by C. J. Archer
Upfield shuffled his feet and rubbed a hand over his chin. "I cannot believe it," he said without malice. "Are you sure?"
"I'll not identify the girls or their families, as is their wish, but when Lord Oxley came to me this morning and told me, I went to see the girls and gently questioned them. He spoke the truth, they said. Moreover, I was already suspicious." She shot another glance at her son. Peter stood silently near Upfield, his head bowed, his shoulders heaving with every breath. "You see, my husband treated those girls in much the same manner he treated me in our marriage bed. If anyone doubts that Renny was a monster, I'll show them my scars. I have nothing to hide anymore. He's gone, and I'm… " She spluttered a sob. "I'm so relieved."
Peter's head jerked up. His face was red, his cheeks damp from tears. "Ma, why are saying this?" he shouted at her. "Pa wasn't like that."
But no one echoed his words. The lad looked around, his eyes wide, desperate, but none met his gaze. His face crumpled, and he ran off. Sawyer made to go after him, but Widow Renny held him back.
"Not yet," she said. "He'll need to be alone for the rest of the day to work off his anger. I'll speak to him later."
"The path ahead won't be easy for him," Oxley said. "Or for you."
"I'll take care of them all." Sawyer gave Widow Renny a tentative smile.
"You're a good man, Mr. Sawyer," Lucy said. "All of you are good men, and we understand that you only wanted to see justice served. But it has been served, in its own way, and now it's time for Mr. Coleclough to be released."
Lord Oxley gave her a brief, approving nod. Then his face changed ever so subtly. His eyes brightened, his mouth softened, and the tension left his body. He was back to being the dandy again now that the danger had dispersed.
"There's no need for an honest man to pay for this crime," Widow Renny said. "If he is guilty, then you could say the families who hired him are too."
"We don't want to lay this at their doorsteps," Upfield muttered.
"Aye," said his big friend. "If Coleclough promises not to show his face in Larkham again, we'll let him go."
"You have my word," Nick said. "I'm leaving Hampshire altogether anyway."
"When he's healed," Lucy added. She tried to catch his attention, but he wasn't looking at her. It made her heart dive again, when it had just begun to soar.
Upfield approached Lord Oxley, and even bowed to him. "And you, my lord, how did you know Coleclough was hired by those families?" The question was insolent. A mere townsman should not speak thus to a nobleman, and a nobleman certainly didn't have to answer him.
But Oxley merely fluttered a gloved hand as if sprinkling dust in the air. "Oh, he told me everything last night. I took it upon myself to ride out to Larkham at first light and speak to Renny's widow to discover if there was any truth in the claim. I'm just an innocent bystander, Mr. Upfield. Wrong place, wrong time." He pouted. "Or is that right place, right time? No matter. It is mere coincidence that I was in the area now. This man hasn't worked for me for some time, and I can assure you he never performed these kinds of duties in my employ."
He didn't blink an eyelid, didn't give a hint that he was lying through his teeth. Lucy had never met anyone quite so accomplished at it.
"I have Mr. Monk now," Oxley went on. "Much more sensible fellow. Not prone to moodiness either."
Nick must be used to Oxley's ways because he listened without flinching. He stood unmoved, not really looking at anyone or anything. He was back to being closed off from the world, from Lucy.
At least she had time in which to get through to him. His injuries would take weeks to heal.
***
"I'm leaving," Nick said. He stood in the doorway of one of the Plough's guest rooms, blocking the entrance so that Lucy couldn't get past. "Today."
"You can't!" She pointed at his head, once more bandaged by Widow Dawson. "You're not well enough."
"Don't do this, Lucy. Don't make it any more difficult than it already is."
"Stop being so pig-headed and let me in. I want to talk to you." If he wasn't already bruised and battered almost beyond recognition, she would have grabbed his arms and shaken him until some sense rattled loose in his head. She'd have to rely on words instead. Kisses might help too. Coupling certainly would, but she didn't think he'd allow it. The man had a will of iron when he put his mind to it.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Have you not heard enough to make you want to run in the other direction yet, or do I need to say it again? I cannot be the man you deserve."
