The Beaumont Betrothal: Northbridge Bride Series Book 2

by D'Ansey, Leigh

  “You must know Cornwall is a smuggler’s haven. The animals who tormented her had been ejected from a vessel negotiating the inlets but it was the captain and chief mate of a privateer who saved my mother. I believe it was they who disposed of her assailants.” He spat the word out as if it was a vile taste in his mouth.

  “The captain himself was a notorious contrabander and hunted by the excise men but it seems he was a man of honor in his own way. In a strange turn of events, for it was very unusual for a woman to accompany her husband at sea, his wife was also on his ship.” He raised his shoulders. “My mother and I owe our lives to them.”

  Sophia thought for a moment. “Why didn’t they return your mother to her family?”

  “They could not risk it. If the captain had been taken there’s no question he would have been hanged—and left hanging in the village street until he rotted as a warning to others. Not only that, but he couldn’t easily explain my mother’s presence without suspicion of her ill-treatment falling on him. His whole crew would be in peril. Their most pressing need was to put distance between himself and the coast of Cornwall.”

  Sophia could scarcely imagine Isobel Hexham’s terror.

  “And so they took her aboard,” she murmured, drawing her shawl closer.

  “They took her aboard,” he repeated grimly, “and I can only imagine they set sail for the Carribean with all speed.”

  “How did your mother fare on the voyage?”

  “Her memories of that time are very hazy.”

  Sophia touched his sleeve. “Perhaps that is a blessing.”

  He looked at her finger on the cuff of his shirt and his face softened. “Perhaps. In any event, the shock of her experience was so profound she completely lost her memory for the next three decades.”

  “Thirty years! But what happened in that time?”

  “She was barely lucid during the voyage. By the time they reached Cuba, it became clear she was carrying a child. From her clothing and and the ring that was miraculously still on her finger, the captain and his wife knew her to be a lady.”

  He stared off into the distance. “She must have posed an enormous risk to them. They could have disposed of her overboard at some point on the voyage where her body would never be recovered, or abandoned her when they berthed. But I believe her plight touched them,” he said with a crooked smile. “I do not know their names but my understanding is that the captain’s wife was high-born. She and her husband took pains to see my mother was left in safe hands before they set sail again.”

  Sophia could not imagine how safe hands could be found in a part of the world she visualized as untamed and dangerous.

  “Whose hands?” she asked.

  “The captain’s wife had a distant cousin in an enclosed convent, and they took her there, away from prying eyes.”

  Sophia thought for a moment. “And she stayed there, all that time?”

  He nodded. “The cousin, Sister Julia, told me that although my mother’s memory had been washed clean and she was ill for a long time, eventually she was able to function day by day, although she remained terrified of strangers and suffered from dreadful nightmares.”

  “Was she able to communicate?” Sophia asked, absorbing the information and curious about the ramifications of Bruno’s mother’s amnesia.

  “She could, although apparently her language was simple—almost childlike.”

  “Did she ever meet the people who rescued her?”

  He shook his head. “They could not risk the possibility that she would recognize them. According to Sister Julia, however, they investigated and learned of my mother’s disappearance from Cornwall. It was not difficult to add two and two together and come to the logical conclusion of her identity—and gave them even more reason to keep her hidden and to keep their distance.

  “My father is formidable enough now; I understand he was a force to be reckoned with when he was younger. He was close to the king and connected to powerful lords. I doubt he would have waited for explanations, or shown mercy to anyone involved in the abduction of his wife.”

  Sophia thought for a moment. “How did she regain her memory?”

  Mr. Cavanaugh’s gaze softened. “As she recovered her strength they discovered how much she loved to be outside. She began to create a garden of her own, growing flowers and herbs, and vegetables for the kitchen. Each year, according to Sister Julia, the garden became larger. Last year, my mother decided she needed even more space and workmen were brought in to clear the surrounding jungle. No-one knows how it happened, but at some point my mother was struck in the temple by a falling branch. She remained unconscious and delirious for several days. They feared for her life.

