“Are you forced to do your own mending? Or is this another sailors’ skill of which I knew nothing?” she asked. She saw the jolt that her words sent through him. He knew her immediately, but did not turn for a moment. He was collecting himself, she thought. For one impossible moment, she was convinced that he loved her. He had to, she thought desperately.
He turned. “Kate,” he said softly. “You should not be here.” There was a wariness in his beautiful blue-grey eyes that stopped her from replying.
Why, he doubts me, she realised. For whatever reason, he has found reason to doubt me. She hobbled slowly across the room. She ran out of breath long before she reached him, and leant panting against a sturdy but ugly chair. “I am well,” she said.
“I am glad.” He looked at her, his eyes travelling slowly over the bulk of her frame from head to toe. She felt her cheeks flush.
“Your son is very lively,” she said, placing a hand over her abdomen. “He does not like to be still.”
He nodded. His eyes, which had been gentle, grew shuttered and dark. He looked away.
“What is it? Jocelyn?” Catherine took an involuntary step toward him, then grabbed the chair for support as her leg threatened to give way.
“Are you here to see me?” he asked bluntly. He returned to the mending of his coat.
Confused, Catherine pondered the question. To see him? Why else would she be here?
“In London, I mean,” he added.
“I-I came with Lydia.”
“That is not what I asked, my dearest Kate.” Jocelyn straightened. He viewed the coat critically, then turned to replace the needle in the sewing basket beside him. He turned to face Catherine once more.
“You should not be standing,” he said. He offered his hand, and gently guided her to a worn sofa in front of the fire. He stood himself at a little distance with one arm on the mantelpiece.
“It seems that walking has become difficult,” he observed.
“It has. But I had to see you, Jocelyn. I—”
“So you came to London to see me?”
Catherine took a deep breath. “No,” she admitted. “No, I did not.”
“Admirable honesty,” Jocelyn murmured. “I expected a different answer.”
“Jocelyn, what is wrong? Why are you behaving this way?” Then a thought struck her. “Have you heard something? Any news?”
“No, nothing,” Jocelyn said. He shook his head bitterly. “The Admiralty will take as long as their lordships please to decide on the disposition of a man’s life.”
“You will be acquitted,” Catherine insisted. She leant forward, bracing herself with her hands. “They know you had nothing to do with the lieutenant’s murder. They must.”
“They will do as they please,” Jocelyn said tonelessly. He glanced at her. “Are you here to tell me the truth?”
The truth? Catherine stared back at him in dismay. Was it possible that Jocelyn—?
No, he could not know. There was no way that he could have found out about LaFrance. No one had seen the painting but for the purchaser – and he was taking LaFrance to Charleston. And, those two apart, only Lydia knew about the painting. She would never tell. So what could he be referring to?
“I see from your face that you did not expect such a reception.” Jocelyn smiled faintly. “But I have known all along that something is not right.”
“Jocelyn, dearest. I do not know what—”
“Do not lie to me, Kate.” He turned to the fireplace, knelt down, poked aimlessly at the coals. “I have a peculiar dislike of lying. It is an inconvenient aspect of my character. I am hopelessly honest. The result of many years of enforced lying, I suspect.”
“Jocelyn!” Catherine made as if to stand, but she could feel the beginnings of a spasm tightening its grip about her middle. She tried to sit back into the cushions of the sofa, to breathe deeply. Sometimes she could ward off a bad attack if she concentrated hard enough. She tried to speak slowly and evenly. “I do not understand what you are speaking of, Jocelyn.”
“You are forcing me to be coarse, darling Kate.” Jocelyn rose and dusted off his hands, but did not turn to face her. “I so dislike being coarse.”
Catherine was still trying to fend off the threatening spasm. She felt her irritability rising. What was wrong with this man? “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. “Perhaps it is what I require, having only a weak female mind.”
“I am glad to hear that your spirit is still intact.”
“Well, mothers are forced to be strong.”
“Yes. Your child will be fortunate.”
She could hear the distance in his voice. Suddenly, she realised that what she had hoped against was to happen: she would have to parent her son alone.
She had always known that she could count only on herself. She had always known that no one would ever find her attractive, that no one would want to spend a lifetime near her.
She now understood that Avebury had, in fact, married her only so that he could be free. He had wanted her to use her influence to send him back to sea, and she had failed – partly because the quagmire he was in was too deep, but partly because she was reluctant to send him away. She loved him far too much. It was a weakness that could destroy her. It could destroy her son. The son for whom all she wanted was the earldom.
She had no ambitions for herself. She was a countess, a rich woman. She had a castle in Wales, money and properties all over England. Society be damned! The portrait be damned! She could exist alone if need be.
She needed no one.
She would always love him, but she would not beg.
She rose with difficulty. “I did not come to bicker with you,” she said. “I am returning to Wansdyke. And thence to Wales.”
His back stiffened. He wheeled around to face her immediately. “Wales? Where?”
“To Castle St Clair. I am going to make my son a nursery in his rightful home.”
“Wansdyke is also his rightful home. Why are you doing it, Kate? It is foolish. In your condition, it is absolute madness.”