"Let me decide that."
He went to shut the door, but she put her foot inside. The heavy oak closed on it. "God's blood!" she cried.
The door opened again and he crouched down. "Are you all right? Show me your foot." He removed her shoe without waiting for her answer and inspected it through her stocking. He stroked her instep, her heel, and cupped her calf. His thumb gently massaged.
"I'm sorry, Lucy," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." He pressed his forehead against her knee and cradled her lower leg against his chest.
She gripped the doorframe for balance with one hand, and stroked his cheek with the other. "Don't go, Nick. I love you, and I will until the end of my days. You leaving won't change that."
His shoulders shuddered. Twice, he began to say something then stopped. Finally, after drawing in a querulous breath, he said. "I killed my mother, Lucy. What sort of man does that?"
"You were eighteen."
"Still a man."
"You haven't yet told me the circumstances."
"They don't matter. I can hardly live with what I've done. How can I ask you to?"
She removed her leg, which he seemed to take as a signal to get up. He turned inside and picked up his pack from the table. He'd gotten clean clothes from somewhere and washed the blood from his hands and face. Widow Dawson had not wanted Lucy inside when she'd patched him up, but once she'd left, Lucy had decided it was time they talk.
She snatched the pack off him. "You're not going anywhere."
He took the pack back. "I have to."
"You don't have to do anything. You're a free man with a free will. Stay. I'm ordering you."
One corner of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile. "What happened to my free will?"
She grabbed the pack off him again and put it behind her back. "Kiss me and then tell me you're leaving. If you can do that, I'll give you back the pack and let you go."
A beat passed, two. "Very well."
She lifted her chin, waited for his kiss. "Then do it," she said when he hesitated.
His chest rose and fell rapidly three times. "Give me a moment."
"No." She wouldn't give him any time to steel himself. "Kiss me now."
Somebody behind her cleared his throat. Lucy spun round to see a tall man of middling age and little hair standing in the doorway. He wore a tailored brown doublet and a gentleman's traveling cloak, and carried his hat in his hand. Behind him stood another man with gray hair and familiar almond-shaped eyes. Nick's eyes.
"Greetings, Son," the older man said. "May we come in?"
CHAPTER 20
Lucy's gasp echoed around the room. "Lord Coleclough?"
Cole rocked back on his heels and scrambled to gather his wits. "What are you doing here?" And then he remembered the letter he'd written when he first arrived at Cowdrey Farm with nearly half his memories missing. His father and brother must have left for Hampshire immediately upon receiving it.
And to think, he'd almost missed them. If only Widow Dawson had worked faster, he could have been spared this.
Hughe stood on the gallery landing, leaning lazily against the railing, a smirk on his face. "Everything all right?"
"Perfect," Cole snarled. Hughe nodded, shot a quick glance at Lucy, then left.
Thomas came into the room and paused in front of Cole. He looked him up and down, his eyes narrowed to slits, his forehead creased. "Your letter said you'd lost your memory, but it didn't say how badly you'
d been injured. Bloody hell, who did this to you?"
"It doesn't matter."
Thomas shook his head and, as if he'd suddenly remembered he hadn't seen Cole in eleven years, broke into a grin. "Greetings, Brother." He pulled Cole into an embrace. "Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time?"
"Working, traveling." Cole stepped back, out of his reach. He was acutely aware of Lucy watching him, but he didn't want to look at her face. It was difficult enough dealing with his sentimental brother, it would be nigh impossible to remain impassive if she began to cry.
"He was about to leave," she said, a hint of anger in her tone that proved she wasn't near tears after all. "Perhaps you can convince him to stay, sir. He's not well enough, as you can see."
"I'm more than ready," Cole said.
"That's not the same thing." She crossed her arms, and he steeled himself for a battle of wills. He thought about sending up an appeal to God, but he doubted the Almighty was still listening to him after such a long absence.
