Wedded for His Secret Child

by Helen Dickson

  The coach took her back to Hertfordshire, the familiar homeliness and wild beauty of it unobserved, for she was encased in grief.

  Chapter Eleven

  Laurence had not been gone twenty-four hours when he returned unexpectedly to Winchcombe, leaving others to manage his affairs in Plymouth. Ever since he had left home he was unable to dismiss Melissa from his mind. She had made it plain that she did not care about his commitments elsewhere and certainly not about him. He felt his innards twist with the pain of it. She had made it clear that she didn’t care whether he was there or not. Giving much thought to the troubles that assailed them, he realised that he may have been too hard and insensitive to her feelings regarding Alice and Gerald Mortimer.

  On a sigh and with a whimsical smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he admitted the truth of it. At thirty years old and with more turbulent water under the bridge than he cared to give any more thought to, he had fallen victim to a beautiful, courageous young woman who was in possession of an undesirable streak of fiery rebellion. He felt his body tense as the unfamiliar emotion drove into him like a physical force, becoming aware that his reticence had been eroded by that stifling, most destructive of all emotions, making the paradox of his passions and conflicting needs difficult to control.

  Despite everything, he was now in no doubt that he loved Melissa deeply, that what they had together was real and transcended anything else that had come before. It filled him with a sense of wonder, want and hunger—this ultimate love that could only be understood by the two people involved.

  * * *

  The house was unusually quiet when he arrived at Winchcombe. Letting himself in, eager to see his wife and daughter, he bounded across the hall and up the stairs, reluctant to admit to the sharp disappointment when she did not appear to greet him. Thinking she would be in the nursery, he went there first. Finding the nursery devoid of both his wife and child, he turned enquiringly to Violet’s nursemaid.

  ‘Where is my daughter? Has my wife taken her out? The hour is late and it is past time Violet was in bed.’ He strode to the window, fully expecting to see Melissa wheeling their daughter in her carriage.

  ‘No, my lord—she—Her Ladyship—she’s not here.’

  Laurence stared at the girl as if she’d taken leave of her senses. The weariness drained from him as a cold mist of dread settled round his heart. ‘Not here? Then where is she?’

  ‘She—she left soon after you left for Plymouth, my lord,’ she replied, wringing her hands. ‘She—she was upset—most distressed about something. She left in a hurry. Daisy went with her.’

  ‘Where? Where did she go?’ he demanded. He transfixed the increasingly nervous maid with a fierce stare that left her stammering and uncertain.

  ‘She—she...’

  Laurence stared at her hard as panic set in. He remained quite still, his breathing shallow. He remembered another time when his first wife had gone missing—taking their son with her—on a day just like this. The memory ripped across his brain as suspicion screamed through his body. No, he thought, she can’t have. She wouldn’t have done that.

  ‘My lord—’

  ‘Where is she? She must have told you where she was going?’

  ‘Home, my lord. She said she was going home. I—I expect she will be there by now.’

  Laurence took a moment for the words to penetrate his brain, then he stalked from the nursery and went in search of Mrs Robins, only to be informed by his butler that since it was her day off she had gone to visit her sister in the village. When asked if he knew where his wife had gone, the butler repeated what Violet’s nursemaid had told him.

  Remembering how quiet Melissa had been after her tumble from her horse and the angry words they had exchanged in the nursery before he’d left for Plymouth, when no one was forthcoming about her reason for going to Hertfordshire, he assumed the only possible reason was that she had left him. Then he contradicted his own suspicion, shaking his head as if to dislodge the outrageous thought. He could not believe such a thing of her. The suspicion was completely without foundation. Had they not lain together, made love together? Hadn’t she given her body to him time and again with trusting sweetness and openness? He had come to believe that there was more than respect and tolerance in her feelings towards him, that she loved him a little and that their union would soon become one of far more value than that which he’d had with Alice.

  But such thoughts as these did nothing to dispel his suspicion that she had indeed left him. He tried to keep a hold on his temper, which threatened to overwhelm him, and it was with a mixture of fear and exasperation that he immediately ordered his valet to pack some clothes and order the coach.

  Incapable of any kind of rational thought, what he felt as the coach left Winchcombe was raw, red-hot anger. The closer he got to Hertfordshire did nothing to release the tension or the anguish in his heart.

  * * *

  When Laurence reached High Meadows, trying to rein in his impatience, he asked to be taken to his wife. The house was quiet, its walls exuding something of the old days that was stable and unchanging. He was told that the Baron and his wife were in their rooms. Melissa was also upstairs resting. He climbed the stairs for the confrontation with his wife, his face set in uncompromising lines, his eyes now glacial, hiding all trace of the fury that had threatened to shred his heart to pieces.

  Letting himself into her room, he found her seated on the window seat, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs as she gazed out over the countryside beyond the tangle of gardens. When he saw her he was torn between a desire to berate her soundly for leaving Winchcombe and a heady desire to pull her into his arms. His heart gave a joyful leap, having made up its mind that whatever had driven her to leave Winchcombe could be easily resolved and they would soon be heading back home.

