by Regina Scott
He sounded more surprised than censorious. Still, she could not bring herself to tell him the truth. The story she’d fabricated flowed easily from frequent use. “It was silly, really. I stumbled on the stairs, and my foot caught on my hem. The next thing I knew, I was at the bottom.”
“Odd,” he said as he reached the grand stair. “You were the most graceful woman I knew. You’re still as graceful.”
At the moment, that woman had never seemed farther away. She trilled a laugh that took every ounce of her strength. “That’s why I called it silly.”
He started up the stairs. “I suppose after all these years you don’t owe me the truth, Claire. But when you’re ready to tell me, I’d like to know.”
She was glad he saved his breath then. She wasn’t all that heavy, but it couldn’t have been easy carrying her up the stairs, even for him. She was afraid he’d question her further once they reached her room, but he merely set her down gently on the chair in front of the fire.
Mercier came hurrying from the dressing room. “Lady Winthrop! Something has happened, oui?”
“I fear I overtired Lady Winthrop with my dancing,” Richard said. “I’ll leave you to see to her needs.” He turned and left, and Claire did not have the strength to call him back.
“Oui, madame?” Mercier asked, dark head cocked as she regarded Claire with wide eyes.
“Ask Mrs. Linton for a cool compress,” Claire said, and her maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room.
And Claire burst into tears. The sobs shook her, set her leg to protesting anew. Why, Father? Why couldn’t I have one dance?
She used to love to dance, had taken such joy in moving to the music. In the dance, she could forget about her father’s expectations, his hopes for her future. It was the one time when she felt she could just be herself. Why did she have to lose that, too?
My grace is sufficient for thee, for My power is made perfect in weakness.
Most days, she clung to that verse. Marriage had shown her her weaknesses, and God had helped her find her strength. She’d survived, made it through, at times solely on faith. But today, leg aching, alone, she couldn’t feel His grace. She wasn’t even sure she felt His presence.
Are You punishing me? Was I such a disobedient child? You say to honor your father and mother. Father wanted me to marry Winthrop.
And she thought she knew why. An Everard would never have satisfied his ideal for a son-in-law. Her father had feared the Everard reputation, feared that Richard would never be able to support her.
I have not given you a spirit of fear but of boldness.
Now, there was a verse she wished she could take to heart. Once she’d thought she was bold, gathering a cadre of suitors that had made most of the other girls on their first Season green with envy. Richard had been one of that cadre, but only for a moment. One conversation, one dance, had proven him different. He had goals that would take him far beyond her limited sphere.
But that sphere was all she knew. And the more he talked, the more frightened she’d become. She’d been all too willing to listen to her father’s concerns. They’d matched her own.
At times Richard had seemed, well, rather boyish, with his impossible dreams and ridiculously high hopes. His unbridled enthusiasm was nothing like the cool detachment of the men her father invited to call on her. They were satisfied with their positions in life, sure of their power and prestige. They seemed, somehow, safer.
She’d been rather afraid to accept the future Richard offered. If he suddenly proposed again today, she’d be no more convinced of it. For now she had ten years of experience to show her how dismal a marriage could be. She had no wish to repeat her mistakes.
Claire took a shaky breath and wiped at her eyes. Then she rubbed the dampness into the sides of her gown where her maid would not be likely to spot it. She supposed she would have to explain at least a part of the situation to Mercier, for this would likely not be the last time the girl would have to deal with Claire’s injury.
But Richard? He also wanted to know what had happened to her leg. Perhaps someday she’d tell him, some far-off day when she didn’t care whether his eyes brimmed with pity or, worse, blame. As for today, she hugged her arms around her waist and sucked in a breath. Today, she would go on as she had for the last ten years, head high, step measured, smile serene.
And only her Lord would know how troubled her heart was.
* * *
Richard left the house and stalked down the lawn. He needed air, light, the sight of the waves stretching in front of him. This close to the fells, the nearest water was the pond below the house, so he made for it and stood on the edge, taking deep breaths.
Water still had the ability to focus his thoughts. When it lay flat and still as the pond did now, it seemed he could see his course easily. When it rose in waves above him as it did at sea, it called on all his reserves. The pond was ridiculously small compared to the oceans he’d sailed, and instead of a forest of masts and laden piers to meet him, it was edged with daffodils. Even on the windiest day in the most rickety rowboat, it would hardly test his abilities. But the situation here at Dallsten Manor, he feared, would test every part of him.
He could not like that scrap of parchment Mrs. Linton had unearthed. Who knew how long it had lain under the edge of the carpet? It could have been a Dallsten who’d penned it, though he had a difficult time thinking of someone like Mrs. Dallsten Walcott plotting treason.
Perhaps it had been written in innocence, complaining about revolutions in France or America. Yet he couldn’t help wondering. Samantha and his brother’s wife, Adele, had said his uncle had held private parties at the manor every summer. While the villagers enjoyed a catered picnic and games on the lawn, other men had sequestered themselves in the receiving hall. The only name he knew among them was the Marquess of Widmore.