A slow smiled spread across Thomas's face. He bowed to Lucy. "My name is Thomas Coleclough, Nick's brother, and this is our father, Lord Coleclough."
She curtseyed to both men and introduced herself.
"Have you been taking care of him?" Thomas asked.
"As much as he allows. He's incredibly obstinate when it comes to his own health and happiness."
"I can well imagine." He chuckled and she smiled.
Cole bristled. "If you've come to ask me to return to Coleclough Hall, it's been a wasted trip. Indeed, it's a wasted trip anyway." His gaze connected with his father's. The old man still blocked the entrance as if he could stop Cole leaving. "I've remembered everything."
His father remained unmoved, giving Cole the opportunity to size him up. His appearance was rather shocking. Thomas at least looked more or less the same, just a little harder around the jaw perhaps, but their father had aged considerably. He seemed to have shrunk a few inches, and he was certainly thinner. His back was a little crooked and his fingers more so, which probably explained why he didn't wear riding gloves like Thomas. He had much less hair and far more wrinkles than eleven years ago. The eyes, however, were still as unforgiving as ever.
"Then we have much to talk about," the baron said. To Lucy he said, "Send someone up with refreshments when you leave."
"If you don't mind, my lord, I'd like to stay."
He cocked an eyebrow at her. His mouth twisted from side to side in a way Cole knew all too well. It meant his father's anger was simmering just beneath the surface. If Lucy pushed any further, it would boil over.
"I don't think so," the baron said.
"If she wants to stay, she can," Cole said. "You have no authority here."
His father walked into the room, his steps slow and shuffling. He ignored Lucy and eyed Cole closely. "You've grown."
"You've shrunk."
The baron made a humphing sound. "She can stay."
"As if you had any say in it."
His father's mouth twisted again, side to side. Cole caught Thomas studying him. He expected his brother to warn him not to irk their father as he used to do, but he merely shrugged and shook his head, as if their father's anger were not worth worrying about.
The baron lowered himself into a chair, gingerly at first, then falling the last part of the way as if his legs could no longer hold him up. He settled back with a sigh. It was the way an old man moved. An unwell man. No wonder Thomas didn't seem concerned. Their father couldn't possibly expect to dish out a thrashing the way he used to when they were boys.
"Tell us more about the last eleven years," Thomas asked. He sounded like an eager puppy, and looked a little like one too with those big, trusting eyes. "Lord, I can't believe you've come back to us after all this time. We thought you…" He stopped smiling and swallowed loudly.
Cole said nothing. How could he respond to the raw emotion imprinted all over Thomas's face? If there was one thing Cole regretted about leaving, it was that Thomas had remained behind. But he looked to have turned out well, not at all afraid of the baron or under his influence.
"You should have written," their father said.
"I will from here on." To Thomas he said, "I wasn't sure how well my letters would be received."
"How well? Fool, I was desperate to hear from you after you left." He clasped Cole's arm hard. "We worried about you so. We both did."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucy cover her mouth with her hand. She blinked back tears. She and Thomas were so alike, sentimental to a fault.
"How is the estate?" Cole asked to stave off the awkward silence that threatened to overwhelm them.
"Carter's dead."
Cole nodded. To his surprise, the news didn’t affect him. He ought to be more pleased, but it was likely the man had aged as poorly as the baron, and it was difficult to find pleasure in that. "You didn't replace him with someone just as hard and quick with the whip?"
The muscle in the baron's cheek twitched. "There was no need," he said. "You had gone, and your brother was always a good boy."
"Don't, Father," Thomas warned. "Nick—"
"I go by Cole now," Cole said, and Lucy clicked her tongue.
Thomas sighed. "It's time to set aside past differences, and for you to come home where you belong."
"I don't belong there."
"Then where do you belong? Where's your home now?"
The air in the room fairly throbbed it was so densely charged. Cole didn't answer, so Thomas turned to Lucy. "Do you know?" he asked her.
"His home will be here," she said, stepping up beside Cole. She didn't touch him, however. A small blessing.
