The Lodestone

by Charlene Keel

  She laughed, delighted. “Yet, even so, you would not hold me to our wager?”

  “I would like nothing better than for you to pay your debt, mademoiselle, but only if you do so willingly.”

  “It is a debt of honor, is it not?” she reminded him sweetly, circling his neck with her arms and standing on tiptoe to kiss his chin. “And do you not consider me an honorable person?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then, I believe, there is nothing further to discuss.”

  He kissed her again, at first gently, and then demanding, as his hunger for her mounted. He took the jeweled combs from her hair, letting it flow free. Running his fingers through the dark auburn curls, he lightly traced the outline of her lips with his tongue. Her arms went around him and she responded with increasing heat. It was as if her entire body was on fire, and she burned to the secret core of her being for something only he could satisfy.

  He turned her around and slowly unfastened her lovely green gown. As he pulled it gently down, he scattered light kisses on her shoulders and back. After helping her to step out of the dress and sending it to join the cloak, he unlaced her chemise and slipped it down to the top of her corset. For a moment, he stared at her full, round breasts, and then he slowly captured the rosy tip of one of them in his mouth. A wild rush of warmth spread to her loins and she pressed even closer, longing for the fulfillment his nearness promised. Gently, he pulled her chemise back up and moved a little away from her.

  “Drake, you don’t have to stop—”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “For the moment. There is much I need to tell you.”

  “And I you.”

  He disengaged himself and went to the table where their midnight feast was spread and filled each of the crystal flutes with sparkling, crisp champagne. He gave one glass to her and held the other up in tribute.

  “First I would drink a toast to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, whose face haunts me day and night.” He took a sip and waited for her to do the same. “Bring your wine and sit with me before the fire. We must talk seriously before we take this any further.”

  “Then you must let me speak first,” she said, determined to make clear her position. She had to tell him how she felt about him, how much she wanted him to make love to her, and how she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him; but also that she would not marry him, or anyone. Taking his champagne glass, she placed it with her own upon a nearby table, and then she went into his arms and kissed him with all the longing she had held back for months.

  “That is indeed eloquent,” he said at last, breathless under her attack. “If that’s the language you wish to converse in, by all means, you may speak first.” He led her to a settee before the fire but she was on her feet again almost instantly and she was surprised to find herself trembling.

  “I’m not sure how to begin,” she said, pacing a little away from him. “Of course, you are a man of experience, so my feelings for you are no secret.”

  “I’ve suspected for a while that you desire me as much as I do you.” He rose and went to gather her in his embrace once more. “How long you have known about these feelings, Cleome?” he asked thickly, intoxicated by her nearness.

  Looking innocently into his eyes, she replied, “I’m not sure. It was before you took me to Lady Easton’s ball, the first time you danced with me. Do you remember?”

  He swirled her about the room, then spun her away from him and back again into his arms, sending her into delicate gales of laughter. “I’ll never forget. Cinderella at the ball one night, and then the very next day in possession of a fortune. Except for that event, you would have been mine already. I was courting you as seriously as Garnett Easton, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “You were courting me?” she was surprised. “Why did you stop?”

  “The timing was wrong. You and your advisors would have accused me of being a fortune hunter. And there were other important factors.”

  “Are you a fortune hunter?” she asked mischievously.

  “I am not,” he assured her. “I’ve amassed considerably more money and property than we’ll need in one lifetime. Now, may I have my say?”

  “Soon,” she promised. “I must tell you what’s in my heart. But first, will you dance with me? The way we did that night, after Lady Easton’s ball?” Before he could stop her, before he even knew what she was about, she went to the table where the feast lay waiting and picked up the music box. “We’ll have the same music,” she said, and smiling as if love itself were her conspirator, she turned the box over and wound it.

  A sudden cold dread seized him. “Cleome, wait. Allow me—”

  “I can manage,” she assured him. She turned the music box back and lifted the cover so the notes could escape, only to find a conundrum within. There, peeking out from the edges of a folded sheet of bloodstained parchment was a lock of hair—her own hair. Or at least it was the exact shade as her own.

  Touched at this unexpected sentimentality in his nature, and wondering how he had obtained a lock of her hair, Cleome was flattered beyond measure. When she tried with one hand to ease the auburn curl out of its paper coffer, she dropped the music box onto the carpet and was astonished when it hit the floor, for a false bottom opened and a miniature portrait of Ramona as she must have looked twenty years ago fell out, along with a small money pouch. Puzzled, Cleome kneeled to pick up each item and examine it. Slowly she unfolded the parchment and in shocked disbelief, she read the words written there.

  The warmth of the previous hour was forgotten. A chill descended on her, invading her body and surrounding her heart, it seemed, with an inch of ice. She could hardly breathe and she couldn’t believe what she held in her hands. It was a marriage certificate. Her mother’s marriage certificate. The document that made her mother respectable at last—and Cleome acceptable in the human race. It had been in Drake’s music box all this time, in a hidden compartment, along with a miniature of Ramona. And he’d never said a word about it.

