jane Otterburn, who had in her charity drawn likenesses at the summer fair in 1815, and thus raised money but also created treasured images.

Using a solicitor as an intermediary, they'd made contact with Tillie. Jancy thought Simon had been a bit shocked by the rough, grubby woman who'd obviously dressed her best in a worn velvet cloak and high bonnet with broken straw and too many flowers, but she herself had been overtaken by a kind of fondness.

She wasn't sure she even thought of Tillie as her
mother anymore, but there were good memories and they'd smiled at each other, almost as old friends.

Tillie had been cock-a-hoop at the thought of her daughter marrying so grandly and had promptly extorted money. Of course Simon had come prepared to pay, and Jancy knew that the fifty pounds Tillie demanded was nothing to him, but still she was both horrified and amused.

“You are my wife's mother,” Simon had said, “so we both want you to be comfortable. Indefinitely.”

Tillie had changed then, in the way Jancy remembered from the day she'd taken her to Martha's. A sharp directness had come into her eyes, and a smile, too.

“You're a good'un. We don't want me family to be asking too many questions, though, so you'll have to make it like an old admirer'as left me a bit every month. A nootie, don't they call it?”

“An annuity, yes.”

“Enough to buy me a bit of finery and medicines when anyone needs 'em. And coals and food in the winter. Terrible hard on the bairns and elders, winter is.” The beggar's whine had returned. “Ten pounds a month? House needs a new roof. Let's say ten extra now for that.”

Ten pounds a month was a fortune to a Haskett.

“He was a most devoted admirer,” Simon had said, “which isn't at all surprising. We'll make it twenty, and you'll probably receive gifts now and then.”

For once, Tillie had looked at a loss, but she'd recovered quickly. “Should'ave asked for more, should I?” She looked at Jancy. “You don't need to worry I'll bother you, our Jancy, but it pleases me fine what's become of you.”

“Because of you.”

“Then come north now and then and let me see yer.” She'd stood and twitched her outrageous bonnet. “And don't forget those presents!”

Jancy had already sent an anonymous present of a warm cloak, flannel petticoats, and a gaudy brooch she
knew Tillie would love, and another of a basket of oranges.

“Thank you, Tillie,” she said softly, and turned to prepare for her wedding.

Soon she would walk on Simon's arm though a crisp, golden morning to the church in Monkton St. Bride, surrounded by his family and friends. Hal had come, Mrs. Beaumont proudly on his arm. Prepared by Simon, the St. Brides had welcomed the couple without restraint, but it would not be that way everywhere. Jancy had seen worry in Blanche's eyes. Fear that she brought pain to the man she loved.

Then there was a cheerful Irishman called Miles Cavanagh, with a dark-haired Irish wife. They'd brought two fine Irish horses, a mare and stallion—he'd made a risqué joke—as a bridal gift. Lord Darius was also here, and Mara St. Bride seemed to have appointed herself his guardian angel. He was still unwell and would benefit from Brideswell warmth, but she wasn't sure he had enough to offer Mara in return.

Gifts and congratulatory messages had arrived from all the other Rogues. Nicholas Delaney had sent a startlingly beautiful set of dueling pistols, with stocks of pearl set with jewels. The letter had said:
I hope you'll note that these are too ornate to ever actually be used.

Simon had laughed and said, “I've been sharply chastised.”

Jancy had a new gown of dark blue made in the latest style and a matching Scottish cap that showed off the curls around her face. For this occasion, she'd added a rather large round button atop. When she went downstairs and Simon saw it, he laughed aloud and insisted that they recite the piece then and there. Everyone joined in.

Because of the deaths this was officially a quiet affair, but nothing seemed to be quiet where Brideswell was concerned. Villagers lined the winding street to wish Mr. Simon and his lady well.

Near the church, they stopped at the Bride's Well. Simon followed tradition and dipped some water for Jancy. She gave him a look but drank as a virtuous bride was supposed to. When she didn't drop dead, everyone applauded, and they could enter the church.

This time they had a license and every detail was precise. Simon slid a new golden ring onto her finger and then a diamond hoop above it, to guard it, as the tradition went. Jancy had the other wedding ring on a chain around her neck, for it would always have special meaning for her.

They left the church to ringing bells, to be showered with grain and good wishes, and walked back to Brideswell, tossing coins and trinkets. They left in an hour, however, to spend their wedding night at Marlowe.

A new beginning, and a beginning of making the great house their own. The family wing had been redecorated and a new entrance had been built at one side, so that when they arrived they could slip directly into their home. Time enough tomorrow to receive the formal congratulations of Marlowe.

Jancy had a maid now, and Simon a valet, but they dispensed with them, too, as they hurried to their bedroom.

But there, Simon said, “Wait.”

“Why?” she demanded, taking off her cloak and hat.

“I have a surprise for you. Now why, my love, would you look suspicious?”

She frowned, trying to hide laughter. “I don't want a surprise.”

“I thought you might be eager to improve your knowledge of matters aristocratic.”

“Now?”

“Certainly.” He picked her up and sat her on the bed. “I hope you remember dukes to baronets.”

She grinned. “Perfectly.”

He raised her foot and pushed her skirts back. “Thus we come to the Order of the Garter, a most select and
ancient honor.” He tugged her garter loose and began to slip down her pink silk stocking. “The motto is,
Honi soit qui mal y pense
.”

“I know that one. Shame to him who thinks wicked thoughts. Like you, sir, I believe.”

“You're taking liberties with the translation.”

“You're taking liberties with my leg.” She leaned forward and worked at his waistcoat buttons.

“I see you're an apt student. We must now undress.” He stepped back and completed the unfastening of his buttons.