"Lucy, don't," he muttered.
"But not until some things have been aired," she went on as if he'd not spoken.
Cole silently groaned. Perhaps if he walked out now, she would follow him. No, that wouldn't work, they'd probably all follow and the conversation would simply be continued in a more public place.
"Nick thinks he killed his mother," she said. "I want to know what really happened, from your lips, my lord."
Cole expected his father to snarl and snap, to stand over her because even shrunken as he was, he was still taller than she. But he remained sitting. He simply sighed so deeply, his body seemed to cave in upon itself.
"Nick killed her," he said. "He remembers correctly."
Lucy stiffened. "But surely he had a reason."
"Why does it matter?" Nick rounded on her. "The fact doesn't change—I did it, and I have to live with that."
"No, Nick, we have to live with it. And we will." Her fingers reached for his, tentative. He should pull away, but he could not. She was a whirlpool and he a mere leaf, unable to stop the pull toward her. He curled his fingers around hers. "You are not alone, Nick, and we can face this and move on from it. Together."
His throat burned. God, he adored her. How could he ever deny her anything? He'd been a fool to think he could, but he must continue to try. "I'll listen," he said. "But it changes nothing." He nodded at his father to go on.
"Start at the beginning," Thomas said. "From when you and Mother wed."
The baron set his hat on the table and indicated Lucy should sit in the only other chair nearby. She did, but didn't let go of Cole's hand. He held his breath, held everything inside as tight as possible lest it all unravel.
"You met in Florence, didn't you?" she prompted.
Lord Coleclough nodded as he stared at his hat. "I adored her instantly. She was a beauty. Hair as black as midnight, her eyes too. When she danced, I couldn't take my eyes off her. The way she moved, with such abandon, her eyes closed, her lips parted as if she could taste life and she couldn't get enough of it. I knew I had to marry her. It took some effort to convince my father to agree to the union, but my mother talked to him. She saw how much I loved Maria, and she me.
"After we married, we came to live in England. My parents both died within the year and I inherited Coleclough. T
hat first year had been wedded bliss, but afterward…" He shook his head. "Things changed. I don't really know why or how. It began slowly. She would cry a lot and for no reason that I could determine, or fly into a rage over the smallest things. I may have forgotten to say good morrow, or looked at one of the maids in a way she thought meant I had… you know."
Lucy knew. "Go on." She didn't want him to stop now that she was finally getting a rounded picture of Nick's life. He stood beside her, still holding her hand in his. It was a small gesture, but she felt relieved beyond measure.
"Maria refused to go to court with me, saying she didn't agree with our queen's protestant religion. We began to have heated discussions on theology after that, which of course were fruitless. Then Thomas was born. She wanted to bring him up Catholic in secret, but I refused. It was much too dangerous to be Papist even in private." He stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in his story. "She changed rapidly after his birth. I don't know whether it was the pressure of being mistress of Coleclough, or that she missed her religion or her family, but she became unpredictable. One moment she said she loved me, the next she would fly into a rage and scratch my face. She accused me of having mistresses, then of keeping her prisoner in the house. I admit, I was no saint, but I was faithful to her, and I did not lock her away."
"Not then," Nick said.
Lord Coleclough nodded. "The situation was bad, but it became worse after you were born, Nick. She went from angry and weepy to quiet. She would sit by your cradle or in her rocking chair, and sing to you. I thought her cured, happy again. I was overjoyed. Then one day her maid came to me in a state. She told me she'd caught Maria pressing a pillow over your face. The maid stopped her in time, thank God, and took you away."
"She tried to kill him?" Good lord. Lucy had heard of mothers who'd lost their minds after the birth of a child and tried to harm themselves or the babe, but it still shocked her to the core. "Did you know any of this, Nick?"
He'd gone white, his bruises stark against pale skin. "I knew she was mad," he said. "After I saw her in the cottage and then in the house, but I thought she'd gone mad after you banished her. I thought that's why she went mad."