“You declined?”
“I very respectfully declined.” Jocelyn reached out again, locked his fingers with hers and firmly drew her hand into his lap. He hesitated. He had practised the words in his mind but, now that he was saying them, they felt strange. “Sir Lyle designed what he thought was the perfect life, for you and for me. I was to take you away so you could recover your dignity – something he thought would be more important to you than your life.” He chuckled. “It is obvious something is, since you risked your life to get here.” He waved his other arm toward the castle. “And he knows you have the power to give me a name to replace the one taken from me as a child. I would regain my place in the world.”
“But you refused!” Catherine exclaimed. Her face reflected the horror he had felt in the chambers of the Admiralty when realised the consequences of his decision not to become the admirals’ tool – not for love, not for money. They would have sent him to chase Sir Lyle down, and he was not going to do it. He would not be their executioner. Even if it meant he would never go to sea again.
“I refused,” Jocelyn agreed. “Because I have a name. It’s mine. I created it. I own it. And you have dignity. You never lost it. I have given you the name that I worked very hard to deserve. And you will bestow your dignity upon our child.”
“I think you have gone mad,” Catherine said, but her voice was calm.
“Perhaps.” Jocelyn picked up her hand and kissed it. “Perhaps I am madly in love with you. Perhaps I am just mad. We can return to Wansdyke and become the mad sailor and his countess. We will be legendary.”
Catherine looked about them. “In some ways,” she said softly, “This place has healed me. My soul needed time. And this castle … it is the place of my ancestors but it is not mine. I feel as if I have spoken to this country with my heart.”
“And it has forgiven you, dear Kate. You have done no harm. And your – our – child need not be burdened with crimes that are not his responsibility.”
“Oh, Jocelyn.” For a moment, Catherine could not speak. Then she lifted her face to him. A single tear trickled down her face. “We have a daughter,” she whispered. “A quiet, dear little thing. When she looks at me with those great eyes of hers, I know she knows she is doomed to a desperate life like my own – alone and fatherless, the countess who should have been the earl—”
“You are talking nonsense,” Jocelyn said. He grasped her hands tightly. “She is not you. And she has a father. We will make our destiny together.” He dropped her hands, looked despairingly up at the mountains. “You need to know the truth. My name was not always Avebury. My father was executed for treason when I was a small child, I was sent to London to live with relatives and I entered the navy as a midshipman under the name Avebury. For many years, I feared that this would be found out and ruin me. But I know now that we make our own truth. I will tell our daughter so, and you will not stop me.” He rubbed at his face in some exasperation. “I am tired. But I want to see my daughter.”
“Wait!” Catherine cried. She held out her hands. “Do not take her from me,” she begged, terror on her face. “When she was born, I did not love her at first. I admit it. But I love her now, and I cannot live without her.”
Jocelyn looked horrified. “I would never do such a thing. But I must see her.”
“Do not leave me,” Catherine said. Her voice broke, her face dropped. A tear rolled down. “Do not leave me,” she said again. “I could not bear it.”
Jocelyn grasped her hands and gently moved closer to her. “I will not leave you, I promise, light of my heart.” He kissed her, then brushed the damp from her cheeks. He bent to kiss her again.
It had been a long time – too long. He was eager, and had not known how eager. He had dreamt about her, and was shocked at the degree to which he had memorised every plane of her face, the feel of her hair in his hands.
“What is this thing?” he murmured against her neck. He plucked questioningly at the white dress she had swathed about her.
“Oh!” she said indistinctly. “Oh, my clothes … they don’t … fit.”
He found her beneath the folds after all. Her breasts were full and leaking. She clutched again at the dress, mortified.
“You are utterly enchanting. But look, someone is coming.”
Catherine turned, hastily belting her dress. Mrs Owen strode across the great lawn, holding a squalling bundle.
“I am late, my lady!” she called.
As soon as she reached them, she handed the bundle to Catherine and gave Jocelyn only a brief nod. Catherine pulled at the dress and put the child to her breast. There was immediate silence, followed by loud smacking.
“Well.” Jocelyn looked up at Mrs Owen. “I would like to say that she may look like me, but I object to her table manners.”
“Shame on you, Captain! How can you say such a thing?” Mrs Owen exclaimed. “There’s a word in Welsh for someone like you, but I will refrain from using it.”
“She does look like you,” Catherine said. “She looks nothing at all like me. Or Sir Lyle,” she said slyly.
“I apologise for doubting you,” Jocelyn said. “I doubted myself, too – but that was deserved. I was very foolish.”
“Ah, well.” Catherine squinted up at Mrs Owen. “Men are.”
