The Americas! His heart suddenly seemed to skip a beat. He would give anything, anything to get out of his predicament and sail off—
No! No. No, it was not what he wanted at all. Not at all.
He crumpled the note in his hand and stared at it. He had not the least idea what he did want.
Had Sir Lyle mentioned a trip to the Americas? No. He would certainly have taken notice if he had said that. So he had not, Jocelyn decided. He wondered briefly what business took Sir Lyle in that direction.
Sir Lyle held the key. That much was fact. He held the key to whatever it was Catherine was hiding from him. And Sir Lyle alone knew what had driven him to help a man whose whole life was based on deception and dishonour.
* * *
When he knocked at Sir Lyle’s door that evening, he was in dress uniform. A few snowflakes were fluttering about, but the wind had died down and it seemed much too cold for real snow.
He thought of Catherine, on her way to Wansdyke and thence to Wales. No matter how lushly appointed her carriage, it would still be chilly and uncomfortable. And the spasms – he knew nothing of what happened to women expecting children, but he thought they could not be right.
The butler who admitted him spoke gravely and with respectful admiration for his rank. He would show the captain directly into the library, he murmured. Sir Lyle was there chatting with another well-wisher. He led Jocelyn across the hall and along a short corridor toward a beautiful pair of heavy doors. The butler pulled one open.
Jocelyn walked in. Two men stood at one side of the large library beside a bank of windows. It was dark outside, but the light leaving the window illuminated fat flakes of snow floating down; only a man born and bred in Yorkshire would know those flakes would not settle, he reflected. It was just a flurry.
Sir Lyle stood talking gravely with a handsome youth, someone Jocelyn did not recognise. As he entered, both men turned in his direction.
He walked toward them, his boots clicking loudly on the polished wooden floor. The two men had been examining something propped up on a stand; indeed, they had positioned the lamp so the light fell directly on it.
He had no time to control his reaction. He stepped toward the picture and suddenly, the wind was kicked out of him. The image hit him full in the face. He gasped.
Catherine.
Catherine as he knew her, as he loved her. Long white fingers, her nails digging into the rich red fabric beneath her. The little indentation above her lip, the spectacular blanket of fine blonde hair, the precise colour of her nipples.
He automatically sought and found the tiny mole on her right side, on her pelvis.
He staggered, then lifted a hand, accusingly. He pointed at Sir Lyle.
“You—” he choked. His voice felt like raw blood in his throat. He felt as if he were breathing through a curtain of smoke – a thick, waterlogged smoke, like that of a shipboard fire.
“Wait. Things are not as they appear.” Sir Lyle stepped forward, a hand held up in warning.
“You bastard,” Jocelyn spat out. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You damned bastard. Did you threaten her? Blackmail her? Humiliate her?” His carefully controlled accent and diction threatened to fail for the first time ever. Choice Yorkshire language sprang to his lips. He suddenly knew quite positively that he could murder both men in the room, with bare hands if needs be.
“It is my work.” The other man spoke. He had a slight accent. He wore a puzzled frown.
Jocelyn turned on him. “So this is about money? How much do you want? I will give it to you, however much it is.”
“It is not for sale.”
“I will buy it or I will take it. You may choose.” He felt his fists clench in an involuntarily. Ah, so this was rage, the rage that caused men to punch each other. It felt sick, dizzying, nauseating. Would beating these men to a pulp give him any relief? He didn’t feel well now. The young one he knew he could kill quickly. He was not so sure about Sir Lyle.
The man with the accent looked helplessly at Sir Lyle. Jocelyn advanced a little closer, his gaze fastened once more on the painting. It really was her, the likeness was unmistakable. He had seen her sit just so, many times.
“You were her lover,” he said, not taking his eyes from the painting.
“She was my life,” the stranger said softly. “But she did not love me. She left me as soon as I completed this portrait. She was selfish. She wanted me for her own ends.”
“She is my wife. I demand that you give me this painting.”