“I am well, and my son is well. We will restore the castle, and he will call it home.”
“Catherine.” Jocelyn stepped toward her, his voice urgent. “Kate, it is the dead of winter. You surely see the foolishness of travelling at such a time, while you are expecting a child, to a castle which surely has not been inhabited for a hundred years or more.”
“I am sure it is not that bad,” Catherine said. She glared at him. “I must do it, Jocelyn.”
She thought she saw a flicker of something – concern? hope? fear? – in his eyes. She felt it tug at her heart, but she stubbornly refused to heed it. I have not come this far, she thought, to lose everything now. I will not allow it. I have never let society determine my fate, and I will not allow anyone, anything to do so now.
No, not even love.
“You will not go alone, surely.”
“I will take Lydia, I suppose, and a man or two.”
“Kate, I beg you! It is sheer foolishness.”
“What right have you to stop me?” she shrieked suddenly. She turned away to hide her tears. She coughed, rubbed her face.
“Aye,” she heard him say. “I have no right.” He walked over to the far side of the little room and stood quietly while she tried to compose herself.
“Jocelyn,” she said finally. She did not turn to face him. “Jocelyn, please listen to me. I need to go away. I need to consolidate my son’s legacy, to give him a start in the world. There are … reasons – good reasons – I cannot do this at Wansdyke – or here either. And it is important that I leave immediately. Perhaps when our son is older, he and I will be able to return. This is what I came to tell you.” And that I love you.
It hurt to love people. They expected more than you could give. She did not know what kind of honesty Jocelyn Avebury was demanding, but she was not going to give it.
She started toward the door.
“Wait!”
> She paused and looked over her shoulder.
“We may not see each other again.”
She acknowledged this with a little nod of her head.
“I still wish to recognise the child.” She cast him a puzzled look. He went on. “I married you in good faith, to give you an earl. Do you expect the boy’s father to claim him at some point?”
“The boy’s father,” Catherine repeated dumbly.
“Yes. No doubt you will give him my name – unless you choose to make his father acknowledge him.”
Catherine shook her head, confused. But then she saw the sheen of sweat on Jocelyn’s forehead, and she knew. Oh, God in heaven, she knew!
He thought the child was not his.
Her reticule slid to the floor.
“Jocelyn,” she croaked.
“Spare me your explanations,” he said. The words were obviously painful for him to utter. “I merely wish to know whether my recognition of the boy would be welcome. I try to be a man of honour, you know. And I married you to give your son my name.”
“Jocelyn, you misunderstand,” she began, but he silenced her.
“I don’t know what prevents the boy’s father from stepping forward. He loves you, you know.”
“Loves me?”
“Aye, he loves you, fair Kate. I see it in his face when he speaks of you.”
“Jocelyn,” Catherine said, panicking. “Jocelyn, you must explain. Of whom do you speak?”
“Do not make me say his name.”
Catherine looked at him, and her pleas died on her lips. Was he referring to LaFrance? Had he somehow discovered the portrait and deduced that the artist was once her lover? But she had not seen LaFrance for a very long time – far too long to be able to accuse him of fathering this child.
“I don’t know what you are saying, Jocelyn. Please, I speak the truth.”
“I am no fool, Catherine. You did not come to our wedding bed a virgin.” He said the words softly, reluctantly.
Catherine felt a spasm starting. This time, it came with the ferocious intensity of thunder, and she gasped and clutched her belly. Jocelyn leapt to her side to guide her to a chair.
“No,” she whispered. “No, I cannot walk.” She slid to the floor, breathing hard. He put his arms around her.
“Grip my arms,” he whispered. “Grip tightly if you must. And breathe as deeply as you can. Do not open your mouth, or you will grow faint. That’s better.”
Catherine held on to one sturdy arm and tried to breathe. “You… you will … be … black and … blue,” she panted.
“Not to worry,” he said. He put his hand on her belly. “This is not a good sign, is it?”
“It happens,” she said with effort. “For one … such as I … it is merely … inconvenient.”
“Kate, if this happens during a winter journey to Wales—”
“I must go, Jocelyn.”
His hand fell away. “Of course,” he said. The sound of his voice was brittle.
“But why do you doubt me, Jocelyn?” The spasm had passed. She opened her eyes, and saw the stern lines of his jaw, of his nose, the profile strong and comforting above her. She felt secure pressed against his chest with his arms wrapped around her – she knew that it would take a supreme effort to leave this warmth.
“Oh, Kate.”
For a moment she thought he would tell her. His arms tightened around her for a moment.
But then he said coolly, “It was rather hard not to doubt you.”
Catherine nodded. She took a deep breath. “There was someone – someone before you.” She could tell that he was about to interrupt her, so she placed her fingers over his lips. “Please. Please let me finish.”
She waited until he gave a grim little nod. “I was a young girl, Jocelyn. My father had sent me to Wansdyke to live out the rest of my life alone. I— no one wanted me.” She coughed, clutched at her stomach again, but shook her head when Jocelyn began to speak. “No. No – let me finish. I was not out, you know. There was no ball, no season for someone like myself. I was not considered marriageable. I had very few friends. And I dreamt that, someday, a man would find me beautiful and desirable.
