“You have never given us cause to discipline you before, Captain Avebury.” The words that finally came were spoken by the elderly admiral who sat at the end of the table and had remained silent throughout the proceedings. “I would recommend that your punishment involve another command.”
“Sir?”
“Your record is exemplary. I cannot see that it would be in His Majesty’s interests to let you go over a … what? A tempest in a teacup?” Jocelyn looked at him sharply. The admiral gave him a shrewd look in return. Ah, so he was Beaseley’s contact.
“Take yourself off to your ship. Gentlemen, are we agreed?” There was a general muttering. None of the others seemed inclined to object. The admiral in charge held up his hand.
“Are we unanimous, then? Captain Avebury has accepted responsibility for the … er … misunderstanding over his name. You are dismissed, Captain. Oh, yes. The command.” More paper-shuffling. “These are for you. You will find it an easy assignment.” He smiled. “A task that will allow for the transport of a lady and a child to Gibraltar. Congratulations, sir.”
Jocelyn stood up automatically as the lords began to file past. The elderly admiral was at the rear of the line. He nodded curtly at Jocelyn and, as he brushed past, muttered quietly “We’ll get Barrington some other time.”
Chapter 44
He attempted to contact Beaseley but, with his mission accomplished, he seemed to have left London. Had he left news of Catherine? Jocelyn’s heart turned over. There was no news –surely that was good news?
He went to Wansdyke and found it shut up. The few servants who remained told him that Catherine had travelled by coach to Bristol. He had no idea where Castle St Clair was. Catherine had said only it was near the border so she must have found a ferry.
He could not bring himself to search Wansdyke for the portrait, to turn it upside down, to raid the galleries and tear the holland covers from undisplayed paintings that slept gently in the dark. He wondered if Sir Lyle had carried it with him to the Americas, or whether LaFrance still had it, perhaps safely hidden somewhere. He wondered if Sir Lyle had delivered it to Wansdyke. That would have been generous – but no more than a fair exchange for what he, Jocelyn, had done for him.
Sir Lyle could not have known that the Admiralty would be willing to let him go. He would have assumed Jocelyn would spend some time in prison, or perhaps be given some low-level tasks to do in port, or be punished by being forced in some other way to stay in England. He would have thought himself clever: that his actions had forced Jocelyn to think of Catherine and that he, in turn, would force her to come to her senses by telling her the portrait was gone and that their son was safe from shame and humiliation. In fact, there was no way Sir Lyle could have guessed that the Admiralty would instead give him a ship and reward him handsomely for being who he was: a decent human being with friends in high places. “Laughable,” he could imagine Sir Lyle chortling. “Ridiculous!”
Jocelyn made for Bristol. It was not hard to find a ferryman who remembered the St Clair carriage and its extremely pregnant owner. How many pregnant English countesses could there have been, driving through the January snow? The man told Jocelyn he had spoken briefly to the coachman and the Welsh boy and thought they had been going to head north through Abergavenny – but he was not sure. It was a good enough guess, at any rate.
The crossing was turbulent. Melting spring snows somewhere, he reckoned. The air was damp but warm, filled with the scent of budding trees. It reminded him of the warm spring night in Bath when he had first seen Catherine, and of the damp walks in the meadows at Wansdyke. Water, he thought, was part of his life. It seemed it was a part of Catherine’s, too.
He had to still his heart, calm his mind. She might not come with him. She was the Countess St Clair, and she was now installed at Castle St Clair with the future earl. What was the child for now? A viscount? Jocelyn almost laughed. It was ridiculous. No, it was appalling. How cruel to burden a child with the weight of ancestors long before he was aware of his own existence. But Catherine saw it differently. Nothing meant more to her, nothing in the world, than this earldom. She would do anything to protect it. He would have to be prepared, accept the possibility that she might send him away.
Jocelyn disembarked on the other side of the channel. A group of farmers loaded crates for the return trip and chatted loudly in Welsh. They fell silent as he approached.