  “When she came out of her coma,fragments of her memory had returned and more and more flooded in over the following weeks.”

  Sophia shivered. “I cannot begin to imagine how she must have felt… how tangled her feelings must have been. So many years gone by, and a world away from what she had known.”

  “In every respect,” Cavanaugh agreed.

  “And you?” Sophia ventured, after a few moments when they were both silent. “What happened to you?”

  When he spoke, his tone was clipped, a discordant note in the quiet dusk. “I was taken from her days after my birth and shipped to America.” His expression became remote as he continued.

  “I have no recollection of that time. I was only weeks old. An agent took me to Philadelphia and placed me into the care of foster parents—William and Alice Cavanaugh. My upbringing was in the nature of a business arrangement, paid for by Sister Julia’s cousin and her husband.”

  “They did not abandon you,” said Sophia, interested in the motives of the countess’s shadowy saviors.

  He shook his head. “It is curious,” he said, speaking slowly. “I have learned that my mother’s grandmother was Spanish and although it is far-fetched, I have wondered if there was some connection.”

  “Connection?”

  “I have come to the conclusion that the captain, or his wife, or both, were Spanish or of Spanish descent. After all, Spain controls the islands of the Caribbean. Perhaps they recognized my mother as having the same heritage. Maybe there was even some familial link. They did all they could to ensure her safety and my own survival, without endangering their own. I may never know for sure, but they have my eternal gratitude.”

  “Why did they send you away?” Sophia thought of the tiny baby separated from the mother who in all likelihood was not even aware she had given birth.

  “Sister Julia told me that my mother was so ill after my birth she was incapable of caring for me, and that the convent was no place for a baby. It was arranged I be sent to a childless couple who were distant acquaintances of one of the other sisters at the convent.”

  “The Cavanaughs,” said Sophia softly, watching his face.

  “The Cavanaughs. Alice and William,” he elaborated.

  “Were they good to you?”

  He looked away again as if seeking a light in the darkening woods. “They were not cruel. My father was always remote, and my mother was—I suppose you’d call her stern. I learned they’d been well paid to bring me up and they raised me according to the directions they were given.”

  “Directions?”

  “I was well fed and clothed. My foster father was a professor at the University of Pennsylvania, so I received a fine education both at home and later at the college when I was old enough to attend. He was a good-looking, cultivated man but foolish with his finances. Their reimbursement for my keep must have been useful. My foster mother came from French-Scottish stock. I believe her mother was among Marie-Antoinette’s ladies. She upheld her side of the bargain by making sure my schooling included languages and all the social graces.”

  His words were delivered matter-of-factly but his voice held a hollow note and nothing but intuition told Sophia he’d been deeply hurt at the discovery that the people who’d brought him up were not his own blood.r />
  “It would have been better if they’d told me from the beginning we were not related,” he said, confirming her thoughts. “It’s not unusual for boys to be brought up by virtual strangers. I could have accepted that, but I was raised to believe they were my own flesh and blood, that their family was my own…” He swept a hand through his hair then turned away to rest his forearms on the stone balustrade, staring down at the frothing water for a moment before continuing.

  “Law or politics were the careers I was steered towards at the end of my studies, but I refused to conform to their expectations. Perhaps my mother’s harrowing experience had filtered through to me, for I found myself restless and unable to settle into a conventional life.”

  “You were rebellious.” Sophia smiled, empathising with his predicament.

  Cavanaugh nodded. “William Cavanaugh and I had a blazing row and I headed out West with two other young men with the same lust for adventure. We’d all heard stories of the riches to be found in the West.” He threw her a hard glance. “When I left Pennsylvania, I was a boy. Out West I learned to be a man.”

  Sophia shivered. Although she sensed an intrinsic toughness at his core, his genteel upbringing could not have prepared him for the dangers she had heard lay in the wild western states.

