Most of the snow had disappeared. Thomas said it was a mild winter – for Wales – and indeed, it did almost seem warmer outside than in the castle. Catherine lifted her face to the sunlight. There was a very slight breeze, but the air was not too cold.
She pulled her shawl more tightly about her. She had not had a bad spasm for a little while now, she reflected. Her belly seemed to tighten in response. “Thank you very much,” she said sarcastically. “I suppose you will remedy that now.” She did not feel unwell, precisely, but a bit queasy and nervous. Fresh air, she thought. The fresh air would take care of that.
She followed the stone wall around the castle for a while then headed across what seemed to be a snowy field. It was once a landscaped garden, she realised, but there were patches of snow in the shaded hollows and it had not been maintained for a very long time. Once, designing a garden would have pleased her. Right now, the thought of it exhausted her.
She paused, breathing hard. She really did not feel at all well. Had she forgotten breakfast? She considered for a moment. No, she had eaten lightly, but Lydia had made sure she had taken something. Catherine closed her eyes. She could feel her forehead beading with sweat and growing chill in the breeze.
“I had better go back,” she said aloud. But she could not make her feet move in the direction of the castle. She wanted to rinse her mouth, cleanse her palate. She reached out to pick up some snow, and toppled over heavily onto her knees. She grunted in surprise.
“You fool!” she muttered breathlessly. With great difficulty, she pushed herself up again, but her wrap was soaked.
That was it, then. She would have to go back. She could not be outside in February with her clothes soaking wet.
Suddenly, she realised something about the situation was wrong. She paused. The silence hurt her ears.
And she knew with calm dread what was wrong.
Her skirts were wet. And they were warm, not cold.
Her waters had broken.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered. She had not prayed or been in a church for a very long time. But she suddenly felt certain that, if there really were a God, He was here in Wales.
The trouble was, He might be laughing at her.
“Please help me,” she said, her voice breaking. She began to move slowly toward the castle. Her breath quickened, and she was very tempted to sob, but she knew that if she began to weep she would never stop. She needed to be strong, for the child.
Of all things, she suddenly thought of Jocelyn.
If he were here with her, he would have that calm sea-captain expression on his face. He would not panic. He would probably say something funny and make her giggle. He would pick her up and take her into the castle.
“And then—” she said out loud. She stopped. She looked about her, at the mountainous peaks in the distance, the snow-patched fields in between. “And then what?”
I’ll do it alone, she thought. I’ll do it alone if I must, but I will do it.
Another faint cramping sensation. Ah. So the nausea was not the result of a missed meal after all. It was the child, saying that he was ready.
I am ready, too, thought Catherine.
Chapter 40
The silence from the Admiralty was intolerable. What could they possibly be thinking? Had Jocelyn not known that his secret had never been a secret, he might have thought they were preparing to court martial him and sentence him to death.
But he had a new reason to live, and so he was impatient with every day, every hour, every minute of waiting. Beaseley did not come. And neither did any representative of the Admiralty. Nor any letter from Catherine. And there was no word from Sir Lyle.
He was suffocating, choked off from everyone who might tell him whether his love was alive or dead, whether his son lived. And, for the first time, he was aware that his legacy meant something. Living meant something. Having the blessed opportunity to remake oneself – it was like Easter morning: it was no wasted life, no wasted death. He was reborn, and he meant to make it matter.
For the final piece of the puzzle he had only Beaseley to rely on. But this, too, was novel. The very idea of relying on someone to save you! Nor was it in Jocelyn’s nature to accept that a person might offer charity not because he wanted anything in return, or because offering assistance would be an advantage to him, but out of respect. Beaseley was devoted to Catherine. And he trusted Jocelyn.
Trust. Ah, fleeting trust! He had not understood its nature. His men had trusted him – he had trusted his men. But that trust was not free: the men on board were not there willingly. And Jocelyn himself felt he had been merely acting a role, reading his lines on a stage. But now he did understand what it was to trust, and he thanked God for it.