As they watched Mrs Owen’s retreating figure, Jocelyn put his arm about his wife. “You have not told me her name,” he said.
“Gwenllian.”
“You gave her a Welsh name? Could you not have called her something more predictable? Like Anne, or Mary?”
“Mrs Owen saved me,” Catherine said simply. “She was the family I did not have. She had a daughter once. Gwenllian. She died as a child but would have been my age.” She looked up at the mountains surrounding them. Gwen had stopped nursing, and was staring up into Jocelyn’s face with interest. He reached out to touch one tiny fist, and found his finger being grasped tightly.
“Another countess, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Catherine whispered, her gaze not leaving the mountains.
“Yes, that would be a fine thing,” said Jocelyn bending to kiss his daughter’s forehead.
Epilogue
Lydia came round the bend of the castle wall, shading her eyes from the brilliant sunlight, pulling her wrap about her, a sealed note in her hand.
The messenger had only just left, and when Lydia saw the familiar scrawl of Sir Lyle’s hand, she panicked and ran out to find her mistress. But there he was—Lady St Clair’s knight errant, her honourable Captain, his arm protectively around her as she leaned back against him, sleeping babe in her arms. Save for the breeze ruffling their hair and Catherine’s wrap, they looked like marble statues, nestled together in a perfect triangle of symmetry, as if they had been placed there under a tree in order to decorate the landscape.
What should she do with this letter? Dare she spoil the happiness that she saw before her?
She hesitated for only a mere moment before she broke the seal. She did not have the scruples that an innocent maiden might—she, Lydia Barrow, natural daughter of the Duke of Rutherford, shunned and despised by the Duchess of Rutherford and her four ugly daughters, as well as all of their connexions—but it made her uncomfortable to open Lady St Clair’s private letters nonetheless. She turned her back to the happy couple in the distance, scanned the letter. Fear gripped her heart.
“My dear Lady St C, I hope this missive finds you well and reunited with your Captain. May I congratulate you on the birth of your heir? Rumour has it that your esteemed Captain has left active duty, but with the French, no one can be at ease. He may be called back again soon, as we always have need of brave officers at sea. I promised the Captain that I would deliver a certain item to Wansdyke, but I regret to say that I have not been able to do so discreetly, as I am forced to abandon my plans to travel to the Americas in order to take care of some business matters. I will, however, execute the task at the earliest possible moment. The item is safe in my hands. L
.”
Lydia crushed the letter in her hands. She turned, giving her lady one last backward glance, before walking slowly back whence she came.
He was not destroying the portrait or giving it up—because he wanted to keep it. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. He wanted to keep this power he had over Catherine, this dream of owning her. He did not care whose happiness he destroyed. He did not care about the new, blameless life that had arrived to grace Catherine’s own. He simply did not care for anyone but himself.
Men! She hated all men with a passion.
She would not allow Sir Lyle to destroy this fleeting happiness that had taken so long for her mistress to acquire. She would not have it. She would take care of that irksome portrait herself. She would do it if she had to murder Sir Lyle.
She had done it before. She could do it again.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you to all who have helped me on this journey. It has been long and arduous, but never dull.
I am deeply grateful to Heather for reading my entire manuscript and helping me to get my Regency era historical details correct, right down to maps, buildings, and where to cross the river to get to Wales! Thank you so much.
Thank you also to Catherine Fitzsimons, copy editor extraordinaire, who went through every word in order to give the manuscript that special “Jane Austen” feel.
Nora K., you have patiently listened to me ramble about my writing dreams for many years. I owe you more than I can express. You are the best friend a girl could have.
To my wonderful husband and children: you kept reminding me that I could do this. And look, I have! Thank you.
About the Author
You might say Cassandra Austen is an old-world romantic in a digital age. Author of The Portrait and the forthcoming Coming Home to Greenleigh (2019), Cassandra’s work evokes the heroes and heroines of Jane Austen, coupled with the rich romance of landscapes such as old New England…Georgian Bath…or wooden ships sailing just off the port of Gibraltar. Strong women, honorable men, and the courage to do right.
Cassandra herself lives on a drafty (yet atmospheric) old farm in northern New England. Come visit her virtual home at www.cassandraausten.com. Sign up for her newsletter for a free copy of her novella, Twelfth Night.
Also by Cassandra Austen
Twelfth Night (a free novella available only at www.cassandraausten.com/newsletter)
Coming Home To Greenleigh (out in 2019–sign up for Cassandra’s newsletter for an early peek!)
As-yet untitled sequel to The Portrait (projected fall 2019)
The Portrait Page 29