  “How did you survive there?” she asked tentatively, wanting to know but reluctant to invade his privacy.

  The embers of the dying sun flared, casting his features in bronze.

  “Mostly used our wits,” he said, with a harsh grunt of laughter. “Started out trading goods, put our stake together and sailed flatboats down the Mississippi to Natchez, back by land along the Natchez Trace. It was grinding work, daylight to dusk, but profitable and we grew our initial investment.

  “Eventually one of the boys wanted to settle down with a lady he’d met along the river, so I sold my interest to him, and Boydie and I went West through the Cumberland Gap. Land and lumber were there for the taking.

  “In our travels we realised how desperate the pioneers were for iron—they needed horseshoes, cooking pots; sometimes they’d burn down abandoned structures just to retrieve the nails. As well as the land we’d purchased, we invested in iron foundries back East. I found I had a knack for making money, and those investments have returned our initial spend many times over.”

  “Was the disagreement with your father about your parentage?” Sophia ventured.

  He straightened and turned to look down at her. An ironic smile touched his lips. “No. Our argument was over my lust for adventure and refusal to enter either of the fields mapped out for me.” His grin was mirthless. “A typical father-and-son dispute, in fact.

  “But when I left without warning and with no forwarding address, they were put in an unfortunate position, for the contract brokered with my mother’s agent was to have seen me through at least the early years of my adulthood.”

  “Were there other children in the household?”

  “Not at first. When I was about ten, Garrett was born.” His eyes hooded.

  Sophia studied his face, trying to understand. “Did you ever reunite with them?”

  He nodded. “I had written from time to time and learned they’d tried to find me, but in those wild, remote lands and because I rarely stayed in one place for very long…” He shrugged. “I was just one of many young men with a thirst for adventure and a willingness to face danger head on, but I regretted the bitter parting with my father. When I returned, I was more able to see their point of view, and I was only too willing to share the wealth I’d accumulated.”

  “Were they pleased to see you?”

  Cynicism edged his smile. “They were. I imagine it was a relief to them, although I was fully an adult by then. I’d grown in many ways…”

  “What ways?” Sophia whispered.

  “I’d fought and been fought against,” he said harshly. “I’d killed other men and lost good companions through disease and disaster. I’d sailed to the Orient and Europe with other traders and investors—the time I met Ash,” he said, with a sideways smile. “I’d defended my interests and those of others around me. I’d crossed rivers in flood, slept in the open, in the snow, on cold, hard ground. I’d been attacked by savages.” He raised his shoulders. “Looking back, I see those wild people were only protecting what was theirs.”

  “What happened when you reunited with the Cavanaughs?”

  His face softened. “In the years I’d been away Garrett had grown into a young man. He looked up to me and I decided to take him to Europe; I wanted to get to know him better. We did what you English call the Grand Tour.” A shadow crossed his face but when he smiled at Sophia it was with genuine warmth as if for her sake he’d commanded any toxicity that had crossed his mind to melt away.

  “I saw Mrs Cosway’s paintings in Italy and those of Madam Le Brun in Paris. In Rome I was taken by the history paintings of Angelica Kauffman.”

  Sophia tilted her head. “What sparked your interest in painting?”

  “Alice Cavanaugh’s aunt lived with us. She was a talented artist herself, widely travelled, and she was keenly interested in the arts, so I learnt firstly at her side. Later, I discovered the West was full of characters who might have looked like drifters but over a campfire most nights you’d hear poetry and stories from men who’d been educated in different ways in different lands. For a while I travelled with an old man who’d been a scholar in Europe but for reasons he never explained, he dispatched himself to America and earned his keep by painting with materials taught to him by the Indians.”

  Sophia was intrigued. “What kind of materials?”

  “Barks for red and black, grasses, berries and lichens for yellows and earth colors. All kinds of natural ingredients. He sold his paintings to the settlers.”