Laughing, Jancy watched for a moment but then slid off the bed to strip. She needed help with her fashionable gown and corset. “There's an order of nakedness?”

“I'm sure there would be if a monarch had thought of it.” He lifted off her shift and unpinned her hair. Then he took her hand and led her toward their small dressing room. “There is, however, an Order of the Bath.”

The center of the room was now taken up by an enormous bath tub—a glorious thing of deep blue, painted with fishes, big enough for two, and already steaming with hot water.

“How did you
do
this?” she exclaimed, running over to admire it.

“Pure brilliance.” He handed her up the steps and into it and quickly followed her into warm, perfumed water.

“Oh, Simon, this is heavenly!”

He was already soaping his hands. He slid them over her torso and up to her breasts. “I believe we can improve even on heaven. The motto of the Bath is,
‘I serve. . . .” '

T
his is the first book I've written using a Canadian setting, but I must have subconsciously intended it back in 1977, when I wrote the first draft of the book that became
An Arranged Marriage
, and said that Simon was in Canada. My family had just arrived in Canada then, which was probably the reason.

Simon didn't get much of a mention from then on. I think he was hiding from me, and very sensible, too. What happened when I found him? A duel, a death, and a forced marriage. But as I keep telling my characters, it's all worth it in the end.

I enjoyed doing research for this, but the early days of Upper Canada are so full of wonderful stories it was hard not to try to slip some of them in. The relevant one, however, lurked in a blind spot. For a long time in the writing of this book, Lancelot McArthur survived the second duel, but that left a trailing thread that I was never happy with. Suddenly, very late in the creative process, I remembered the Ridout duel, and knew what should happen.

In the acknowledgments at the front of this book I noted The Ridout Letters, which provided me with a vivid sense of life in York, now Toronto, in the early nineteenth century. Those letters end before the tragic duel, though it is mentioned as an aside in the accompanying text.

John Ridout did well during the War of 1812, taking an active part in the defense of his country at only age fourteen. His brief life is laid out on his gravestone, which was erected in the graveyard of St. James's Church, the same one where Isaiah Trewitt was buried, and which Jancy and Simon attended. The memorial is now preserved in the porch of St. James's Cathedral, which was built on the same site.

“In Memory of John Ridout. Son of Thomas Ridout, Surveyor General.

His filial affection, engaging manners, and nobleness of mind gave early promise of future excellence. This promise he gallantly fulfilled by his brave, active, and enterprising conduct which gained the praise of his superiors while serving as midshipman in the Provincial Navy during the late War. At the return of peace he commenced with ardour the study of law, and with the fairest prospects, but a Blight came, and he was consigned to an early grave on July 12, 1817, aged 18.”

The “blight” was Samuel Peter Jarvis, a York businessman who had previously been on friendly terms with the Ridout family. Business led to some disagreements and somehow it ended up on July 12, 1817, in a duel at dawn at Elmsley's Farm.

All was conducted according to the code but for some reason on the count of “two” Ridout fired, missed, and began to walk away. One hypothesis is that Ridout, who had issued the challenge, thought a symbolic shot would show he regretted the affair and end the matter. It was, however, a shocking act that could have been meant to cheat and murder.

He was brought back and after a conference it was decided that the duel must go on. At first the intention was to start from scratch by reloading Ridout's pistol but Sam Jarvis claimed his shot, so Ridout took his stance to await it. Perhaps it was reasonable that Jarvis not expose himself to danger, but what possessed him to shoot to
kill, no one ever knew. In moments, young John Ridout was dead.

Jarvis was arrested and tried, but acquitted on the grounds that his action was within the dueling code. The seconds were also tried many years later, and also acquitted.

As I said, it finally dawned on me that I could use the Ridout duel as a template for the one between Simon and McArthur, with McArthur trying, much more sneakily, to steal an early shot and in the second instance, Simon claiming his shot and killing him. Of course I didn't want Simon stuck in York for a trial, so I used the fact that Lt. Gov. Gore would want him out of there to slide over that. If tried, he would certainly have been acquitted.

For the record, Sam Jarvis ended up as Superintendent of Indian Affairs and died in 1857.

The use of maggots here is all true, both that they work and that the medical community ignored their benefits. A doctor with the French army had already reported that soldiers whose wounds had been neglected and become infested with maggots did better, but the idea wasn't pursued, perhaps because it seemed unpleasant. This attitude persists. Maggots are used in hospitals today to treat stubbornly infected wounds, but apparently some patients refuse the treatment, even though it might be their last chance to save a limb.

I was puzzling about how Jancy would get instant maggots, and also about how to be sure they were the right sort. That turned out to be easy—eventually. My husband suggested that I check out angling, and sure enough. Anglers know all about maggots, the gathering and care thereof. The best source of them is hanging game. The maggots there are sure to be the right sort.

In this research I learned about one interesting trick. Apparently poachers would hang a dead rabbit over a stream. The sated maggots would fall in the stream and
fish would gather there to feast. The poacher came back and scooped up the fish.

I was fascinated to learn that sewing wounds wasn't recommended before the days of antibiotics. It was much more important to keep the wound open so that any toxins could drain. Doctors frequently used bits of metal or wood to do just that. So much for my scene in
Lord of My Heart
where Madeleine sews up Aimery's arm.

We writers do our best, but we're always learning.

The next book will be Dare's, opium addiction and all, and if you saw a hint that Mara St. Bride will play a part, you were right. I do have a medieval simmering about that infamous ancestor, Ademar de Braque, set in the Baron's War of the thirteenth century.

In 2006, a fantasy-romance collection,
Irresistible Forces,
is out in paperback. My story in there won the Sapphire Award as best short SF-Romance of 2004.

If you enjoy audio books, many of my novels are being produced by Recorded Books.

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