The only issue was how to escape these four walls. They were now the only thing between him and Wales.
When, finally, the guard said he had a visitor he was ready. But it was not Beaseley.
It was a gentleman of about twenty-five, with carefully curled hair. Jocelyn stared in amazement at the yellow silk pantaloons and snug coat. The man carried a silver-headed walking stick. He was missing a finger.
“You do not remember me, my friend?” The gentleman simpered and bowed in an exaggerated fashion.
Jocelyn found his voice. “Forgive me … er … Lieutenant – Lord Roland. I did not recognise you. Are you not required to be in uniform?”
“Dreadful things,” the viscount said, his mouth forming a moue of distaste. “I loathe uniforms. They do not suit me. You, however, Captain Avebury, are a man with a fine figure. Uniforms look well on you.” Lord Roland walked around the room, and poked the pallet in the corner with his cane.
“Good God! Are they making you sleep here, Captain Avebury?” He shook his head, and circled back to where Jocelyn stood. He sat down, then looked annoyed. “How uncomfortable. You don’t even have a decent chair. I wonder if Lyle knew what he was getting you into. A gentleman should not have to put up with such conditions.”
Jocelyn tensed. “You refer to your brother, of course.”
“And who else?” Lord Roland gave a little snort. “He gets his fingers into every pie – and botches everything. He ought to learn to leave well enough alone.”
“Perhaps he worries for your welfare, Lord Roland.”
“Ha!” Lord Roland wiped his nose elegantly with a lace handkerchief, then returned it to his pocket. He looked up at Jocelyn. His eyes were sharp. “Lyle has a twisted notion of loyalty.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I am not enterprising, perhaps I do not own fleets of ships. But neither do I do indulge in wild and fruitless chasing after women or respectability. Then again, I do have the title he lacks and that has always been a sore point.”
What the hell are you talking about? Jocelyn felt like grabbing the man and shaking him. Instead, he leant against the wall and dug his fingernails into his palms. He said nothing.
“Well? Are you not curious?” Roland eyed him up and down, clearly disliking what he saw.
Jocelyn hesitated, struggling with himself, not wanting to give the man satisfaction. He gave up. He wanted to know. “Why are you here, Lord Roland?”
Lord Roland smiled. “You are a patient man, Captain Avebury. I have no doubt you will be Admiral Avebury soon enough, you have that certain … smell. I have never been able to figure out what it is. The smell of authority, perhaps. Control. That of the dog the others gather around when looking for direction. Do you hunt?”
“No, I do not.”
“Ah, then the example is lost on you. Never mind.” Lord Roland examined his nails for a long moment, appearing to contemplate them intently. Eventually, he smiled, then looked slyly up at Jocelyn. “You realise that you are here because of Lyle.” He waited for a reaction, but got none. “You are hard to impress,” he complained.
“I am merely waiting for you to explain yourself.” Jocelyn spoke carefully. His heart was racing.
“Well, then, I shall.” Lord Roland rose, paced over to the pallet, grimace
d and turned around again. “I would not mind seeing him ruined, to be honest. That is why I am here.”
“To see your brother ruined? I do not understand.”
“Mind your words,” Lord Roland said sharply. “He is only my half-brother! He has always despised me yet he looks after me – in a rather odd way – all the same. I do not need him, but he is always there, hovering.”
“He was not there in Bombay.” The second the words were out of his mouth, Jocelyn regretted them. He had not meant to bring up the trouble in Bombay.
“Ah, but Captain Avebury, he was! Think!” Lord Roland beamed. “Where do you suppose Lieutenant Bright got his rumours from?”
“What? What rumours?”
“Oh, Captain Avebury,” Lord Roland sighed. “You are very frustrating. Try again. The rumours that caused Lieutenant Bright to accuse you, in front of your crew, of smuggling and deliberately missing your rendezvous. The rumours that started the brawl and caused your sailors to kill a man. Did you think, in your innocence, that the rumours of your opium trading had begun for no other reason than envy of your vast personal wealth?”
