“For myself, I’d be delighted; but Ethan will have my head if I allow such a thing.”
“It will go even worse for you when he finds I’ve set off alone because you wouldn’t take me.”
Scott swallowed, staring miserably at her through the damp. “I’ll fetch a pair of your father’s horses,” he said.
“Good.” She watched him move away, then scurried after him lest he change his mind. With a little smile for her own assertiveness, she thought of Bettina. How her sister would have laughed to know she’d almost staged a tantrum to get her way, to help the man she loved.
* * *
For some length of time, Ethan simply watched the inhabitants of the cottage. The window was a generous one for so small a structure; he could see much of the roughly built interior from his hiding place behind a thornbush. It was impossible to hear the two adults within speak, however, especially with the steady drumming of rain deadening his ears. He needed to hear them. He had to understand this worst of betrayals.
And betrayal it was. There was no possibility that Rose McDaniel was the babe’s mother; the presence of these two supposed strangers could spell only one meaning.
As he glared fixedly through the window, something moved in the undergrowth behind. He swerved, his eyes scanning the night. Only stillness answered him. He was frightening himself, as he had as a child.
No, he was delaying the inevitable. Abandoning the cover of the shrub, he stood, attempted to counsel himself to calmness as Lucan would have done, then strode toward the hut, his pulse racing. He didn’t bother to knock but swung the door open with a mere fraction of the rage he felt.
“Alice?” To say more was unnecessary; by his tone he invested her name with a volume’s worth of meaning.
Alice Redding regarded him wordlessly, the pink rosiness of her skin fading to ashes, her mouth and eyes rounding in horror. She must have been waiting for some time, he observed, for her velvet riding habit was untouched by the rain, unlike himself and Mrs. McDaniel, whose sodden clothes and hair dripped miserably onto the wooden floor. As if reading his mind, Alice’s gaze slid condemningly to her companion.
Mrs. McDaniel shrank away from that look. “I didn’t tell him, Alice. He must have followed me. I didn’t dream anyone would do that.”
The younger woman tenderly placed the baby in the basket and closed her eyes, sighing deeply. “You should have been more careful,” she said, and turned her back to the viscount, resting her fingers on the baby’s basket. “Ethan can be cunning.”
“I’m sorry,” said the servant. “I did everything you told me.”
The viscount stepped deeper into the room. “Is it Mrs. McDaniel you should be blaming, Alice?”
“Oh, dear God,” Alice moaned, her voice as despairing as anything he’d ever heard, and he felt his resolve melting. She was his friend from childhood, the first girl who had revealed her thoughts to him. That had meant much to a lad inclined to think of females as a separate species. Even though Lucan won her greatest devotion, she had spent enough time with Ethan to become close, as close as a sister. It hurt to know the solution to his dilemma would spell disgrace for her.
But she had been willing to disgrace him when he’d done nothing at all. She had treated his feelings cavalierly, had trampled across his hopes with the finesse of an elephant. He’d almost lost Madeleine because of her. Discovering the truth suddenly became easier.
“Tell me everything,” he commanded, “starting with Dorrie’s father. Who is he?”
She swerved, her hands clasping together, her eyes searching his face with desperation. “Is it possible you haven’t guessed?”
To his left was a crudely built wooden chair, and Ethan reached for it and brought it closer, bracing his hands on its back. He did not mean to sit down, but he felt a sudden need for support.
“Lucan?” he whispered hoarsely.
Alice’s eyes flared. “Dare you imagine anyone else?”
Dorrie whimpered, and although both women turned to the infant, it was Mrs. McDaniel who lifted her from the basket and soothed her, taking her to the far end of the room, giving them a measure of privacy. He might have to revise his opinion of that woman, he thought fleet-ingly; but that, too, remained to be seen.
There were weightier issues on his mind to be considered, such as the loss of his brother’s unspotted reputation. Well, he’d imagined Lucan as Leah’s lover, however briefly; how much greater sense it made for him to have been Alice’s.
