by Amanda Quick
“But if there is something about that poem that seems to indicate my brother was a … a traitor, then you will very likely interpret it that way.”
“It will not matter, Augusta. The man is dead. One does not pursue the dead. He is beyond the reach of the law or my own personal revenge.”
“But his honor and reputation are not dead.”
“Be honest with yourself, Augusta. It is you who are afraid of what may be concealed in that poem. You are fearful of having the brother you have placed on a pedestal knocked down to the ground.”
“Why is the poem so important now that the war is over?” She glanced back over her shoulder, searching his face.
Harry met her gaze. “For the last three or four years of the war there was a mysterious man called the Spider who worked for the French doing very much what I did for the Crown. We believed him to be an Englishman partly because his information was so accurate and partly because of the way he operated. He cost the lives of many good men and if he is still alive I would have him pay for his treason.”
“You want revenge on this man?”
“Yes.”
“And you will ruin our relationship as husband and wife to get it.”
Harry went still. “I do not see that our relationship should be affected by this business. If it is, ’tis only because you allow it to happen.”
“Aye, my lord,” she muttered. “That is the way to go about it. How very clever of you. Blame me for whatever ill feelings arise because of your cruelty.”
Harry’s anger flared once more. “What about your cruelty to me? How do you think it makes me feel to know that you have chosen to defend your brother’s memory rather than give your loyalty to your husband?”
“It seems a great chasm has opened up between us, my lord.” She turned around to confront him fully. “Whatever happens, nothing can be the same between us again.”
“There is a bridge across that abyss, madam. You may stand forever on your side, the side of the brave, dashing Northumberland Ballingers, or you may cross over to my side, where your future lies. I leave the decision entirely up to you. Rest assured I will not take the poem from you by force.”
Without waiting for a response, Harry turned and let himself out of the bedchamber.
A polite, frozen calm settled over the household during the next two days. The grim atmosphere was all the more noticeable to Harry because it contrasted so sharply with the weeks of flowering warmth that had preceded it.
It was the marked change in the mood of everyone at Graystone that brought home to Harry just how much of a transformation the household had undergone during the time Augusta had been its mistress.
The servants, always a punctilious, well-trained lot, had, since Augusta’s arrival, begun to go about their duties with a cheerfulness that Harry had never before noticed. It had brought to mind Sheldrake’s comment on Augusta’s habit of being kind to staff.
Meredith, that miniature scholar of serious mien and obedient temperament, was suddenly painting pictures and going on picnics. Her simple muslin dresses all seemed to have grown flounces and ribbons lately. And she had begun to wax enthusiastic on the subject of the characters in the novels Augusta was reading to her.
Even Clarissa, that dour, sober-minded female of irreproachable character who had once devoted herself to her duties as a governess, had altered. Harry was not precisely certain what had happened during the few weeks of his marriage, but there was no doubt that Clarissa had definitely thawed toward Augusta. Not only had she thawed, she had been showing definite signs of having developed some passionate enthusiasm that, in another woman, might have signaled a romance.
Lately Clarissa frequently excused herself from some planned outing or from joining the family in the drawing room after dinner to rush upstairs to her own bedchamber. Harry got the impression she was working on a project of some sort, but he hesitated to inquire. Clarissa had always been an intensely self-contained, unapproachable female and he had always respected her privacy. It was, after all, something of a Fleming trait.
Harry was quite certain there was no romance in Clarissa’s narrow, constrained world of the schoolroom, but the unfamiliar sparkle in her eyes had made him exceedingly curious. He had attributed that change, along with all the others, to Augusta.
But during the two days following the outbreak of hostilities with Augusta, the household visibly altered once more. A frigid, correct atmosphere reigned. Everyone was painstakingly polite and formal, but it was obvious to Harry that the inhabitants of Graystone were collectively blaming him for the chill.
That knowledge was vastly annoying. He contemplated it as he went up the staircase to the schoolroom on the third day. If the various members of the household were inclined to take sides in the silent battle of wills going on between himself and Augusta, it was patently obvious they should have taken his side.
He was in command here at Graystone and everyone’s livelihood on the estate depended on him. One would have thought the servants and Clarissa, at least, would have been acutely aware of that fact.
One would have thought Augusta would have been aware of it.
But it was becoming increasingly clear that Augusta gave her loyalty where she gave her heart and her heart had been given to the memories of the past.
Harry had spent the past two nights alone in his bed contemplating the closed door of Augusta’s bedchamber. He had told himself it was his wife who must open that door and he had been certain she would eventually. Now, as he faced the prospect of a third night alone, however, he was beginning to question his assumption.
At the top of the stairs Harry turned and walked down the hall to the schoolroom door. He opened it quietly.
Clarissa glanced up, frowning. “Good afternoon, my lord. I did not realize you would be visiting today.”
Harry heard the distinct lack of welcome in her tone and decided to ignore it. He knew he was not particularly welcome anywhere in the house lately. “I had a spare moment and decided to see how the painting lessons are going.”
“I see. Meredith has started early today. Her ladyship will be along in a moment to take over instruction, as usual.”