  * * *

  Melissa turned her head when the door opened, expecting to see Daisy or her mother. Seeing Laurence, she stared at him in disbelief. A deluge of love filled her heart. She could only marvel that for whatever reason he had come to her when she needed him most. She wanted to fly across the room into his arms, but when the cruel words of their parting thrust their way into her mind that stopped her. Placing her feet on the floor, she stood up and straightened her skirts, waiting for him to speak. He looked dishevelled, his eyes haunted with something she could not identify. Why had he come? He was supposed to be in Plymouth.

  His face was inscrutable and after a long moment he said, ‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Me? What are you talking about?’

  ‘When I returned to Winchcombe and found you gone—I thought...’ Running his trembling fingers through his hair, he shook his head, breathing hard as he tried to control his feelings. Closing the door he strode further into the room, standing over her. ‘I thought you had...’

  Melissa’s heart ached with remorse when she realised what it was that was clearly torturing him. ‘You thought I had left you?’ He must have been beside himself. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined he would think she had done exactly the same thing to him as Alice.

  ‘What else was I to think?’

  ‘I told Mrs Robins why I had to come here.’

  ‘She wasn’t there and no one else knew.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Laurence. Contrary to what you thought, I have not left you.’

  His eyes blazed with relief. ‘Then why did you leave Winchcombe the minute I’d gone out the door?’

  ‘My brother is dead, Laurence. I received the news from my father almost as soon as you had left.’

  The flat, almost detached tone of her voice made the statement even more compelling. Laurence stared at her, unable as yet to absorb what she had said.

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘When?’ His voice was a whisper of compassion.r />
  ‘We don’t know the details, only that his ship was in a convoy of vessels heading for America when it went down in a storm. Apparently there were no survivors.’

  Laurence was stricken. He knew just how close Melissa had been to Henry and how distressed she must be feeling. ‘What can I say? I am so very sorry, Melissa. You must be devastated.’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to be here to offer comfort to my parents. They have taken it extremely hard, I’m afraid. But I am surprised to see you, Laurence. You should not be here,’ she told him. ‘This does not fit into your work schedule. You had work to do—in Plymouth. You should do it.’

  ‘My work can wait. There are others who can do it for me. My priority at this time is you. I deeply regretted leaving you and returned to Winchcombe before I’d even reached Plymouth. I was worried about you. You were hurt when you were knocked from your horse—and the bitter words we exchanged before I left played heavily on my mind. Let me help you, Melissa.’

  ‘You? How can you help me?’ She did not look at him.

  He winced at the coldness of the question. ‘I would like to try.’

  ‘Why? Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘I am not a monster, Melissa—which you accused me of being, as I recall. I know how you must have suffered since you received the news of your brother. He was very dear to you, I know that.’

  For the first time since he had entered the room she looked at him properly. ‘Do you? Do you really, Laurence?’

  He moved closer to her, looking down into her face upturned to him. ‘You are still shocked—to lose your brother—for him to die so young and so suddenly.’

  ‘Yes, you are right. He was too young. He had everything to live for, but we always knew this might happen. It was forever at the back of our minds.’

  ‘Of course it was, but it’s a shock all the same when it happens. I do know all about that, Melissa. I would be only too glad to do anything I can to ease your grief. I would take you in my arms and hold you, console you—share your pain—to take the hurt and sadness from your heart until there is no room left for it.’

  Smiling thinly she turned from him, moving slowly back to the window and looking out, a faraway expression in her eyes. ‘I’d hoped to find consolation once before in your arms, Laurence, until I realised I would have to compete with a dead woman for it. Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly all right—really. I’m tired, that’s all—but I appreciate your offer. You really should return to Winchcombe.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. I am here for you. Will you take me to your parents? I would like to offer them my condolences.’

  ‘They’re resting. Henry’s death has affected them deeply. Come, we’ll go downstairs. I’ll get you something to eat. You must be tired after your journey. I’ll have a room prepared for you.’ Halfway to the door she stopped and looked at him. ‘So—am I to understand that you returned to Winchcombe for me?’

  He nodded. ‘I missed you, Melissa. When I thought you had left me I was beside myself with anguish and every other emotion you can put a name to. I was crushed. I could not imagine the rest of my life without you. You have become a part of me—like my flesh and blood. I came here to berate you—to beg your forgiveness—but now I know why you left I am not so insensitive that I don’t know what you must be going through. There are things to be said, matters to be settled between us, but they can wait until later.’

  ‘Yes—yes, they can. Now is not the time.’

  * * *

  Laurence paid his commiserations to her parents. The loss of their son had clearly devastated them. They were glad that he had come to be with Melissa. She was pale, withdrawn, a drifting copy of her former self. Her grieving for her brother was done not in his presence, but in private. A feeling of helplessness, a feeling so strong welled up inside him like a great river which has been dammed. He was not sure at that moment what it was he felt, he only knew that it was something he had never felt before. The longing, the absolute need for Melissa to stir, to show some sign that she cared for him, to give him permission to take her in his arms where he could comfort her, protect her, took him over completely.