Adele had once said that Samantha had woven a fiction about the event, that her father was really a foreign prince in exile and these men were his loyal officials come to plot his return to the throne. What if they plotted against another throne, the very throne of England? Uncle had boasted a romantic streak wider than Vaughn’s. Richard could easily see the man caught up in the idea of a revolution as glorious as those that had changed the American colonies and France.
But the Marquess of Widmore? He stood only to lose if the people of England ousted the aristocracy. And surely he was wise enough to see beyond the initial, heady declaration, to the bloodshed and violence that had marred post-revolutionary France. Vaughn had even admitted that, years ago, the Marquess and Uncle had tried to save some of the French nobles from the guillotine.
So, what did the note mean? Had revolution been plotted at Dallsten Manor? And where were the conspirators now? Did they pose a danger to him or his family?
Just as troubling, however, were his suspicions about Claire. She held herself so deep, but at times he saw the girl who’d infatuated him. He’d originally thought the death of her husband had subdued her. Now his suspicions made his fists clench.
He’d heard of women who’d been hurt in their homes—falling down stairs, as Claire claimed, or standing too close to the fire and getting burned. But he could not imagine Claire in such a mishap. She was too sure of herself, too graceful, too aware of her surroundings. Yet, if she hadn’t fallen, that meant someone had pushed her.
He’d met men who were abusive to their fellow sailors when in their cups. He did not keep them on his ship. That any man would raise his voice, much less his hands, to Claire raised such an anger inside him he wanted to shout.
He stared at the still water, so blue under the pale spring sky, so like Claire’s pale blue eyes. For once, the waters failed to calm him.
Lord, help me. You know how angry I was with her all those years, but I never wished her harm. It seems she’s had to pay the price for
her choices. I cannot rejoice in that.
Judge not, and ye shall not be judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.
Small wonder that verse kept coming to mind. He’d memorized it early on, when he’d been trying to forget about Claire. Now, however, he had a feeling the Lord wanted him to remember, and do something about it.
Chapter Sixteen
Claire managed to make it down to dinner that night, leaning on Mercier’s arm. She had explained about her fall and the leg’s weakness, but the moment her maid had spied the swelling joint, she had run to pull up a footstool.
“We lift it high, oui?” Mercier said, bustling about, fetching pillows from the bed. She tucked them carefully under Claire’s leg. “And after you let it sit with the cool compress, I will wrap it tightly. This is how my father cared for injuries.”
“Was your father a physician?” Claire asked, impressed with the girl’s quick thinking. She was obviously certain of her actions, for she’d only used a question once.
“Non,” Mercier replied, stepping back to eye her handiwork, hands on her hips. “He was master of horse for a marquis.”
Despite herself, Claire laughed.
Dinner proved to be nearly as merry. Claire was afraid Richard would renew his questioning, but she needn’t have worried. Samantha monopolized the conversation, plying her dance master with questions about London.
“Do they still wear ostrich plumes at court?” she asked, mutton long forgotten on her china plate. “And the big hoops?”
“Of a certainty. And very fetching you will look in them, your ladyship, I am sure.”
“What about the regular balls?”
“My dear Lady Everard, if you are invited to a ‘regular’ ball, you must refuse. Never settle for anything less than the best.”
The sentiment sounded entirely too much like something Claire’s father would have said. Lord Falbrooke had gone to his grave dressed in velvet and fine wool, surrounded by silver, no more happy than any day of his life. Claire could not see Samantha following that example.
“There are a great many good and kind people in London,” she told Samantha, who was seated across the table from her on Richard’s right. “Some may not be considered fashionable, but they are the more interesting, and all deserve our respect.”
Chevalier, sitting beside Samantha, beamed at her. “Ah, did I not say this very afternoon that Lady Winthrop was closer to heaven than most mortals? You would do well to copy her, Lady Everard.”
“Yes,” Richard put in. “You would.”
Warmth flowed over her. Claire could not meet his gaze. She should not crave the good opinions of others; that way lay danger, she knew from experience. Yet his praise felt good. She wanted him to see her as an excellent example for Samantha.
She wanted him to like her.
Oh, that was just as dangerous! She should not act to please Richard Everard. Yet she could not help her gaze straying to his from time to time as dinner progressed, and after they had all adjourned to the withdrawing room.
Claire perched on the settee by the fire. Across the room, Samantha and the dance master played at commerce, heads bent over their cards at the little teak table. Claire’s hands felt empty after so many days of writing. A shame she’d left her embroidery upstairs. She’d had little time to work on the fine pillow cover that would brighten the house she would live in after the Season was over. She had been so pleased with the pattern of roses earlier. She could not understand why her joy had dimmed.
Richard drew up a chair to sit beside her and spoke lowly, obviously for her benefit alone. “Is that why you stopped dancing, because of your leg?”
Claire kept her gaze on Samantha, who had thrown down a card with a confident grin. “I believe you said you would wait for me to initiate this conversation, sir.”
“I didn’t ask you how it happened,” he countered. “I asked you if it’s the reason you stopped dancing. You loved to dance.”