“I-I-I did not know where Bright had heard such wild tales,” Jocelyn stammered. “They were utterly unfounded, and I had no idea why he seemed so sure of them.”
“Lyle has men working for him in every major port, my friend. He was loading a very large cargo that day – in the worst possible place. Your aptly named Lieutenant Bright connected a series of observations to reach the conclusion that you were a smuggler when, in fact, the smuggler was Lyle.” Lord Roland smiled. “Lieutenant Bright did an excellent job putting together the information he had gathered, but he came to the wrong conclusion. He was very sure of himself, as foolish young lieutenants often are. And he was a fool indeed to fight when his honour was questioned by common sailors.”
“Wait,” Jocelyn said. “I do not understand. Do you mean to say that Bright had gathered enough information and heard enough rumours to accuse me of smuggling – when actually the real smuggler was Sir Lyle? But where was Sir Lyle?”
“Taking shipment of his goods, of course, but safely out at sea. When he heard about the … er … incident that you so graciously intervened in on my behalf, he was extremely cross. At least, he was cross with me: I had been a very naughty boy. But he was grateful to you, not only for saving my life but also for taking the blame for his activities.”
“I see,” Jocelyn said slowly. “That is why he sought me out on my return.”
“Lyle is very strange, Captain Avebury. To make sense of what I am telling you, you need to understand how his mind works. He is very conscious of his lack of status, yet, I will concede, his morals are unimpeachable. The ethics of his code of conduct are difficult for gentlemen like us to understand. But it has its own logic. So, when you were sent back to England, he felt compelled to rescue you from a situation where you were being wronged.”
“But-but how? How could he rescue me?”
“He arranged to have Stephen Bright murdered.”
“Lord Roland, that is an outrageous suggestion!”
“It is true.” Lord Roland shrugged his slim shoulders and turned away. He looked up at the windows above, then slanted a glance toward Jocelyn. “I have no proof, and I am sure no one does. But it has all the hallmarks of Lyle’s handiwork. An invisible poison, deftly administered. Probably in food. Fast-acting, tasteless, invisible. I expect he believed there could be no hearing without the accuser. He was wrong, of course, and that must have frustrated him terribly.”
Jocelyn’s mind was reeling. Sir Lyle, a murderer! It was impossible.
But then, he was beginning to understand Sir Lyle’s twisted morality. The man had a fixation with honour. Gentlemanly behaviour. Codes of conduct. His notion of honour was warped – very different from Jocelyn’s understanding of the word. But it was honour nonetheless.
And what about Catherine?
He opened his mouth, then checked himself. He was not sure he wanted to ask. But Lord Roland read his mind.
“He loved her, you know.”
Jocelyn did know. He nodded.
“He has loved her for a very long time, but said nothing. He imagined he was not gentleman enough to interest her and that her father would never permit such a mésalliance. And so he waited until her father was on his deathbed to declare his interest. When word of her title became public, it gave him another reason to woo her.” Lord Roland again twisted his mouth into a grimace. “I am sure I do not know why he was so intent on marriage. It is more trouble than it is worth. But he loved her.”
“Then why did he not say so?” Jocelyn asked. He flushed at Lord Roland’s inquiring look. “I am sure she thought he wanted to marry her for the title, not for love.”
Lord Roland lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Why indeed? And yet, I know he loved her. He loved her through all the years he spent sailing the seas waiting for her father to die. He must have thought she would not consider him for a moment. And it seems he was right.” He eyed Jocelyn shrewdly. “She married you, after all.”
He moved toward the door. “Now you have the whole truth. I have wanted to see you – to thank you for sacrificing yourself in Bombay. It was the act of a true gentleman. And now that you have the whole truth, you can discredit Lyle openly and be out of this place. I am sure the admirals will believe you. They know about Lyle’s dealings, but have not been able to catch him in any criminal act or to find anyone who will speak against him. If you do so, they will make it impossible for him to return to England.” He rolled his eyes distastefully. Then he paused, and turned. “Don’t bother thinking that you can somehow implicate me in this whole mess. I admit to being rather stupid in that Bombay hellhole, but the opium smuggling – those are not my crimes. And certainly not the murder.”
