The Wild Marquis (19 page)

J
uliana sat in the vestry awaiting Cain’s return. Mr. Howard had been called away, but had invited her to remain there as long as she needed to recover after his tragic tale. Cain had walked to the tavern where the postilions were taking refreshment.

He’d said nothing of what they’d discovered. “If we leave now we can cover a good part of the distance back to London tonight,” he said. “I’ll return with the carriage.”

One side of her shied from a continuation of their previous argument. Mr. Howard’s narrative gave Cain ammunition in his fight to proclaim George Fitterbourne a villain. And much as she didn’t wish to think ill of him, Juliana now had to accept that if she was, indeed, of legitimate birth, her revered grandfather had almost certainly lied about it. And robbed her of her rightful inheritance along with her name.

On the other hand, having been given an intimation that she might not be a nameless bastard, she found herself reluctant to relinquish that hope, however faint.

Her feelings about Cain were equally contradictory. If her legitimacy was proved, it would mean George Fitterbourne had treated her villainously and how could she bear it? How could she forgive Cain for being right?

She stood up and shook her head in irritation. Ever since the
Romeo and Juliet
had appeared in her shop and they had deciphered Cassandra’s code, her emotions had been in turmoil. She hardly knew the tearful and irrational woman she seemed to have become. She needed to rediscover her grounding. Looking around the room she fastened on an object that had, unfailingly, provided the anchor in her life. A book.

It was a Bible, bound plainly in black morocco. A late seventeenth-century edition, she guessed as she opened it. Not a valuable edition but a clean, fresh copy of a nicely printed book with good wide margins. She turned a few pages, the sight of crisp black type on creamy paper exercising a calming effect. Then a word caught her eye. A name, Amnon.

Who was Amnon and why was the name familiar?

The evening Cain had brought her dinner came back to her, the first time they’d eaten together. She’d drunk too much and her memory of much of the conversation was fuzzy, but a fragment of speech floated through her mind.

My father called me Amnon.

It sounded like a biblical name, in keeping with the late marquis’s well-known enthusiasm. Later she’d learned from Esther that Cain’s Christian name was
John and she’d been surprised. Now she realized why. But who was Amnon?

She read the page of the Book of Samuel that had caught her eye. Amnon, a son of David, had fallen in love with Tamar, his own sister.

“Howbeit he would not hearken unto her voice: but, being stronger than she, forced her, and lay with her.”

Amnon had raped Tamar. Cain’s father called him Amnon.

She could hardly believe the words. Yet she’d always had the impression Cain hadn’t told her the whole story of his family estrangement, that a deeper conflict with his father lay beyond vague charges of debauching maids. Esther had been eight years old when Cain had left. Her mind reeled with the horror of the accusation.

Not for a moment did Juliana credit him capable of such an outrage. She had no doubt that brother and sister were sincerely attached to each other, but definitely not in
that
way. During the time she had spent with Esther, the girl had expressed nothing but artless sisterly affection for her older brother. Her delight at their reunion was, Juliana would swear, uncomplicated by any shadow of evil.

True, Cain was no saint. But she had faith in his ultimate goodness. His nature was fundamentally kind. She’d always suspected much of his attitude was snapping his fingers at the world. Now she understood why. Her own anger at him dissolved in the face of indignation that his father had accused him so
cruelly, and a profound sympathy for what he must have suffered.

She was ashamed of herself. Cain had problems and responsibilities of his own, yet he’d dropped everything to set off with her on this voyage to unearth her past. He’d been nothing but a rock of support every step of the way, and his care of her was wholly unselfish.

Now Juliana could only wonder why she had become so irate at his speculations about her grandfather. Speculations that were, she had to admit, reasonable. They might or might not be true, but either way Cain hardly deserved the level of wrath he’d invoked. And she’d said cruel things to him.

Your father rejected you because you were a dissolute rake and everything you’ve done since has proven him correct.

How those words must have hurt. She looked at the door and wished he’d return so she could apologize. She wanted to tell him she had been wrong, dreadfully wrong. That he was a wonderful man and worthy of her love.

