But the look he gave her suggested the opposite.
She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. And then half in a dream, half in a vision, Clara saw Grace standing in the chapel. She was wearing a black dress, widow’s weeds, her blonde hair hung loose and long down to her back. Her blue eyes snapped open and she fixed her mad stare on Clara.
She bolted upright in the coach, filled with a sense of foreboding and a sickening feeling of loss. Clara knew better than to ignore the premonition. She thrust her head out the window of the carriage.
“Stop! Turn around! If you please, sir, turn around!”
“Turn around, miss?” The driver pulled on the reins and the horses slowed to a stop. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“I-I forgot something of great importance. I will make it worth your while, only you must turn around and take me to Windemere Hall.”
Turning the team to pull the carriage in the opposite direction was no easy matter. It took longer than Clara anticipated. The more fuss and bother, creaking and groaning of the carriage pulling this way and that, the adjustment of the harness and the straps, the more anxious she became that something was truly wrong. She could feel it in her bones. Something had happened to Branson.
“Hurry! Is there nothing you can do to go faster?”
“Miss, it is no small matter to turn a team of horses and a carriage of this weight. I have to take care the wheels do not come off.”
“Stop then. Hold. I know a shortcut through the forest; I shall walk. It is too difficult for the horses and the carriage in any case. Thank you, sir. I will walk from here.”
Chapter Eleven
CLARA LEAPT from the carriage and ran back along the road in the direction of Windemere, keeping an eye out for the old road to the chapel.
It opened to her left, ablaze with fall colour. Crimson and golden leaves showered over the path crunching under her feet as she ran. There was a stitch in her side and she gasped for breath but panic drove her on until she came to the fallen log.
She was close, recalling her sad beginning to this journey that had led her to Branson. There was no time for regret or recrimination—the feeling that something was wrong grew stronger with every step. A premonition of disaster or death.
She clambered over the log and raced on until she came to the meadow and saw the chapel directly ahead. Voices were raised inside. Branson and Grace were in the throes of an argument. She could have wept with relief.
Thank God, he was alive he was still alive!
She burst into the chapel, her chest heaving, her hair and skirts in disarray. Her eyes felt like they were starting out of her head. She knew she looked like a wild woman once again, bolting out of the forest.
They were standing in a tense posture at the altar. Grace was wearing the red dress from seven years ago, old-fashioned and out of style now, it hung loose on her thin frame. The bonnet that had mysteriously disappeared from the room next Clara’s was on Grace’s head. The young woman snapped her blue insane gaze in Clara’s direction. A smile poisoned her lips when she bared her teeth.
“What has happened?” Clara took a cautious step toward them. “Grace, are you all right?”
Her laugh was low and the hair rose on the back of Clara’s neck. “I am glad you are here, Miss Hamilton. Branson and I are to be joined in holy wedlock ... for eternity.”
Clara gazed at her with mounting horror. Then she saw the pistol in Grace’s hand that was pointed at Branson’s chest.
“I found him here,” Grace sneered. “The pistol is his. Do know what he intended to do? Shall I tell her, darling, the substance of your brave plan? My husband planned to kill himself here in this chapel. Spray his blood all over the altar where we were married and leave me a condemned woman, sentenced to an asylum or the gallows.”
“It is too late for that, Grace,” said Branson. “You’ve done your worst. I would take you with to Hell with me, and gladly, but I could not bring myself to commit murder.”
“But I can.” Grace giggled. “Your lover has arrived just in time. You can watch her die. Then I shall kill myself and you will be the one left alone!”
Grace lifted the gun, pivoted on one foot, aimed and fired in Clara’s direction.
With a roar, Branson lunged between Clara and Grace. The bullet ripped through the shoulder of his jacket, rocketed through the air and lodged in Clara’s chest.
Grace screamed when Branson fell to the floor. A look of terror on her face, Grace threw the gun to the floor and ran from the chapel.
THE BULLET lodged in her chest, splitting her with searing, terrible pain. Clara fell to the ground, clutching her belly as though to protect her unborn child. There was pain but it had a strange, disconnected quality from her larger fear for the child.
She heard Branson screaming and she wondered why he sounded so frightened. Then he was bending over her prone body, shouting her name. Clara gazed at his tortured face that was twisted with grief, astonished by the depth of his distress.
She tried to smile, to reassure him that she was quite well. She would have lifted her hand to his face were it not for the pain. If she lay still, the agony subsided to a degree that was bearable. And then she floated away to the bright Down that blinded her at first with its light and colour, and that was nicer still. Pulled along in perfect peace, Clara wandered further away from the earth to a misty full moon and beyond that to wondrous warmth and light.
It was beautiful. She was coming home.
And then there was a good deal of commotion that flowed around and over her. Branson would not leave her side. His voice was in her ear, his hand stroking her forehead and she felt she could not leave until he was at peace. She tried to comfort him but he could not hear her.
“I cannot love if you leave me, Clara. You must come back to me. If I loved you better, I would face this with Christian forbearance, but I love myself more. The doctor and Vicar Wimbley have said you are in pain and staying for my sake, and I must let you go.”