“I did not think it for a minute, Lord Roland. But wait – you have not answered the main question.” Jocelyn took an anxious step in his direction.
Lord Roland raised his eyebrows dramatically.
“Why am I here? Why would Sir Lyle attempt to pin the blame for his crimes on me, if he is such a man of honour?”
At this, Lord Roland burst into laughter. “My dear Captain! If you need to ask me such a question, then you are worn out indeed! You need to leave this place, have a bath and a meal, sleep a while in a proper bed – the answer is obvious, is it not? No? You poor man. Then I will spell it out for you. Lyle and the Admiralty … there is an uneasy understanding. Do you take my meaning? He has friends, highly placed friends. They do not particularly enjoy the friendship, but there it is. He has asked them to make sure that you do not leave England. And so, here you are, on the verge of expulsion from the navy.”
“To make sure that I do not leave England,” Jocelyn said blankly. He looked at Lord Roland.
Then the impact of the words struck him.
To make sure that he did not leave England.
To make sure that he did not leave Catherine.
Sir Lyle had made sure that he would not leave Catherine.
A final gift, the ultimate gift, to the woman he loved.
Chapter 41
The pain was mild. Uncomfortable, annoying, but mild. Catherine could well tolerate it. After a lifetime of hobbling about, it seemed ridiculous to her that women whispered about it and men panicked.
“The child is coming, Lydia.” She made the announcement simply as she limped into their shared room. For a split second, she saw an expression of panic cross Lydia’s face. “I will be fine,” she continued reassuringly. “I am not in pain.”
A wave of discomfort made her stop and press her hands against her belly. Lydia started toward her, but Catherine stretched out her arms, warding her off. “No,” she said quietly. “I have told you, I will be fine. There is bound to be some pain, but right now I can manage. I need you to prepare some linen. And I would like privacy. Henry and Thomas will have to sleep elsewhere tonight.”
“I will send them to the v
illage,” Lydia exclaimed. “They can seek help, too. Surely someone will come.”
“No,” Catherine said with force. “Absolutely not. I cannot afford to lie here and wait for assistance. No one will come, I am certain. We will have to do this alone.” She put a hand on Lydia’s arm. “You are the only friend I have,” she said quietly. “I know what this will cost you and I promise I do not ask it lightly.” She turned away and limped slowly to the far wall and pushed her hands briefly against the cold stone before turning again.
“Go,” she said, her voice calm. “I will cope.”
Lydia left.
It was slow. For hours – through the dusky light of the February afternoon and on into the inky black night – nothing seemed to happen. Catherine paced and sat, paced and sat. She had absolutely no appetite, though Lydia tried to feed her. Henry and Thomas had gone, she did not know where. She felt tremendously unwell. Occasionally, the vice-like grip of a spasm consumed her, but it was still more annoying than painful.
At about midnight, she gave up waiting and went to bed. She could not sleep well, though she was exhausted. She slipped easily from wakefulness into fitful slumber and back into wakefulness. Her dreams were odd: vivid and colourful and disturbing. She and Sir Lyle ran easily across the fields at Wansdyke, hand-in-hand. They collapsed into the grass, laughing, and began to make passionate love. Catherine then found herself staring into the dark, her hands gripping the edge of the straw mattress. Pain had awoken her, but she was disoriented, half her spirit still at Wansdyke.
She awaited the next spasm with trepidation, but it did not come. She wondered if Sir Lyle had managed to help Jocelyn. Dreaming of him was bizarre – she had never loved him. She should never have let their affair go as far as it had. It was cruel. She had thought their liaison almost a game, but it had not been a game to him.
The Portrait Page 26