“I have bought it, Captain Avebury.” Sir Lyle spoke quietly. The popping of the fire almost ate his words.
“You?” Jocelyn looked up.
“Yes. And tomorrow Monsieur LaFrance leaves with me for the Americas. We go first to Charleston where Monsieur LaFrance will begin a brilliant career as a portraitist. I expect to sail on, through the West Indies, to Brazil.”
“What—?” He cleared his throat. He did not want to hear the answer, but he needed to ask. He prayed that Catherine had not lied to him.
Oh, Kate, my love. Is this what you hid from me?
The child, the child. My son. It is my son after all. Now there can be no doubt that she was telling the truth. Because her secret had nothing to do with our child.
He saw the artist turn to Sir Lyle with sudden keen interest.
“Yes, I admit it,” Sir Lyle said. “I know the woman. I was not certain at first, but I guessed.” He smiled briefly, turned to the artist. “Your description of her leg convinced me. You may rest assured, Captain, that, until Monsieur LaFrance told me his beloved model limped,” he gestured at the painting, “I had no idea who she was.”
“And now I am taking it.” Jocelyn made a move toward the portrait. He glanced toward the two men but neither seemed inclined to stop him.
“You might prefer me to keep the painting, Captain Avebury.” Sir Lyle nodded at the canvas. “You would not want it to fall into the wrong hands.”
“She worked so hard to hide this from me,” Jocelyn muttered. “And all along, I thought—”
“If you wish, I will take it with me,” Sir Lyle continued. He shrugged. “To tell the truth, I was planning to … er … dispose of it after leaving England, anyway.”
“Oh, you cannot be serious!” LaFrance cried. He looked from one man to the other. “Do not destroy it,” he begged.
Jocelyn looked at him. This man had been Catherine’s lover. He had imagined he would feel intense hatred for anyone who had known her as he had but, now the time had come, he felt sorry for the artist. He could see immediately that he was someone Catherine would have had no use for once she had achieved her objective, once she had had the chance to feel beautiful. The painting had done that for her – and the attentions of LaFrance meant she had attained more proof of her beauty than she had imagined possible. But, once her confidence had been bolstered it would not be shaken and she needed him no longer.
“Had you intended to keep it?” he asked LaFrance.
The artist shrugged, looked away, embarrassed. “It is all I have.”
“You do not need it,” Sir Lyle said. “I have told you, there is nothing in London for someone of your talent. You must travel, earn your fortune. Captain Avebury will tell you the same. Eh, Captain? Leave England, go abroad, accumulate riches. Return and set up your nursery.” He glanced at the mantel clock. Jocelyn followed his glance.
“Catherine is going to Wales,” he said bluntly. “I must stop her.”
“Wales? In her condition?”
“To Castle St Clair. She is trying to escape the disgrace which would have followed the exhibition of this painting.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“I have. But she said nothing about the portrait. Still, I know her. She is trying to protect the child from her disgrace. She fears she has ruined the child’s life.”
“She is being foolish. But no one can stop her now.”
“I will head to Wansdyke.”
“But you are waiting for the decision on your case—”
“I will seek permission from the admirals.”
Sir Lyle moved to cover the painting with a large silk cloth. He nodded at it. “I will make sure that the painting is delivered to Wansdyke, then. I will crate it. No one will see it.”
“No, I will take it to Wansdyke myself. I need to stop her from embarking on this foolish journey. If I don’t arrive at Wansdyke in time to stop her, I will continue on toward Wales. Perhaps I will catch up with her on the road.”
“I am afraid you will not have time,” Sir Lyle said softly.
“What do you mean?” For an ominously silent second Jocelyn wondered—
The door opened suddenly. The three men turned to see another three men in uniform pushing their way past the distressed servant. Jocelyn turned to Sir Lyle. “You bastard!” he croaked.
“It was the only way I could save her, you idiot,” Sir Lyle hissed.
“Jocelyn Avebury, captain of His Majesty’s Royal Navy,” one of the men called. “We are commanded to place you under arrest.”