“On a visit to London, I met a man. I did not prize my innocence – then. But that was years ago! This child is yours, Jocelyn. He can only be yours.”
“But can you deny Sir Lyle is the father?”
“Sir Lyle?” Startled, Catherine looked up at Jocelyn. The sturdy lines of his face remained stony. “Jocelyn, did you not hear me? This child is yours! I have never— Sir Lyle has never been my lover, Jocelyn! I cannot imagine why—”
“He loves you, Kate. And you have secret … dealings with him. Can you deny it?”
A little memory tugged at the corner of her mind. A fichu, fluttering to the ground. The warm sun of early summer on her neck and her bare breast. Sir Lyle’s gentle mockery.
She felt her face flush in a sweep of colour.
“Sir Lyle asked me to marry him,” she said stiffly. “I thought for a time that I might. But, in the end, I refused him. I chose you. I could have married him, Jocelyn. Do you not think that I would have, if I were carrying his child?”
She saw a wave of pain flicker over his face and he covered his eyes for a moment. “I do not know, Kate. I do not understand his motives – or yours, for that matter. I only know that you were not an innocent maiden on our wedding night, and that you share some secret with Sir Lyle.” He smiled sadly. “I never assume anyone is only what they seem.”
“I am what you see, Jocelyn. I am nothing more.” Catherine drew back her skirts to show her twisted leg, thin and weak next to the bulk of her abdomen. They contemplated it together, then she raised her eyes and met his.
“Do not ask me to tell you more, Jocelyn. You will not like what you hear. But the child is yours. I swear it.”
The moments ticked by. She felt his arms loosen.
He sighed heavily. “I, too, have something to say.”
“Do not say it!” Catherine exclaimed. Something dark and heavy pulled at her heart. She turned, burying her face in his shirt. “Please do not,” she whispered.
“I must tell you, Kate. I may not see you again. I am a hypocrite, and a liar.”
“Do not say it!” she cried. She beat at him with her fists. “I cannot stand it!” Her voice broke. “I cannot stand any more,” she moaned. She began to weep, her shoulders shaking.
Jocelyn held her close. She felt his heart beating, a steady movement which calmed her. His breath tickled her hair, warming her through.
“Who would have known—” she heard him murmur, then sigh. “Who would have known, indeed.”
She pulled away and lifted her face up to his. She kissed him tentatively, then with more passion. He yielded to her, the warm, easy lines of his lips melting into hers. She felt new tears seep from the corners of her eyes. She knew she would not see him again.
“Know this, my love,” she whispered. “Just as you saw past my lame leg, I saw into your heart. I know what you are. You could not have lied to me, even had you tried.”
He briefly gripped her so tightly that her breath failed, but he let go just as quickly. With his support, she rose, stumbling as she did so. He caught her easily and held her close.
“I will not forget those words,” he said. Catherine thought she heard a tremor, but could not be sure. She nodded.
“You will be careful.”
“I will. I am carrying our son. I will not fail him.”
“God be with you.”
“And with you.” She wiped the tears away and tried to smile. “I am strong, Jocelyn.”
“You are that, dearest Kate.”
“I will pray for your quick return to sea.” She turned, and hobbled slowly out of the room.
Chapter 36
After the door shut and the clop-clop of the horses’ hooves had faded into the distance, Jocelyn stood watching the door. Its outline wobbled and melted into a white mass of nothingness.
It was his child. She carried his child.
There was the tiniest bubbling spring of joy somewhere in the deepest regions of his heart.
His child. His son.
Jocelyn reached a finger into his collar. He was suddenly rather warm. He reached awkwardly behind him with one hand, felt around for a chair, and sat. While the room was now sitting straight in his mind, its corners still wobbled and danced with alarming facility.
He closed his eyes. He could feel the press of a crowd on him, howling for blood. His youthful dreams had been haunted by the idea that he had been able to smell, actually smell, the blood of his father when they tore him open. It was ridiculous, of course, but he had been so small he had not known what he was hearing or seeing or smelling.
Now he could be someone’s father. He could guide the life of a new human being.
Or he could vanish forever, go to sea and be a mere shadow in the child’s life.
He raised his head, looked over at his proud Navy coat. It was escape, this yearning to be at sea, commanding the fates of hundreds of men. Here on land, it seemed he commanded nothing. But he had the chance to raise a child.
However, did he want to subject a child to … someone like him?
He made a sudden move to stand. The room was too warm. He went to retrieve his coat and stood uncertainly with it hanging from his hands.
A knock at the door. He turned, in his haste knocking over and shattering an ugly statuette. His heart pounded.
Kate, he thought. She has come back. She will ask me to go with her to Wales.
“Yes,” he called, trying not to let the urgency in his gut overwhelm him.
He took a tentative step toward the door.
It opened.
“Captain? A message for you.” It was the maid. She looked at the shattered statuette in surprise.
His heart sank. “A message?”
She held out a tray, then, when he had lifted the paper, bustled off to take care of the debris.
Jocelyn slit open the message.
Captain Avebury, greetings.
I would be honoured to see you once more before I voyage to the Americas—
The Portrait Page 22