He had been naive to believe Lucan had no personal life, no secrets, that his existence was an open book for everyone, especially Ethan, to read. And as secrets went, this wasn’t such a terrible one. Seduction wasn’t murder.
But Lucan and Alice were going to be married; after nearly a lifetime, how difficult would it have been to wait a few weeks? Although, for all he knew, they might have been playing little games for years, reaping the penalty only at the last. How ironic, if that were the case.
The thought scalded him like acid. All that time, all those years, while his twin counseled him about his behavior, forever asking more of him, telling him he was a better man than he acted, Lucan lived a double life. Why, compared to him, Ethan was the finer gentleman. At least he’d restricted himself to women of experience.
No, to think such a thing smacked of sacrilege. And yet ... Lucan, seducing his young neighbor ... the viscount mulled the thought through his mind and found it not to his taste, and decidedly out of character for his brother. However, people could not be expected to act in the same way always. Could they?
He had no answers; therefore, he centered his vision on the woman who would destroy his life if she could. She returned his look without flinching, although he read the suffering in her eyes. Guard against pity; she is deceptive.
“Why did you bring Dorrie to me?” he challenged. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t call her that—I’m certain you named her yourself.”
“I did, but Dorrie seems more suitable now; I shall keep the name for her.”
This brought a splash of pleasure but did little to cool his wrath. “You knew Madeleine would arrive at almost the same time you brought your baby. It couldn’t have escaped you what conclusions would be drawn, and to what effect. Why have you tried to ruin our chances?”
“If you would think a moment, you could guess.”
“I don’t want to guess. I want you to tell me.”
“What would you have me say, Ethan? Do you want me to humiliate myself again as I did recently? “You know how much I love you—”
“You don’t love me; you loved Lucan.”
“Yes, I did—passionately.” She gestured eloquently with her arms, entreating him to understand. “He was my life, and I’ll never deny that. But you are a part of him. I’ve always loved you, too. You’re the only proper father for Dorrie.”
“I’m happy to be her uncle, but I’ll not serve as her sire.”
“I knew you would say that. All those long, lonely months, I knew I couldn’t trust you to do the correct thing, to make the gesture your twin would have wanted you to make—”
“You don’t know that,” he interrupted angrily. “Don’t tell me what my brother would have wanted.”
“He certainly wouldn’t wish me to suffer for what he did.”
“What he did? Are you saying he raped you?”
She flinched at the starkness of his words. “No, of course not—”
“Then you must have been part of that decision, too, Alice. Correct me if I’m in error.”
“Yes, yes, naturally, but neither of us dreamed Lucan would die! Can you guess how I felt—not only did I lose the love of my life, but I was alone in my condition! You don’t know the sleepless nights I spent, wondering if I could keep my situation hidden from Father and everyone. And can you imagine his reaction, if he had known? I had no one to whom I could turn, Ethan—no one except Rosemary, who counseled me through her letters, and then later”—She turned to the woman he’d called Rose McDaniel—"pe
rsonally, as you can see.”
He peered around Alice. “Rosemary?”
The nursemaid, standing before a small window in the far wall with Dorrie resting against her shoulder, turned to face him. “I took a different name when I came here, Lord Ambrose, because Alice thought someone at her home might recognize my true name, Rosemary Danniver, from my correspondence to her. I’d never met her father or brother personally, of course; our contact was through Miss Bradshaw’s, which is a school for young ladies in Warminster.”
“He remembers where I went to school,” Alice said softly, although Ethan did not. “Rosemary was my favorite teacher. She taught French and German lessons and became very close to many of the girls—probably because she was only a few years older than we were. She and I left the school at almost the same time; I had completed my studies, and she married.”
Rosemary added, “I went to Cornwall with my husband, and after we’d only had a few years together, he died at sea. Not everything I told you was a lie. I’m sorry for the necessity of fabrication; I don’t make a habit of it.”