She could no longer deny the truth. She did love Cain.

And, she thought sadly, she was, in more than one way, unworthy of his. Though he still claimed to wish to marry her it was becoming less and less likely that she would be proven of suitable birth for a match with a marquis. In fact it was absurd.

Cain needed a bride of impeccable standing to fight for Esther’s guardianship. And he would have no difficulty finding one. Setting aside the obvious advan
tages of his fortune and position, no woman would be able to resist his looks; his charm; his intelligence, wit, and kindness; his beautiful blue eyes; his skill as a lover…

Then the door opened and Cain appeared. Juliana’s heart leaped at the sight of him. He lacked his usual unperturbed grace. His stance was tense and his expression cautious, as though expecting a resumption of their quarrel.

She walked straight to him, reached up to place her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his chest, rubbing her cheek against the rough cloth of his greatcoat. She felt his arms surround her and heaved a sigh of content.

“I’m sorry about your mother, my dear,” he said.

“I’m sorry I said such things to you,” she murmured into his chest. “I didn’t mean them.”

“It’s all right. You were upset.”

“I was unfair to you. Whatever my mother, father, or grandfather did, it isn’t your fault.”

He maneuvered under the brim of her bonnet to kiss her forehead. “Don’t give it another thought. Now we need to find out where your parents were married.”

For a short time, perhaps just for an hour or two, she decided, she’d give in to the luxury of sharing his optimism and believing they might have a future together.

They’d passed back through Bath and almost reached Chippenham when it occurred to Cain that Juliana had scarcely uttered a word in over an hour.
He’d passed the time wondering how one went about searching for evidence of a wedding, knowing only the bride’s name and a date when the ceremony might have occurred. Anywhere in England or Wales. Or Scotland, for God’s sake. That’s where most runaway marriages were performed, though Cassandra had been of age and not needed her father’s consent. Still, it wouldn’t do to overlook the obvious. Cain made a mental note to send someone to Gretna Green. And there was Ireland too.

On the outward journey from London Juliana had been full of theories about her parentage, eager and willing to discuss any possibility. Then her desire to defend her grandfather had entered the arena and she’d had plenty to say about that. He hesitated to raise the subject and spoil their rediscovered amity. If life was to offer only a short time more in Juliana’s company, he didn’t wish to waste it with a quarrel.

Yet her lack of response to his occasional uncontentious suggestions was unlike her. Juliana seemed distracted, as though thinking of something quite different.

Finally she cleared her throat, interrupting his mental instructions to Robinson about the marriage search.

She’d removed her bonnet, revealing her tawny gold hair in all its disheveled glory. Ecstatic as he was to see her discard those hideous caps, he could appreciate their practicality for a woman as incompetent at hairdressing as Juliana. The fact that her coiffure looked ready to descend with any sudden movement
did nothing to detract from her beauty. Sitting across from him she was ravishing as a Titian goddess, though rather more clothed.

The dove gray of her traveling dress contrasted with the red seats. She’d look good in red.

After a few moments’ hesitation she spoke. “While I was waiting for you, I looked at Mr. Howard’s Bible.”

“A very proper thing to do,” he answered gravely. “Of course, you don’t
read
books, do you. Was it a good edition?”

Normally this mild provocation would be enough to start her off on a lengthy discussion of the bibliographic history of the Authorized Version, until she realized she was being teased.

“As it happens I did read part of it,” she said. “The Book of Samuel. About David’s son Amnon.”

He felt he’d been punched in the gut. “Now that story,” he managed to answer, “is not, I believe, very proper. Not a suitable tale for a gently reared lady.”

“No. I’d never read it before. But I’d heard the name. You told me your father called you Amnon.”

“Was I drunk?” he asked with studied nonchalance.

“No, I was.”

“Oh yes. I remember the occasion. Are you sure
you
do? Perhaps it never happened. You were somewhat the worse for wine.”

His feeble attempt at deflection had no effect. “Cain, is that why you left home? Is that why you weren’t made Esther’s guardian once you came of age?”