The sigh of longing escaped before she could stop it. “Very well. Yes, I stopped dancing to prevent another fall. I never know when the joint will give out. I also carry a parasol at times as a fashionable precaution.”
He cocked his head. “Do you miss it? Dancing?”
She refused to let him see how much. “I told you, Captain Everard, I am quite content.”
“I didn’t believe you when you said it the first time,” he proclaimed, straightening. “I believe you less now. Answer the question, Claire.”
Heat flushed up her. Why did men think that a command must be instantly obeyed? Neither her father nor her husband had been in the military or captained a ship, as Richard had, yet they’d directed her with just as much determination. At times, she’d felt as if she’d been one of their servants. “It is not my custom to answer bullies, Captain,” she replied.
She thought that might set him back, but the only sign that she might have annoyed him was a narrowing of his dark eyes. “I’m beginning to think you know that from experience.”
She clasped her hands in her lap and pressed them down against the black silk. “Quite a bit in the last week, actually.”
“I would never strike you, Claire.”
She could not let him know the power those words held. “And do you expect my gratitude for that, sir? Is it not your Christian duty to protect widows and orphans?”
He glanced at Samantha across the room. “A duty and a privilege.”
Why was he so good at cutting through all her frustrations? She could only admire the way he championed his cousin. He clearly cared about Samantha. But, on some level, she thought her father and husband had cared about her, or rather what she could do for them. Please, Lord! Let Richard be better than that!
“You are very good with her,” Claire acknowledged aloud. “It is to your credit.”
He smiled. “She’s easy to love—all that life, all that joy. She reminds me of you.”
Her breath caught even as her hands tightened. “Sir, you grow too bold.”
He snorted. “Better bold than maudlin. A captain learns what to say and when to say it.”
She forced her fingers to open and rubbed them against her skirts. “Of course. Then you see me as an underling, much as your junior officers.”
He frowned. “You persist in being angry with me to no cause.”
He could not know that anger was her last defense. “And you persist in saying things you do not mean.”
He leaned closer. “I mean every word.”
She wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe things would be different this time. But she had changed; he had changed. She couldn’t go back to being that girl he’d loved. She was thankful that Mrs. Linton came into the room just then and went straight to Richard’s side.
“Lord Kendrick’s footman brought up the mail, sir,” she said, holding out a pile of letters. “He just had time to drop them by.” She nodded to the top missive. “That’s Mrs. Everard’s hand.”
Samantha immediately abandoned her game and hurried over, leaving the dance master at the card table. Richard handed her the letter with a smile. “It’s addressed to you.”
The girl broke the seal and scanned the contents. “She says Derby is beautiful. The house was spared the worst of the flooding, but the tenant cottages were hard hit. Cousin Jerome is studying plans from the magistrate John Harriott to see if he can build a dike to protect them in the future, the way Mr. Harriott drained his lands. Oh, and they hope to join us in London after Easter.” She looked up at Richard as if to see what he thought of all that, then frowned. “Cousin?”
While she had been talking, Richard had broken the seal on another letter and glanced over the words. Claire had never seen his face so pale. Still, he managed a smile as he folded the parchment s
hut. “That’s good news. Now Adele can help you shop for your new wardrobe.”
Samantha’s smile blossomed. “That’s right!”
“I would be delighted to offer my advice as well, Lady Everard,” Monsieur Chevalier added, strolling up to them. As Samantha turned to him, Richard excused himself and left the room. Praying her leg would hold, Claire stood and followed.
* * *
“Mrs. Linton.” Richard’s call down the corridor pulled the little housekeeper up short. “Do you recognize this hand?”
The woman gazed down at the letter he held in front of her. “Can’t say as I do, sir. Someone from London?”
Richard watched her. “Why do you say that?”
She pointed to the parchment. “Fine paper. I saw some once in a store in Blackcliff. Mrs. Delaney imports it all the way from London, or so she says.”
Richard thanked her and let her go about her duties. He hadn’t thought this problem would be easily solved.
“Richard?”
He turned at the sound of Claire’s voice. Funny how his given name slipped out from time to time. He was certain she didn’t even realize it, or he’d be back to Captain Everard. Now she moved out of the withdrawing room slowly, as if her leg still pained her. He met her halfway. “What’s wrong?”
“My question exactly,” she said. She nodded toward the paper in his hand. “What was in that letter?”
While he would have relished her insights, he felt compelled to protect her. “It’s nothing that need concern you.”
She raised her honey-colored brows. “Indeed. I suppose most women would be unconcerned by a matter that causes an intelligent, competent man to blanch.”
He’d blanched? He’d have to do better. “Will you believe me when I say I can manage?”
“Certainly. Will you believe me when I say I only want to help?”
He wanted to believe her. He could not see her behind this latest threat to their peace. He knew Claire’s handwriting; he still had the few letters, carefully packed away, that she’d written him before she’d married. They’d arrived at various ports of call, each one as welcome as a present at Christmas. His cabin boy had wrinkled his nose every time the rose-scented perfume drifted out of Richard’s sea trunk.