“She did it to help me. I begged her to come and be my eyes at Westhall. I trust you explicitly, but I couldn’t leave Dorrie without some assurance that you would not send her away. And today my very worst fears came true—or so I thought. You spread it abroad that Dorrie was leaving tomorrow, but you only did that to frighten me into stepping forward; I understand that now.” She broke off on a sob, then continued, “You were always one for playing tricks, Ethan!”
Ethan said, “With good cause, at least in this instance.” He clenched the chair’s back tighter, his knuckles whitening. “There were several days before your teacher arrived. Tell me: what would you have done had I removed your baby immediately?”
“I felt confident you wouldn’t do that, but in the event you did, Rosemary was here, and between the two of us we managed to keep watch over Westhall. We delayed because we thought if she arrived on the same day as Dorrie, it would look suspicious.”
Madeleine had been right in her instincts, Ethan remembered, although as wrong as he in choosing mothers. Had it not been for Madeleine, he wouldn’t have hired the nursemaid. She would be proud to know how crucial her help had been in solving the mystery.
Ah, here was solace for his hurt: nothing stood in their way now. He and Madeleine could be happy. But before he allowed himself to fall into hazy dreams, he must first understand a few matters. Fortunately, now that she had begun, Alice appeared willing to tell him everything.
“I could have done nothing without Rosemary’s assistance,” Alice was saying. “I knew she would come to my aid. When I realized I was with child, I wrote her. She told me what to do to relieve my sickness during those beginning months; she sent receipts for herbs to help me sleep. She even gave me suggestions for my wardrobe! Did you notice how often I wrapped myself in shawls this winter, Ethan? Do you recall how I complained about the cold all the time and wore my pelisse, even inside?”
He did have a vague recollection of this, it seemed to him now; but women were forever going on about being cold. When he made no response, only regarded her grimly, she gave him a hesitant look and continued.
“As my time drew near, Rosemary traveled here to help me. She has given birth twice herself, although both of her babies were born too soon and didn’t survive, it grieves me to say. As soon as I felt the first pains, I told my father I meant to spend a couple of days with a friend in Thornbury and drove the gig here. I shall never cease to be grateful to Rosemary, for I couldn’t have survived without her.”
Mrs. Danniver responded to this remark with a faint smile. “You’re giving me too much credit, Alice. You’re very strong and courageous, and God was kind in giving you an easy delivery.”
“If that was easy—!” exploded the young lady with a little laugh and a tilting of her eyes.
This kind of feminine bonding was not at all to Ethan’s taste, and he said sternly, “Nevertheless, you put your child at great risk simply for the opportunity to tarnish my reputation in the Murrows’ eyes.”
Alice stepped closer to him, her face lengthening in sorrow. “Not for only that reason,” she said beseechingly. I thought if you spent time with my child, you would come to love her.”
“And what then, Alice?” he clipped, staring down at her through slitted eyes. “If I loved the child, it would naturally follow I’d want to marry her mother? What’s happened to your reasoning?”
Renewed hope swept into her face. “You do love her! I can see it in your face. Rosemary, I told you he would!”
Ethan looked at her in disbelief, wondering if the events of the past year had unhinged her mind. Naturally, he loved the child; who could not? But that was far from the point.
His gaze moved to the window beside them; it seemed the darkness beyond mirrored the growing gloom in his heart. Restlessly, his glance fell upon the eyes of the teacher, who watched him with an intelligent sadness that communicated sympathy for both of them. Mrs. Danniver broke the connection first, returning her attention to the babe nestled in her arms.
In the grips of desperate excitement, Alice went on, “I thought if you believed Dorrie was yours, you’d be less inclined to rid yourself of her. I was counting on the tenderness of your heart, Ethan, and you didn’t disappoint me. From the way you spoke about Madeleine before she arrived, I believed you only wanted to marry her for her dowry. There was no intention to hurt you. Yes, of course I hoped the baby’s presence would frighten her away. And then ...”
“You would have stepped in.”
“Yes.”
“Gracious Alice, with her lovely dowry inherited from her mother.”