He didn’t want to answer the question. He’d never
minded owning up to any other sin. Indeed he positively reveled in his reputation. But the one charge he feared was the last one leveled by his father, the offense too terrible to name, or even contemplate. He’d lived much of his life in terror that someone knew of it. And now someone did. The person whose opinion meant the most to him had heard the worst.

“I didn’t do it,” he almost whispered. “I’d never hurt my sister.”

Her eyes widened. “Of course not! It’s utter nonsense. You would never, never do such a thing!”

Until the constriction in his throat loosened he hadn’t known he could scarcely breathe. “You believe me? Just like that?

“Of course I do. I don’t wish to pry, but would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Why not? No one has ever heard the whole story.” He leaned back on the bench seat and folded his arms, staring at nothing.

“Looking back, I can see that the last year or two I spent at home my father was becoming less and less rational. By the end I think he was quite insane. He was obsessed with sin, specifically sins of the flesh. He decided I was guilty of them in every form. He even removed me from Eton, claiming I was learning debauchery from my fellow pupils. Such nonsense. Schoolboys talk about a lot more than they actually experience. I was an innocent then. I more than made up for it later. Became as wicked as he’d always said I was.”

“Stop, Cain. You aren’t wicked, but when you say things like that people believe you.”

“I always thought I might as well have the pleasure of living up to my reputation.”

“I have no doubt you’ve committed some deeds not strictly sanctioned by the church. But nothing like what your father accused you of.”

“No, not that. That day I came in from riding. That was part of my regime; His Lordship had a notion that exercise calmed the demons of lust. I climbed the main staircase. Very impressive the main staircase at Markley Chase Abbey. You must see it one day.”

He was procrastinating. He feared he was going to weep. He forced himself to continue.

“I made for the family wing. I had my own rooms there from the age of ten when I removed from the nursery. I entered the long passage and met Esther coming out from my mother’s sitting room. She was only eight then, and the sweetest little thing. I didn’t see her as often as I would like since she was still in the nursery and our lessons were completely separate. She was crying and she called my name. I crouched down and caught her in my arms, asked her what had upset her. She was sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak but I could tell she was terrified.”

Closing his eyes, Cain relived that moment for the thousandth time, trying to make sense of it. “Then I heard my father’s voice, coming from my mother’s rooms. ‘Daughter,’ he cried. His voice was angry. All I could think of was that I must hide Esther from him. I picked her up and ran to the end of the corridor into my room.”

He breathed heavily, as though he’d been running,
but Cain found himself growing calmer as he neared the end of the story.

“My father must have heard the door slam. He followed us. Esther was still in my arms, clinging like a mad thing. He bellowed at me, like an incensed bull, grabbed me by the collar and pulled me away from her, dragged me downstairs to his study.”

He relived the moment in his head, the certainty that his father’s temper had slipped its moorings and that he was about to endure the worst beating of his life.

“I begged him to tell me what I’d done.” The memory of his abject supplication left a bitter taste in his mouth even now. His father had been a large man with a strong right arm when wielding a cane or a switch, depending on the perceived severity of his son’s offense. The sixteen-year-old Cain had been terrified. “He gave me no reason for his anger until he’d finished with the whip.”

“He beat you?” Juliana asked, horror in her voice.

“He whipped me. Not for the first time. But it was the last, and the worst.”

Even now he remembered how much the lashes on his back and rear had hurt. “In the end I tried to defy him. I told him, through my pathetic snivels, that he was a bully and a lunatic. A stupid thing to say to a large man with a whip. I was lucky he didn’t start again. Perhaps his arm was tired. Instead he went to his desk, quite calmly, and opened a drawer. He walked over to me and threw a purse on the carpet. He didn’t touch me again. Just ordered me to leave the house and never return.”

“But what did he say?”

“Let me see if I can recall the words.” Of course he recalled them. They were branded on his memory. “‘You are guilty of the sin of Amnon and I cast you out of my house. From this day you are no longer my son.’”