His voice twisted with hideous grief. “I will not. I want you to fight even though it pains you to do so! I want you here with me—I need you. I want you to come back for my sake and mine alone. I love you. I love you. Come back. Come back. Please Clara. You must come back to me, my darling, darling Clara.”
His tears were so quiet, his cries and pleading could not be heard by anyone in the room. Those in attendance assumed Branson Hamilton was saying good-bye to his cousin.
Only Clara knew the truth. She could see him and could hear every word. She was in the place between life and death. She did not understand, yet she understood everything. There was no pain, as if the weight of living had been lifted from her. She was in a place that was not known by intellect, but clarity, as though knowledge of all things was rooted in her soul and coming to flower.
“I will hold you forever in my heart,” she sighed.
Branson bent his ear to her lips. “What, dearest? What did you say? Oh God!” he cried brokenly. “No, no, no—oh God—no!”
She was lying in something wet and warm. With every beat of her heart, the pool got larger. Clara was very cold. In her final moments of life, she sought Branson’s face and eyes and held him in her thoughts as she had not held him when she had the chance.
He shouted her name over and over again. The cold had passed and she was warm again. Clara smiled at the life waiting for her beyond and she rose up to meet it.
Above her body, above the heads of those bending over her flesh, frantically trying to keep her alive, Clara heard him speak.
“Don’t leave me. You must not leave me here alone. Please, please. I love you. I love you.”
And then she heard nothing and could see nothing. The blackness was a void like the beginning of time and she knew she was dead.
§
THEY SEARCHED for Grace Leeds through the night and it wasn’t until early the next morning that she was found by Corporal Jack Denby floating face down in the lake.
Her red dress was spilled about her body like a pool of blood.
When the soldier told Edgar about it, he knew the scene immediately. Clara’s premonition was not of what had been, but of what was to come. He would never speak to Arthur again for his role in the tragedy, but Edgar was greatly relieved to learn that his father was not a rapist.
§
SHE HOVERED for many days between life and death. Just as she was about to slip away, his voice would call her back. He spoke to her about a baby. An infant who needed her but Clara could not recall having a child.
Branson was relentless. He would not let her go until eventually she began to experience excruciating pain and nightmares. It was horrible, she was so frightened. But his voice was in her ear, comforting her, encouraging her, urging her to come back.
He would not leave her. Branson never let her go. He was so good ... he made her so happy ... so very happy....
Clara reached out her hand and a strong masculine grip took hers and pressed it to his lips. There was a sharp intake of breath, a rush of noise and then high excitement in the room. Voices were raised in jubilation.
Clara opened her eyes at the sound and found his face. His indigo eyes met hers.
“Thank you,” he said. Tears streamed down his face. “Thank you.”
§
“TELL ME about your family,” she said weakly. She was reclining on the couch he had set up in the solarium where she might enjoy the arrival of spring. “The family you had before you came to live with Leonard Hamilton.”
Her convalescence had dragged on through the winter, during which time Branson refused to leave her side. For his pains, she plagued him daily to tell her stories about himself.
He stretched out beside her and smoothed her hair from her eyes. The babe moved in her womb, growing with a tenacity that made Clara think of their love. She was due to give birth in June. She snuggled under Branson’s arm and against his chest.
“It is not a happy story, my love. My mother married young. Tobias Reilly died on a whaling ship when I was three years old. She married her second husband, Mr. Caine, a year later. He was a whaler alongside my father with a son from a previous marriage. She endured six years of marriage to him.
“One night, after Mr. Caine had drunk most of his wages, he got free with his fists and started beating me. My mother was finally able to summon the courage to leave him. We fled Cornwall and arrived in London, destitute. Ida was clever with a needle and had an artist’s eye. She sold her wedding band to buy some scraps of fabric and began designing ladies hats that she sold in Covent Garden. Little by little, she put away enough to set up a small shop. One day, a fine lady came through the door and placed a substantial order. Mother was up all night for weeks. The order was her chance to get out of poverty and she would not allow anything to prevent her from succeeding.”
“She taught you well. It seems you inherited your business sense from your mother I did wonder.”
“Did you?” He grinned. “Perhaps I was just a brilliant Oxford graduate.”
“Perhaps. But unlikely. Finish your story. What happened then?”
“When I was twelve, Mother received word from my stepbrother that Mr. Caine was dead. He had drowned at sea. Mother talked of sending for Tanner but then she met Mr. Leonard Hamilton and he could not be asked to take on the rearing of two boys not his own.”
“What became of him?”
“I don’t know. As I said we hadn’t spoken since the night my mother and I ran away. He saw us leave. He was watching from the upstairs window. Tanner was thirteen years of age. I thought him grown up and able to take care of himself. I suppose my mother thought the same. We left him. We had to save ourselves. I don’t know what became of him.”