Jocelyn felt a queer relief that he had worn his full dress uniform. It would have been disgraceful to be arrested in a dressing gown, for example, or farm clothes.
“The charges, gentlemen?” he said, keeping his voice calm.
“Misrepresentation, lying under oath. You will please accompany us immediately.”
Jocelyn looked at Sir Lyle. “You lied,” he said. “I thought you were going to help me, for Catherine’s sake. But instead you betrayed me. Do you hate me so much? Are you scheming to take my place?” He paused, then added bitterly, “The child – the child is mine.”
Sir Lyle looked incredulous for a moment. Then he started to laugh. It was not a nice sound. “I had to, Avebury. She needs you. And you would have left her, gone to sail the seas. You can’t leave England now. And, even if you do not end in prison, you will certainly not get back to sea.”
“I would not have left them.”
Sir Lyle shrugged. “Perhaps. You are a sailor, and all sailors long to be at sea. Catherine needs you here. This is the best thing for her and for the babe – to have you here in England.”
“She does not need a convicted criminal for a husband,” Jocelyn retorted.
Sir Lyle smiled. “As ever, no choice is ideal. That is life, eh, Captain Avebury? It was what I could do.”
“For her,” Jocelyn muttered.
“Yes. For her.”
Sir Lyle extended his hand. “Will you bid me farewell?”
Jocelyn looked at his hand for a long moment. Finally, he took it. “Farewell.” He turned to LaFrance. “A safe journey.” Then he straightened his jacket and walked to the far side of the room, where the men waited. “Gentlemen, let us go,” he said.
For a long moment after they were gone, the only sound was the popping fire. Sir Lyle retreated to one end of the room to pour himself a glass of wine. LaFrance sat in a chair, gazing blankly at the shrouded canvas.
“But they will be apart,” he said suddenly into the quiet.
Sir Lyle finished his glass and poured himself another. “Not for long. And when Avebury is free, he will really be free. No more secrets.” He looked at LaFrance over his glass. “As far as I know,” he added, and laughed.
Chapter 37
The journey to Wansdyke was slow.
For one thing, the weather was much colder: the occasional fall of snow made the horses hang back and ostlers and innkeepers slower to respond to Lydia Barrow’s urgent entreaties. For another, Catherine felt simply unable to travel as fast as she might have. The jostling of the carriage kept her awake through the night and, exhausted, she was too tired and ill to eat. When, after over a day spent on the road, they finally reached Wansdyke, Catherine overruled Lydia’s anxious objections and said that they would continue on to Wales that same day.
“I will be fine after a short nap, and so will you,” she said firmly. “Kindly have the staff put the furniture under the holland covers and prepare to close Wansdyke for a time. They should have already begun, so I expect it will not be too onerous. Henry Coachman and his boy should come along; they will be able to see to the stables at Castle St Clair. We have someone who is Welsh, do we not? An under gardener? He may wish to accompany us. I will leave the disposal of grounds to his imagination if he would like to be in charge.”
“My lady, I—”
“We will have a cook and chambermaid from the village. And I have no need of a butler. Perhaps a couple from the village will serve as housekeeper and valet to—” Catherine caught herself, shook her head. She pressed her lips tightly together. There would be no need of a valet. Avebury would not be in residence. “We will manage delightfully. Have Clara prepare a bath for me, Lydia, and see if there might be a dress that has not been put into a trunk.”
She had never been to Wales. She had no clue what to expect. And, she imagined, were she an ordinary person, that would terrify her out of her mind. But I am the Countess St Clair, she reminded herself. I am not ordinary. Thank you, Papa, for making sure that I could bear any cruelty, any difficulty life might bring.
After her bath, she dashed off a short note to Beaseley, outlining her plan to give birth to the new earl in Wales. She left instructions regarding Wansdyke and her Bath apartments, and requested that he handle her financial obligations. She would need him to forward funds to her in Wales as soon as possible.