“I beg your pardon,” he began. “I need to get to Abergavenny.”
“Are you looking to ride, sir?” One of the farmers, a young blond man, rose from a crouch. He wiped his sweaty brow with a brightly coloured handkerchief.
“I would rather not,” Jocelyn admitted. “But I will if I must.”
“The road is good. But it may be muddy and a bit difficult for a cart. You can get a mount in town. And you will reach Abergavenny quickly that way.”
“That is excellent news. I thank you.”
“May I suggest you take a bite at The Red Hen?” the man said. “It’s very clean, sir. My sister runs it and the food is excellent.”
“Thank you very much,” Jocelyn replied. “But I need to get to Abergavenny as quickly as possible.” He was about to turn away, but a thought occurred to him. He paused, then spoke. “In January, a lady and her carriage came this way. The lady was expecting a child. She had her maid and her coachman with her. Do you know anything about where they might have gone?”
“Yes, I remember her,” the blond man said.
“She was ill,” One of the other farmers added.
Jocelyn felt his stomach lurch. He looked from one man to the other. “You mean she was lame?”
“No, sir. She was lame, but she was also ill. She collapsed, by here.” The man pointed. The others nodded.
Jocelyn blanched. He knew it was possible he would not find Catherine at Castle St Clair – indeed, he knew it was possible he would not find her anywhere. But he had not thought it possible she might be dead. And what of the child?
The blond man added soothingly, “Mrs Owen, the apothecary’s widow, took her into town. I expect she took good care of her. And she has not come back this way.”
“Mrs Owen is a friend of my mam,” said a third man. “The lady can’t have lingered long with her, or I would have heard. So she can’t have been very ill and must have gone on her way.”
“Right,” Jocelyn said, breathing a little more easily. If something dreadful had happened, surely the news would have travelled back here. And now he had the name of someone who had actually spoken to Catherine, and possibly cared for her. Someone who lived nearby.
“I thank you all very much,” he said, and turned in the direction of the town.
He found Mrs Owen’s home fairly easily. The young maid who answered the door said that her lady was visiting relatives. Jocelyn was disappointed but persisted. Had there been any English visitors in January? A young woman who was expecting a child?
“You would be referring to the Countess St Clair,” the maid said stiffly. “She was here briefly.”
“Was she ill? Did she go to Abergavenny?”
The maid gave him a strange look. “Abergavenny? No, no. Castle St Clair is not in Abergavenny. It’s past there.”
“You know Castle St Clair, then?” Jocelyn pressed.
“Yes,” the maid said. She hesitated. Jocelyn noticed that she was wringing her hands nervously in her apron.
“Is there something about Castle St Clair that I should know?”
“Are you intending to go there, sir?”
“I am.”
The maid glanced up at Jocelyn hesitantly. She seemed to conclude that he was all right, even if he was English. She leant in a little closer and confided, “It’s a ruin.”
“Ruined? Ruined – how?”
“The St Clairs were chased away. And then the people of the village destroyed what they could. I have never been there. But the St Clairs were dreadful people, sir. Everyone in this part of Wales knows. They took high re
nts and used people badly.”
“I see.”
The maid added, “The countess insisted on going there, even though the mistress told her not to. I don’t know what happened to her, but I don’t expect she’d have had much help from the village.”
Kate, with no one to help her! Kate, living in a ruin! It was unthinkable. “Can you direct me?”
“I can, sir. I beg your pardon, sir, are you … is the countess … your—?”
Jocelyn interrupted her. “You did right to tell me about the St Clairs. Now, can you direct me to the castle?”
By the time Jocelyn arrived in Abergavenny, he was a much better horseman. But time was pressing. How long could Kate possibly last alone in a ruin? And what of the child? And, if she had fled Castle St Clair, where would she have gone? Who would be with her? She was not at Wansdyke and no one there had heard from her. How would she care for an infant, alone?