  Since the angry words they had exchanged at Winchcombe, he had been more disturbed than he cared to admit over the accusations she had flung at him about Alice. The revelation of how much Melissa had come to mean to him, how much he loved her, brought a surge of remorse, mingling with the torment of his cruelty towards her. He remembered how she had been that day he had encountered her after she had ridden off alone—magnificent in her anger, courageous in her defiance and filled with an incredible sweetness and innocent, tender passion.

  Everything must have become too much for her when she had suddenly snapped and he had seen her spirit revived. She had been quiet over the days following their bitter words, subdued, enduring his coldness towards her. How could he possibly have likened her to Alice—with her viciousness and spite, goading and taunting him—who had laughed in his face when she had confessed her adultery?

  Melissa was none of these things. In fact, she was everything that Alice was not. With the revelation of how deep his love was for her, it was as though his mind had finally become free of its burden of pain and sorrow at the same time. As she moved about the house comforting her parents and making arrangements for a small memorial service to be held in the village church for her brother, Laurence felt she didn’t even realise he was there half the time, but he could keenly feel her despair.

  * * *

  Antony and Eliza had returned to Hertfordshire so he rode to see them most days and spent a lot of his time with Violet, who was a great comfort to him.

  Robert arrived in time for the memorial service. His wife, not wanting to leave her father who was not in the best of health, was to travel down with their two children at a later date.

  The meeting between Laurence and Robert was cordial. Of medium height and dark haired like his sister, Robert Frobisher was a serious-minded person who was deeply upset by the death of his older brother.

  * * *

  The memorial service was a subdued affair, attended by those who had known the spirited Henry Frobisher. It was a comfort to Melissa that Antony and Eliza were there. The Baron was quiet, holding in his grief, his wife weeping softly beside him. Melissa remained by her parents’ side as friends and neighbours came to pay their respects. She grieved tearlessly, but Laurence could see the strain of the past days was beginning to tell on her.

  * * *

  The day which had been full of sadness was over. After saying goodnight to her parents and brother and making sure Violet was asleep, Melissa went wearily to her room, knowing Laurence would be there, waiting for her. He had been a constant support from the moment he had arrived, patiently watching her, considering her needs. Now, as she knew he would be, he was seated by the hearth.

  Laurence got to his feet. ‘Melissa?’

  She looked at him for a long moment, his voice penetrating the inner sanctum of her mind and the ice about her beginning to melt. ‘Laurence?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Laurence.’

  Quite suddenly her face crumpled and she began to move across the room towards him, her gaze held by his. There was something in his expression and miraculous intuition in his compelling silver-grey eyes which touched her heart.

  He saw the great wash of tears spring from her eyes and flow across her face, and his heart jolted for her pain. His expression was soft, his love for her shining through the brilliance of his eyes. He came closer and took her by the shoulders, wrapping her in his strong arms.

  ‘I’ve got you, Melissa. Weep all you want.’

  She cried silently, huge tears spilling over her lashes and coursing down her cheeks. It was agony for Laurence to watch her anguish, raised from the vast reservoir of despair threatening to drown her. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her, he kept his arms around her. He could feel the alert tens
ion in her slender body. Eventually her tears ceased, but she seemed content to remain in his arms. The warmth of the room wrapped itself around them so that it seemed that they were alone in a world without substance or reality.

  ‘Are you feeling better now?’ Laurence asked, his lips against her hair.

  As if awakening from a deep trance, Melissa nodded. The storm of tears had ceased and with its passing some of her tension had been washed away. Having dealt with adversity from the day of their marriage, she was too weak to fight Laurence when he was being kind and understanding—besides, he felt so warm and strong, his arms comforting and his voice soothing. His mere presence gave her a sense of security and safety. Laurence was both surprised and touched when she nestled closer and buried her face into his chest. It was as if she wanted to hide herself in his embrace.

  After a while she raised her head. It seemed a lifetime passed as they gazed at each other. In that lifetime each lived through a range of deep, tender emotions new to them both, exquisite emotions that neither of them could put into words. As though in slow motion, unable to resist the temptation Melissa’s mouth offered, slowly Laurence’s own moved inexorably closer. His gaze was gentle and compelling when, in a sweet, mesmeric sensation, his mouth found hers. Melissa melted into him. The kiss was long and lingeringly slow.

  Raising his head, Laurence gazed at her in wonder. Her magnificent eyes were naked and defenceless.

  ‘Will you stay with me?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t want to be by myself tonight.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to.’ Releasing his hold, he turned her face up to his, stroking her hair back. ‘Shall we go to bed?’ he asked, cradling her face in his hands and tracing her cheekbones with his thumbs.