  Leaving the music box and money pouch on the floor along with the piece of parchment and the lock of hair, she stood up and looked at him as she would a stranger. The fire was burning down to smoldering embers and the room had gone darker; but she could see that Drake’s smile had faded.

  “It was all true,” she whispered. “All of it. You really did know my father.”

  “As I have often said.”

  “But you withheld that document! What right had you?”

  “I had good reason. Let me explain and I’m sure you will agree.”

  “Sir, I do not know what fool’s game you’ve been playing with me, but it is over,” she declared, gathering up her clothes and donning them quickly. He moved to put his arms around her. “No!” she protested bitterly. “Leave me be!”

  “Cleome, you cannot deny what you felt—what we shared—only moments ago.”

  “What did you think to do?” she raged. “Take my virginity and then reveal to me my sudden respectability? To what purpose have you deceived me? Was it not enough that you took everything else that was dear to me?”

  “I insist you hear me out.”

  Fully dressed now, she picked up her mother’s marriage certificate and the lock of hair and headed for the door. Resolute, he picked up the music box and money pouch and blocked her way.

  “You will listen,” he said gripping her arms firmly, holding her in place. “Allow me to explain. Then I will make sure you get home safely.”

  “If it will make you release me, then explain. But only how you came by the contents of the box. I care not why you withheld them. There can be no good reason for that act of betrayal.”

  He took her elbow and she went rigid, steeling herself not to succumb to the overwhelming desire she still felt for him. Gently, he led her to a chair by the fire and made her sit down; then he moved the other chair close beside her so that he could sit near. He took her hand and although she tried to wrest it from him, he held it fast.
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  “I was entrusted by your father, as he lay dying on the battlefield, to deliver these things into your mother’s hands should I survive and return to England after the war. You are aware that I served with him in France. We were both with Wellington. I know you have heard me speak of it to your mother.”

  “Yes,” Cleome retorted bitterly. “What I thought were pretty fairy tales, told to improve the state of her health. How could you keep it from her? And from me? I’ve lived all my life in the shadow of rumors and no one has ever come forward to claim me as his child or bear witness to my mother’s claim of marriage. But you actually knew the man who sired me!”

  “You are right, of course, and this is long overdue,” he replied. “I have the honor of informing you that your father, Corporal James Parker, died a hero’s death in battle in the service of his king and country. He entrusted to me the document you are holding. I have so far abstained from giving it to his widow due to the precarious state of her health. I continued to withhold it because—”

  “Her health has always been delicate,” she broke in harshly. “No reason you could give would be good enough to deny my mother her due.”

  “I wished only to protect her!” he exploded. “And I would not see you wasted on some young fool like Garnett Easton!”

  “I see. You were worried that some member of the nobility would charm me off my feet. Is that it?”

  “Well, it does appear the joke is on me, does it not?” he asked, his voice touched with a piercing irony. “For now you are a member of that same aristocracy and you give every sign of being able to take care of yourself.”

  “Of that, sir, I am perfectly capable.”

  “I can only exhort you to consider carefully before you place that document in your mother’s hands, for once you do, the circumstances in which I came by it will have to be told. Is she ready to hear that her Jimmy is buried in some foreign land?”

  Cleome studied the paper in her lap. Before her eyes were blinded with her sorrow, she read it again, very slowly. It was indeed a certificate of the union, in holy matrimony, of Ramona Desmond and James Parker. It was inscribed roughly, as if written in great haste, with many words flowing into others. A huge dark blot covered Ramona’s maiden name.

  “A hero’s death,” she whispered, touching the bloodstain with trembling fingers. She dared not look at Drake, for a cold anger festered within her. He’d had this precious paper in his possession and he had used it to try and make the ultimate fool of her. Sadness descended upon her, bittersweet for it was mingled with the joy of discovering at last her true beginnings. A tear slid down one cheek and dropped onto the parchment. Cleome quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, lest her tears smudge the faint imprint of her father’s name.

  “I promised a dying man that I would deliver it into the hands of Ramona Parker—and none other. I know you will carry out his wishes.” He opened the music box and took out the tiny portrait. Holding it out to her, he said, “This is also for your mother. He kept it in his money pouch and wore it next to his heart, waking and sleeping. His last wish was that I inform his dear wife of that fact. The music box he found and claimed as a spoil of war, and he intended it to be her wedding present. I’ve already given her the lodestone he used as a compass.”

  Cleome took the little portrait and he placed the leather pouch and the music box in her lap, along with the worn parchment and shock of curly auburn hair. Try as she might, she could not still the shaking of her hands as she opened the pouch and poured the contents into her lap. There were three gold sovereigns, a rusty razor, a shaving brush with a rough wooden handle and a wedding band. Slowly, she put everything back in the small bag.

  “He fashioned the ring himself, out of a gold sovereign,” Drake explained. “The money is his pay. The lock of hair, which you will notice is the same extraordinary color as your own, I took from his head on the day he died.”

  Carefully, Cleome folded the certificate and put it back in the music box, along with the money pouch. With one hand, she clasped the only legacy her father had left her and with the other, she steadied herself as she got to her feet, using the desk as ballast.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said. “Let me have the coach brought round.”