He got his first glimpse of Castle St Clair at midday. The snowdrops were out, although the peaks of the mountains beyond were still snowy. The castle perched dramatically amidst breathtaking scenery, leaving no doubt that the St Clair family had chosen to command not just the best views but also the entrance to the valley. But it was indeed a ruin. All the upper floors had been destroyed.
As Jocelyn rode up the drive, he realised there was absolutely no way anyone could be using the hall and great hall – both appeared to be completely blocked. He dismounted and rubbed his aching back, then secured his mount to a post. He began to walk awkwardly around the stone walls. It was slow – the castle was large, and his back hurt incredibly.
He struggled along the side, searching for an alternative entrance, but the only one he found was locked. Annoyed, he limped on round to the back of the castle whence a wet green field extended into the distance.
He could hear snatches of something on the warm spring breeze – a human voice. He saw a wavering white smudge under a tree. And he was caught in a rush of memory – of the day he had walked from Bath to Wansdyke and had found Catherine struggling up the muddy hillside, singing a tune.
He knew, was convinced, that the smudge was Catherine. But what of her song? Was it a happy tune, or a sad tune?
Chapter 45
He limped painfully toward the white smudge. As he came closer, he could make out long blonde hair flying free in the wind. She sat on a blanket, staring vacantly up at the snow-capped mountains. She was singing something that sounded Welsh. A nursery song.
“Kate,” he said. His voice choked, and he felt his chest tighten.
He saw her shoulders stiffen. She turned her head carefully. She seemed fragile, wrapped in a white garment that was far too large for her. Her blue eyes were wide, frightened. She did not look like herself. He suddenly realised that perhaps she no longer was herself. Perhaps she had gone mad. Perhaps she had lost the child. Perhaps she would never be the Kate that he had known.
“Jocelyn,” she said. Her lips trembled. Then she smiled a little. “You have found me.”
“Were you trying not to be found?”
“Not exactly. Although … although Castle St Clair is not what I had imagined.” She gave a rueful little laugh. It sounded forced to Jocelyn’s ear.
Again, he felt panic, although almost from a distance – as if he were feeling the panic described in someone else’s story.
“Kate, I must ask. The child—”
“’The child,’ he asks.” Catherine’s voice was carefully neutral. “Are you here to see your son?”
“I am here to see you, Kate. And I am also here to see my son.”
“Well.” She turned away again. Her voice was careful again, studied. “So much has happened. I was foolish. Very foolish. I should never have come. I risked everything, and I have paid dearly.”
Jocelyn had thought that this moment would be like the state of readiness before battle – adrenalin clarifying his mind, focusing his intent, an alert, steady hum in his chest. He would be wide awake, his hearing sharper than usual. But no.
Panic has its own set of sensations; it is a jealous master intent on domination.
He was once again a small child. The strong hands of a strange woman were forcing his head into her skirts so that he could not see the executioner’s actions. He screamed into those skirts, feeling damp spread over the salty dirty cotton in his mouth as his spittle and tears soaked through. The hands swept him up, cramming his head into the crook of an arm, and he kicked his legs and screamed as the arms hauled him away from a sight that he would imagine for the rest of his life.
This was not readiness. It was fear.
He had never feared the loss of his own life, but faced with the loss of a child, a child who had no father but himself to mourn him, he was afraid.
For a long moment, he had no voice. Only his breath, harsh and hot, rasping in his throat.
Then she sighed, and her sigh seemed to release the pressure in his own chest. She bowed her head. He could barely hear her.
“It was … dangerous … for a little while. But it seems that we will be all right. I had a fever, along with everything else. And exhaustion.” She laughed a little. “Exhaustion is my constant companion. But I am a servant here. It is a life I never imagined, that of a servant.”
“Kate, look at me,” Jocelyn said urgently. His voice sounded thin and high to his ears. He was light-headed, dizzy. Did this mean the child was not dead? Dared he feel relief? “Do not turn away.”