Meredith looked up from her watercolors. Her eyes brightened for an instant and then she looked away. “Hello, Papa.”
“Continue with your work, Meredith. I only want to observe for a while.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Harry watched her select a new color for her brush. Meredith moistened the bristles carefully and put down a great wash of black paint on the pristine white paper.
Harry realized it was the first time he had ever seen his daughter select such a dark backdrop for her work. The paintings that showed up regularly now in the picture gallery were generally bright, energetic creations that glowed with sunny colors.
“Is that going to be a picture of Graystone at night, Meredith?” Harry went forward to examine the painting in more detail.
“Yes, Papa.”
“I see. It will be rather dark, will it not?”
“Yes, Papa. Augusta says I must paint whatever I feel like painting.”
“And you feel like painting a dark picture today, even though it is sunny outside?”
“Yes, Papa.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. Even Meredith was being affected by the silent warfare in the household. And it was all Augusta’s fault. “Perhaps we should take advantage of the beautiful day outside. I shall send around to the stables to have your pony saddled. We shall ride to the stream this afternoon. Would you like that?”
Meredith glanced up quickly, her eyes uncertain. “Can Augusta come with us?”
“We can ask her,” Harry said, wincing inwardly. He had no doubt about Augusta’s response. She would politely decline, of course. She had somehow managed to ensure that she spent no time in Harry’s company during the past two days except at the dining table. “She may have other plans for the afternoon, Meredith.”
“As it happens
,” Augusta said calmly from the doorway, “I have no other plans. I should very much enjoy riding to the stream.”
Meredith brightened at once. “That will be fun. I shall go and change into my new riding habit.” She glanced quickly at Clarissa. “May I be excused, Aunt Clarissa?”
Clarissa nodded with regal approval. “Yes, of course, Meredith.”
Harry turned slowly to meet Augusta’s eyes. She inclined her head politely.
“If you will excuse me, my lord, I, too, must change. Meredith and I shall join you downstairs shortly.”
Now, what the devil is this all about? Harry wondered as he watched her disappear after Meredith. On the other hand, perhaps he should not inquire too closely.
“I do hope you enjoy your ride with her ladyship and Miss Meredith, sir,” Clarissa said very primly.
“Thank you, Clarissa. I am sure I shall.”
Just as soon as I find out what Augusta is up to now, Harry added silently as he left the schoolroom.
Half an hour later Harry was still waiting for an answer to his silent questions. Meredith’s mood, at least, had lightened into one of childish enthusiasm. She looked adorable in her small hunter-green riding habit, which was identical to the one Augusta was wearing, right down to the jaunty little plumed hat perched atop her gleaming curls.
Harry watched his daughter urge her dappled gray pony ahead down the lane and then he gave Augusta a considering glance.
“I am pleased you were able to accompany us this afternoon, madam,” he said, determined to break the silence.
Augusta sat gracefully in the sidesaddle, her gloved hands elegant on the reins. “I thought it would be good for your daughter to get some fresh air. The house has become rather stifling of late, has it not?”
Harry cocked a brow. “Yes, it has.”
Augusta bit her lip and flicked him a quick, questioning glance. “Oh, devil take it, my lord, you must know why I agreed to come along today.”
“No, madam, I do not. Do not mistake me, I am pleased you chose to accompany us, but I certainly do not pretend to understand why you did so.”
She sighed. “I have decided to turn Richard’s poem over to you.”
A surging sense of relief swept over Harry. He very nearly reached out and pulled Augusta off her horse and onto his lap. But he managed to resist the urge. He really was becoming far too prone to act on impulse lately. He must watch the tendency.
“Thank you, Augusta. May I ask what changed your mind?” He waited tensely for the response.
“I have done a great deal of thinking about the matter and I realize I have very little choice. As you have pointed out on numerous occasions, it is my duty as your wife to obey you.”
“I see.” Harry was silent for a long moment, much of his relief turning sour. “I am sorry you are guided only by duty, madam.”
She frowned. “What else would you have me guided by, if not duty?”
“A sense of trust, perhaps?”
She inclined her head politely. “There is that. I have concluded that you will keep your word. You said you would not expose my brother’s secrets to the world and I believe you.”
Harry, who was not accustomed to having his word questioned in the first place, not even for a moment, could not quite squelch his irritation. “It took you nearly three full days to conclude you could trust my oath, madam?”
She sighed. “No, Harry. I trusted your word from the start. If you must have the truth, that was never really the problem. You are a very honorable man. Everyone knows that.”
“Then what was the problem?” he demanded roughly.
Augusta kept her eyes focused between her mare’s ears. “I was afraid, my lord.”
“Afraid of what, for God’s sake? Of what you might learn about your brother?” It took all his willpower to keep his voice low so that Meredith would not overhear.
“Not precisely. I do not doubt my brother’s innocence for a moment. But I was anxious about what you would think of me if, after reading that poem, you somehow conclude that Richard was guilty of treason.”
Harry stared at her. “Damnation, Augusta. You believed I would think less of you because of something I concluded your brother might have done?”