  “I can walk from here. You have forgotten we are neighbors.”

  “Cleome, be reasonable.” He took up her cloak and placed it around her shoulders, and then he pinned her hair back with the diamond and emerald combs. “It is cold tonight.”

  “I have my anger to warm me, sir,” she replied. “And no doubt you have Mignon ready to resume her place, now that you have made the ultimate fool of me.” She turned her back on him and walked out the door, down the stairs and out into the darkness.

  **

  Drake followed at a discreet distance, to make sure no harm would come to her. Her shoulders drooped as if she carried the weight of the world, and he saw that she clutched Jimmy Parker’s legacy tightly to her bosom with one hand, while with the other, she wiped often at her eyes. His heart was breaking as she let herself into her townhouse, not even a mile from his own; and for the first time in his life, he had no idea how to stay a woman’s tears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cleome stared out the window, first at the reflection her eyes made in the glass, and then down on the street where snowflakes drifted silently, swirling like a mist of diamonds around the lamp post. She had not fully appreciated the miracle wrought by a fresh snowfall until she came to live in London. There was nothing so comforting, she’d discovered, as having the filth that bred in city streets camouflaged beneath a cloak of virginal white. In a matter of minutes, the row of houses across the double-laned avenue had been turned into virtual storybook dwellings—not that they weren’t already beautiful and grand. Cleome lived in one of the most elegant neighborhoods in London. She knew that her neighbors’ gardens, like her own, were as lovely as she had seen hers that morning.

  “Oh, milady,” Jacqueline had exclaimed joyfully as she and Cleome walked earlier in the day through the small, white mounds that now hid the walk. “It is a setting fit for a reine de neige. You say it, how? Snow queen?” The maid translated for herself, and Cleome absent-mindedly returned her smile as they strolled between ice-frosted shrubs and hedges that were neatly trimmed in the shapes of deer, bears, elephants, swans, dragons and unicorns. With the snow lightly dusting them, they took on the appearance of shaggy mystical beasts from some bleak prehistoric tundra.

  Snow queen, indeed, Cleome considered wryly now, as she gazed out the window at day’s end. Enthroned in splendid solitude, safe within my palace of ice.

  A cheerful glow filled windows here and there in the houses facing her as lights were lit early in defiance of the premature gloom brought by the storm. It had started snowing just before dawn. She knew, because she had been standing there, peering into the dark street below. She had stood like that for hours after Drake followed her home, long after he had walked away and disappeared into the gloom.

  The sun had risen faintly in the frigid, gray fog, and then it had started to snow. As the flakes blew and drifted, the ice had accumulated around her heart until it was frozen solid and she felt like the slightest jar to her senses would cause it to shatter into a thousand pieces. Only then had she moved away from her lonely post at the window and allowed Jacqueline to coax her briefly outside. Eventide found her back at the window, staring out into the encroaching darkness, taking comfort in the heightening storm.

  Somehow, Cleome swore, she would find a way to forget the shame of the previous evening. But she could never forget the cruel game Drake had played with her. She wanted more than ever to go home. She did not want to stay any longer in London, so far away from those she loved, and who loved her. With a fortune at her disposal, home could be anywhere she chose. But she could not move Ramona in the dead of winter. At least, not as far as London—but perhaps she could lease a house near Oakham for herself, her mother, Mary and Jacqueline. A
nd there they could wait together until spring.

  Facing the Eastons and all their friends was now impossible, after the scandal she had helped to create in Drake’s club. In a way, it was a relief, for she was tired of the charade. Now that she saw the haughty, cruel gambler for what he was, there was no point in remaining in the city. In a day or so, she would send a note to Edwina, but first, she had to try and take in all that had happened, and the enormity of Drake’s deception. She had been prepared to give herself completely to a man she didn’t even know. But I do, her heart cried rebelliously, I do know him and he did try to explain. But she couldn’t think of any reason he could have to betray her so brutally, and to withhold from Ramona something so important, so precious.

  With a sigh, Cleome ended her vigil at last, drawing the shades closed and allowing Jacqueline to bring her supper. She was by no means hungry but now that she’d made the decision to go home, there was much to do. She must keep up her strength. As she was finishing her soup, the front doorbell clanged loudly. Higgins went to answer and moments later, he stood before her with a silver tray upon which lay a small white envelope. Recognizing Mary’s handwriting, Cleome snatched it up eagerly and ripped it open.

  Dear Miss Cleome (milady), she read. Your ma is very ill. You must get here as fast as you can. She has not been able to shake the ague of winter and is now took with fever. Please come straightaway as doctor says she hasn’t much time.

  “Messenger says he’ll be returning to Oakham in a day or so, weather permitting,” Higgins informed her. “Should he stop back again for your reply, mum?”

  “No thank you, Higgins. It’s not necessary.” She did not tell Higgins that she’d take the reply herself, but her mind was made up. She would go as soon as all the servants were in bed. There was only one horse in all of London that could get her through the snow and back to the tavern house quickly, and she would have to steal him from Drake Stoneham.