There was a pause. Catherine did not look round. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “It is very hard. To know one’s folly. To admit it openly.”
“None of us have anything but ourselves to offer. Your folly is no more, no less, than anyone else’s.”
He saw her shrug slightly.
“There is no need for you to be strong, Kate. Will you not let me take care of you?”
“And then?” Catherine shook her head. “You will leave. I can rely only on myself.” Jocelyn could see the tension in her slim neck. “And I have made a desperate mess of everything.”
“We will fix the mess. I will help you.”
“It cannot be fixed, Jocelyn!” Catherine looked at him now. “Castle St Clair is in ruins. It cannot be fixed.”
“Surely it can be fixed.”
“No. Not with all the gold in the world. The people here – my family has done terrible things to them. They do not want the castle fixed. They refuse to help. And they do not want me here. But I have no other home.”
Jocelyn took a step toward Catherine, but the stiff pose had upset his balance, and he staggered.
“Good God!” Catherine cried, reaching out to him with her hands. Jocelyn managed to catch himself on a low-hanging tree branch.
“It was the … the journey,” he panted. “I am still not used to riding.”
Catherine looked at him, wide-eyed. Then she began to laugh. “No wonder, then!” she gasped. “You are a dreadful horseman – no one with any intelligence ought to let you near a horse—”
“Of all the insults,” Jocelyn protested hotly. “I was quite good by the time I reached Abergavenny – although I admit I did receive quite a few offers of assistance.”
“I am sure they were from people who could not stand the sight of you on a horse,” Catherine laughed. “You need to stick to ships, Jocelyn.”
“Yes! I am quite good at handling ships,” Jocelyn retorted. “Unlike them, horses are stupid animals who won’t do as they are told.”
“Oh you ridiculous man! I already have a limp and I suggest you avoid anything that causes you to do the same. Stay where you belong!”
They laughed until they were spent. Jocelyn creakily lowered himself onto the damp grass and, for a moment, they sat silently. Then he reached out for her hand.
“Kate,” he said. “Let me speak without interruption – for once!” he added, as he saw her opening her mouth. She shut it again. “Thank you. My love, Castle St Clair was never your home. It never was, despite your desire to mak
e it so. It will do you and the child no harm to walk away from it. You can walk away from it today – tomorrow. I will take you both away, and we will start over.”
Catherine was silent. She nodded once, then twice. “I was very foolish,” she said in a small voice. “But you do not know everything. And, when you hear everything, you may not wish to take me away with you.”
“Your name is Avebury, Kate. Catherine Avebury. You have my name now. There is no need for you to create another Catherine, to go anywhere else. I do not need anything from you but your love. I did not when your name was Claverton, and I do not want this castle or the St Clair name.”
“I cannot return to Wansdyke, Jocelyn,” Catherine burst out. She pulled her hand away and covered her eyes. “I cannot return to London or Bath ever again.”
“My love,” Jocelyn said gently, “If you are speaking of the portrait – it is safe. It is wrapped in holland covers, hidden away amongst the worst of your Elizabethan ancestors, somewhere in the dark recesses of the attic, most likely. I know that no one enters the attic and returns alive, not even the servants.” He smiled, then reached out to touch her cheek.
She flinched and dropped her hand, then looked at him, appalled. Her face had gone nearly as white as her dress. “How-how can that be?” she stammered.
“Sir Lyle extricated LaFrance from his predicament by taking him away to the Americas. And he made sure that no one else would see that portrait. I saw it at his home, quite by accident, the night I was arrested. He had me arrested, you know.”
“Arrested!”
“So I could not leave England without taking you – and the child – with me. Do not look at me that way, Kate – all is well! I was due to sail for Gibraltar. I was offered a ship – a ship with quarters eminently suitable for travel with a lady – and a child.” He paused, then finished. “But I declined.”
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