  Sophia studied his face, absorbing all he had told her, understanding he was allowing these few moments of intimacy only in the hope she would reverse her decision and marry Freddy. The thought repelled her.

  Her chest tightened. “You must have enjoyed other activities in Europe besides viewing paintings,” she said, instantly wishing she could take the shrewish-sounding words back but they had escaped before she could prevent them.

  The skin around his eyes went white. “I did enjoy ‘other’ activities as you call them. But it was while we were there I discovered my true parentage.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “And what I thought was an unbreakable bond was smashed beyond repair.”

  “I’m sorry…” stricken, Sophia pressed her hand against her mouth. A stiff breeze flew up the brook tossing the loose end of her shawl over her shoulder and she snatched at it and clawed it against her.

  She sensed his determination to see her married to Freddy was somehow entwined in what had clearly been a catastrophic event for him, but she did not have a chance to form the questions before she heard the thrum of hoofbeats and Freddy himself came cantering towards the bridge.

  With a muffled sound, Bruno Cavanaugh stepped away from her, bending his head to wrap the palm of his hand around the back of his neck, presenting an oddly vulnerable picture to the powerful figure she had become accustomed to.

  “Hey-ho,” called Freddy. “Didn’t expect to find you two here.” But there was no malice in his tone and his friendly grin was as guileless as ever.

  Mr. Cavanaugh raised his head. “It seems we’ve all had the same idea,” he said coolly. “To converge on the bridge for a breath of fresh air.” He gestured tiredly towards Sophia. “But it’s growing dark, so perhaps you could see Miss Cranston home, Freddy.”

  With a murmur of assent, Freddy dismounted, and Sophia found herself with no option but to join him as he turned towards Foxwood, his gelding’s reins looped around one hand.

  Before they reached the point where the shrubbery rendered the bridge invisible, Sophia swung around to stare over her shoulder, but Mr. Cavanaugh had already been swallowed up by the purple dusk.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next day, Bruno
took the smoke-grey gelding and rode over to Foxwood under a flawless blue sky. He told himself the visit was solely to see how Sophia Cranston fared after their encounter on the bridge, but when he reined in on the rise overlooking the old manor house he knew he was deceiving himself. He simply wanted to see her. He would have brought Freddy but apparently his brother had gone out the previous evening to investigate replacement hounds for his pack and had not returned.

  In the short time he’d been at Enderby Bruno had discovered this was not unusual behavior for Freddy. He’d learned his brother was generous, kind and even-tempered, but he appeared to have no sense of time, nor any real sense of responsibility. He lived in the moment and his main concerns were for his horses and dogs, hunting, racing, and gaming with a handful of friends equally as careless as himself.

  Unlike most other young men Bruno knew, Freddy appeared to have no interest in women, nor in other men. He had no inkling of his good fortune in winning the hand of Sophia Cranston—although Sophia’s hand had become more remote by the day, Bruno considered bleakly. None of his efforts to promote the marriage showed any sign of bearing fruit.

  Reining in on the rise above Foxwood with the wind in his face, Bruno reflected on the ‘man-to-man’ conversation he’d had with Freddy an evening or two before. After a couple of after-dinner brandies in the library at Enderby, he’d decided against hemming and hawing and come straight to the point. “Freddy, have you ever slept with a woman?”

  “Usually sleep by m’self,” said Freddy, fondling the ears of one of his King Charles spaniels. “Except for a dog or two, of course. Can’t keep that darned big hound, Rex, off the bed. And once he’s climbed under the covers—”

  “Freddy!” Bruno found himself roaring. “You know what I mean! Have you ever fucked a woman?”

  “Steady on, old chap,” Freddy stuttered, almost choking on his brandy.

  Bruno had taken a long calming breath, dragging air into his lungs with a hiss, and exhaled slowly. “Well?” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, cradling his snifter in both hands.