§
THE MOMENT Clara was strong enough, Mrs. Brockville wasted no time in securing the vicar and consulting with Portia Hamilton on the wedding arrangements. Her most challenging task was to fit a wedding dress for a bride who was seven months pregnant.
Vicar Wimbley was gratified to hear that Master Hamilton meant to keep his promise and the ceremony would be a lavish affair held in the parish church proper. Attendance was sure to be high. A grand reception at Windemere Hall would follow the ceremony and its master had graciously extended an invitation to everyone to join them in the celebration. The mood in the church on their wedding day was jubilant despite the newly-turned grave in Windemere cemetery. The lady could not be buried in consecrated ground due to the nature of her death.
The death of Grace Leeds was duly noted in the Parish Records as Mrs. Grace Reilly, death by drowning on the Fifteenth of October, 1867. As tragic as the lady’s death was, the vicar could be forgiven for feeling a shiver of relief when he wrote the entry down. His good deed in forging a marriage date for Clara and Branson in advance of the event could have led to charges of bigamy. It was certainly a strange course of events that had brought them to this day.
God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform, thought Wimbley with a shiver as recalled the other near disaster. Clara Hamilton was with child. Branson Hamilton was about to become a father and his previous wife had only just passed away!
By the grace of God, the newest Hamilton and future master of Windemere Hall would not be born a bastard.
This was good news, but Vicar Wimbley did not believe in counting God’s blessings exclusively without also taking into account the negatives; namely, Mr. Hamilton’s grievous error in hiding his mad wife away, instead of valiantly seeking help for her. Piers Leeds had been settled with an allowance and given stern instructions to leave England by the county magistrate. And Mr. Quince was given a Christian burial.
These thoughts moved through Vicar Wimbley’s mind as he gave his sermon and the happy couple recited their vows. Theirs had not been a perfect beginning, but seldom had Wimbley presided over a more satisfying ending.
A disturbance at the back of the church caused the bride and groom to turn around. At the entrance stood a stranger—a tall, dark-complexioned man of formidable size with a hard beauty in his face. He hesitated for a moment, and then took a seat in a back pew removed from the others. The stranger appeared rough, raw, as though hewn from stone; an uncivilized creature of smoke and mist. He had the look of one who did not come from Somerset and who seemed desirous to leave as soon as possible.
Branson Hamilton’s shoulders pulled back as he stared hard at the malformed face. A pair of black eyes stared back at him in equal measure.
“Who is that gentleman?” Clara whispered. Her belly protruded.
“You give him too much credit. His name is Tanner Caine. He is a hired assassin. He is also my brother.”
THE END
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DEAR READER: In the age of ebooks, readers are the curators of literature. The New York Times doesn’t have as much influence! Thank you for taking a moment to leave a review of this novel and helping other readers in making a decision. ~ Catherine Lloyd ~
Victorian Villains Gothic Romance Serials
Mark of Caine Trilogy ~ Book One: In the Shadows
Laura Mayhew is the only witness to a sex scandal at Windsor Castle and is swiftly dispatched to Gateshead Insane Asylum. But the girl won’t stop babbling about a stolen baby and the Princess Louise and her mad tale is beginning to attract attention. Queen Victoria summons Tanner Caine to deal with the problem. The brilliant, solitary and emotionally damaged ex-naval officer is tasked with silencing the girl but first he must win her trust. Laura Mayhew has been expecting an assassin to show up for months; she quickly deduces Tanner’s true purpose in liberating her. Laura devises her own agenda for the ruthless Mr. Caine—if she can only stay alive long enough to see it through.
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Enjoy this free sample of “In the Shadows”
QUEEN VICTORIA turned with a sullen frown to gaze at the man standing before her. The history she had given him of the problem was sparse, her reasons were weak, but Tanner Caine appeared unperturbed. He stoo
d at attention like an officer awaiting his orders.
“It has been rumoured that madness runs in our veins but I can assure you, Laura Mayhew is too distantly related to offer royal blood as an explanation for this bizarre story she is spreading. Unfortunately, she is also too closely related to the royal family to be wholly ignored by Parliament. Something must be done to silence her and soon. That is all I can tell you. The events that have led up to this action cannot be written down or entrusted to anyone’s hearing. Do you understand? Suffice to say, the blow to the Crown would be fatal if certain powerful men began to take her story seriously.”
“What is it you need me to do?”
Victoria’s shoulders sagged with relief. It was this forthright presence of mind that she treasured most about the former naval officer. One did not have to waste one’s breath with troublesome explanations. Tanner Caine understood all. He was her boots on the ground, her spy in the streets. He had more than once extricated the Prince Regent out of a sexual scrape and cleaned up Bertie’s mess. The fellow had become invaluable to her since the Prince Consort’s untimely death six years before. Caine got things done. Tasks that were too unsavoury for Her Majesty’s Service to take on, she would send for Mr. Caine, and all would be settled discreetly and efficiently.
But even a man as capable and obedient as Tanner Caine would have his limit and Victoria hesitated before trying that limit. She did not want to lose him. She valued the fellow’s good opinion almost as much as his unswerving loyalty.
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