Her laugh sounded brittle to his ears. “I’d rather you had said, ‘lovely Alice with her gracious dowry.’”
He stared at her. “If that had happened—”
“Oh, it still can happen,” she assured him.
“No, it can’t. But if it had, when did you plan to tell me you were Dorrie’s mother—before or after the wedding?”
Smile fading, she lowered her eyes. “What does it matter?”
He grunted in disbelief. “This may surprise you, but I’ve yet to meet a bridegroom who wouldn’t appreciate knowing his intended was already a mother. Wars have been fought for less, I imagine.” As she remained silent, an unwelcome suspicion crept into his thoughts. “Alice. You did plan to tell me eventually, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” she said after a moment’s pause.
No, she wouldn’t have, he saw with a sense of wonder at her lack of honor. The certainty of her intentions shook him to the very center of his being. He had never truly known her.
“When would you have told me?” he lashed. “On our fiftieth anniversary, perhaps, but only if I was too deaf to hear you? Where is your conscience, Alice? Don’t you think Dorrie deserves to know who her mother is?”
“But I would serve as her mother and love her with all my heart.”
“Leaving Dorrie to endure the stigma of illegitimacy alone, while all of Brillham praises the Viscountess Alice Ambrose, who turns a blind eye to her husband’s indiscretions and raises his bastard with the dignity of an angel. Oh, very good, Alice.”
“You needn’t speak to me with such scorn, Ethan. My intention was not to win praise for myself, but to save my family from shame—”
“To save yourself from shame,” he cut in.
“Yes, that, too! Is such a thing not to be understood? What’s to be gained by my humiliation? And recall your brother’s part in this. Oh, don’t become angry again, Ethan—you are like a bear when you do so! There’s no need for either of us, or Dorrie, to be shamed. We can continue the brilliant story you concocted about your cousin—how I enjoyed listening to you build your castle of lies, by the by—we could say she gave her to us to raise or something like. Dorrie will not be damaged by it; we’ll provide her with more love than any child needs!”
“Wonderful plan,” Ethan said. “Except you’ve
forgotten something.”
Her shoulders tensed. “Madeleine—always Madeleine! But you will recover. I’ve lost someone, too, as you know. The scars will heal in time.”
She ran to him, pressing her head against his chest, circling him with her arms. Surprised and dismayed, Ethan held his own arms away from her; then, moved by her plight despite his bitter disappointment in her character, lightly patted her shoulders.
“Listen to me, dear Ethan. If you cannot find it in your heart to do this, I shall have to leave Brillham and take Dorrie with me. That was what I planned to do sometime in the next few days, until you found us. Rosemary and I were going to think of a solution, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as perfect as the one I’ve been hoping for. Do you want to lose your final link with Lucan? Can you travel through life without knowing what happens to your only niece?”
From the darkened end of the room, he heard Mrs. Danniver groan quietly.
Ethan grew very still, his wrath a terrible thing he dare not release until he brought it under a semblance of control. He breathed deeply and backed away from Alice’s embrace.
“You sadden me,” he said finally, although in truth she made him want to throw every stick of furniture against the wall. “If this—threat—was your best attempt at changing my mind, it has failed miserably.” He paced in a circle, running his fingers through his hair. “Alice, marriage to me is not your only choice for dignity. Hire someone— perhaps Mrs. Danniver, if she’s willing since she’s so excellent with Dorrie—to care for your child. The two of them might leave for a few months; babies change radically during the first years, or so I’m told. They could return using different names and live nearby; a widow and her child. Mrs. Danniver has met few people here who will recognize her after that length of time, except perhaps Betsy, and she will do as she’s told, if I pay her. You could remain at home but still see your little girl.”
“No. I won’t be separated from Dorrie like that. It’s been difficult enough already. I cannot.”
He felt some relief; at least she had maternal sentiments and was not entirely a changeling from the girl he believed he knew. “Then I’m sorry, Alice. I can’t help you. At least not in the way you wish.”
The Bridegroom and the Baby Page 21