“I am a Northumberland Ballinger, too, my lord,” she pointed out in a strained voice. “If you believed one of us was capable of treason, you might very well question the integrity of others in my family.”
“You thought I might question your integrity?” He was appalled at the workings of her mind.
She sat very straight in the saddle. “I am aware that you already believe me to be sadly frivolous and inclined toward mischief as it is. I did not want you to question my honor, as well. We are bound together for life, my lord. It will be a very long and difficult road ahead for both of us if you think all Northumberland Ballingers lacking in honor.”
“Devil take it, madam, ’tis not honor you lack, but intellect.” Harry halted his horse and reached out to sweep Augusta off the sidesaddle.
“Harry.”
“Were all the members of the Northumberland side of the family so singularly obtuse? I can only hope it does not run in the blood.”
He pulled her across his thighs and kissed her soundly. The heavy skirts of her riding habit swung against his stallion’s sides, causing the animal to prance. Harry tightened his hand on the reins without lifting his mouth from Augusta’s.
“Harry, my horse,” Augusta gasped when she could. She clutched at her outrageous little green hat. “She will wander off.”
“Papa? Papa, what are you doing to Augusta?” Meredith’s voice was thin with anxiety as she jogged back toward her father.
“I am kissing your mother, Meredith. See to her mare, will you? We do not want her to run off.”
“Kissing her?” Meredith’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see. Do not worry about Augusta’s mare, Papa. I will catch her.”
Harry was not in the least concerned about the mare, which had only wandered as far as the nearest clump of grass. All he really cared about at the moment was getting Augusta into bed. The battle had only lasted two nights and three days, but that was definitely two nights and three days too long.
“Harry, really. You must put me down at once. Whatever will Meredith think?” Augusta glowered up at him as she lay cradled in his arms.
“Since when did you become so concerned with the proprieties, madam wife?”
“They have been increasingly on my mind since I became the mother of a daughter,” Augusta grumbled.
Harry roared with laughter.
Harry opened the door to Augusta’s bedchamber later that night and found her sitting at her dressing table. Her maid had just finished preparing her mistress for bed.
“That will be all, Betsy,” Augusta said, her eyes riveted to Harry’s in the mirror.
“Yes, ma’am. Good night, sir.” Betsy’s eyes held a pleased, knowing expression as she made her curtsy and let herself out the door.
Augusta got to her feet with a tentative smile. Her wrapper fell open and Harry saw that her nightdress was made of sheerest muslin. He could see her soft breasts swelling against the gossamer fabric. When he allowed his gaze to wander lower, he saw the dark, triangular shadow that crowned her thighs. Suddenly he was achingly aware of his arousal.
“I suppose you have come for the poem?” Augusta said. Harry shook his head and smiled slowly. “The poem can wait, madam. I have come for you.”
Augusta rose from the bed a long time later, her body still warm from Harry’s lovemaking. She relit a taper and carried it across the bedchamber to her dressing table. Harry stirred in the bed behind her.
“Augusta? What are you doing?”
“I am getting Richard’s poem.” She opened the small chest which contained her mother’s necklace and the folded sheet of paper she had saved for two years.
“It can wait until morning.” Harry propped himself on his elbow and watched her with narrowed eyes.
&nbs
p; “No. I want to finish this now.” She carried the folded sheet back to him. “Here. Read it.”
Harry took the paper from her hand. His dark brows drew together in a frown. “’Tis doubtful I can tell anything about it with only a quick glance. It will need study.”
“It is nonsense, Harry. Not an affair of state at all. Just nonsense. He was dying when he bid me take it and keep it. In his agony he may have been suffering from some strange inner visions.”
Harry looked up at her and Augusta abruptly ceased talking. She sighed, sank down on the edge of the bed, and looked at the terrible brown stains on the paper. She had memorized the words by heart.
THE SPIDER’S WEB
Behold the brave young men who play upon the glistening web,
See how their silver sabers shimmer.
They meet for tea at number three and return again to serve their mastr’s dinner.
He dines amid the silken strands and drinks the careless young men’s blood.
He bides his time at three and nine until the light grows dimmer.
Now many are few and few are none.
The spider plays a hand of cards and finds he is the winner.
Count twenty as three and three as one until you see the glimmer.
Augusta waited tensely as Harry reread the poem in silence. When he was finished he looked at her again, this time with a cool, searching intensity.
“Did you show this to anyone after your brother’s death, Augusta?”
Augusta nodded. “A man came to talk to Uncle Thomas a few days after my brother was killed. He asked to see my brother’s effects and Uncle Thomas said I should show him everything. He read the poem.”
“What did he say?”
“That it was nonsense. He was not interested in it. Only in the documents that had been found on Richard’s body. And then he started hinting that Richard had been selling information to the French. He and Uncle Thomas agreed the matter should be kept quiet.”
“Do you remember the man’s name?”
“Crawley, I believe.”
Harry closed his eyes briefly in disgust. “Crawley. Yes, of course. That stupid, blundering buffoon. No wonder there were no further inquiries made.”