She then wrote a quick and apologetic letter to Melinda, attempting to explain her departure by saying she wanted to bear the child in Wales on what would one day be his estate, to prepare the castle for habitation, and so forth. It was a dreadful accumulation of lies and misleading statements, and she was glad when she had done with it. Having folded up that note and addressed it, she hesitated before taking a fresh sheet of paper.
Dear Jocelyn, she wrote.
Then she crumpled up the page and tossed it aside.
“Can’t,” she said aloud. She pushed herself away from her desk and heaved herself up and out of her seat. She limped over to the bed and stood there for a moment clenching the sheets in her fists. She raised her head. The child was stretching, bouncing, pushing at her from inside.
“I promise you,” she said hoarsely. “I promise you the life that you deserve.”
* * *
The weather was overcast, without snow but blustery. Catherine spoke briefly to the gathered household staff from the grand staircase that spiralled down to the hall. She gave final instructions to the housekeeper, granted the butler’s wish for a holiday, promised a bonus to the underservants and apologised for her abrupt departure. Then, leaning on Lydia’s arm, she descended the stairs in as regal a fashion as she could manage.
They did not get very far that day. Not only were they exhausted, but there was also some confusion about which way to go. Catherine wanted to take the most direct route through Bristol and on across the Severn. She was feeling most unwell, and Lydia agreed with her that it seemed unwise to spend extra days on the road. However, the coachman and the Welsh gardener’s boy felt that a more indirect route – via Gloucester – would be more manageable. A December crossing was likely to be unpleasant in any sort of weather, and the shorter one further upstream would be much easier. The Gloucester road was well-travelled, so it would be possible to stop frequently if bad weather or exhaustion made it advisable. But taking the land route would add days onto their journey …
In the end, they agreed to go via Bristol. It was likely they would be able to find a ferry or ship that would take them not just across the river but as far as Newport.
Ironically, it was Lydia who was violently ill during the crossing. The Bristol channel was rough, and icy winds whipped about them, but Catherine felt a perverse relief on leaving English soil behind. Would she ever be able to return to Wansdyke, she wondered. Would she be able to bring the heir to the St Clair earldom to London to take his place in society? Or would her disgrace taint him permanently?
Would her son ever see his father?
The child stretched itself out so far that she felt she had hardly any room to draw breath. A wave splashed over the deck where Catherine stood, and she stepped back automatically. How odd, she thought wryly. It was easier for her to navigate a swaying ship in bad weather than it was for her to dance in a stable ballroom with a level floor. She compensated automatically for the roll of the deck under her feet, and did not feel as unbalanced as the other passengers did. So long as she could clutch a rail or some other support, she managed perfectly well.
She mentally planned her arrival at Castle St Clair in the minutest detail. She was sure she would be able to hire villagers to work in the castle: at the very least, she would need a cook and a maid, and help in the stables. Right now, in winter, it would be hard to get any external work done, but surely there would be carpenters and a blacksmith who could do what was needed indoors. It would probably take a while to make the place smart, or maybe even comfortable, but she was sure she could do it – and manage meanwhile.
The wind was biting. The rising mist was very deceptive; it made it seem as if they were enveloped in a warm cloud when, in fact, it was freezing. She shuddered as they began the slow descent from the ship, and Lydia pulled her closer. Her limbs were stiff. Her knees creaked. Nonetheless, she had to take charge, so she raised her head and scanned the questionable-looking crowd on the dock. She did not see anyone else from her party and she pressed Lydia’s arm. “Where are they?” she asked
“They will have gone to see to the carriage. And they might also be seeking provisions. We may be able to buy little or nothing on the way to Castle St Clair.”
“But the village,” Catherine said quickly. “There is a village.”
Lydia nodded.
They hesitated at the bottom of the gangway finding themselves amongst a crowd of drably dressed pedlars and longshoremen. They all spoke Welsh, which was disconcerting, although they were polite and did not stare. Commendable, thought Catherine wryly. It would have been rather unfair to ask people not to stare at a cripple who was so heavy with child.
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