An Eternity of You

by Sophia Garrett

  “No.” Rebecca turned her back, adamant she would not soften simply because he cared so much for a child’s wellbeing. He had another who he’d never once considered. More tightly, she bit out, “She’ll be fine.”

  Behind her, Andrew’s clothing rustled. She tipped her head just enough to witness how he knelt to speak at his daughter’s ear. His low voice was nothing but an unintelligible murmur that vibrated down her spine and left tingles in its wake. In the next instant, Alice ducked beneath the tapestry he lifted.

  “What do I owe you, Rebecca?”

  “Nothing. Just please leave.”

  “No.”

  Heavy footfalls brought him to her side. He did not touch her, but his body heat prickled her skin. She had but to twist a slight degree and her side would brush his. Oh, how her traitorous body craved the contact.

  “I intend to pay, and I intend to cover what those men do not have. Tell me your fees.”

  She chuckled bitterly. “It is not my services that they cannot afford. If you wish to cover expenses, speak to the apothecary, for he is no longer amenable to discourse with me.” She pushed aside a tray of tools and shook her head in disgust. “They come to me for herbal remedies that are within their means. Because they come here, he will not discount medicines they need, nor will he sell to me.”

  “What has happened here?” he asked, as if he spoke to himself, not her.

  Nevertheless, she spun on him. “Must you really ask? Look around you, Andrew. Sharrington is dying. No, there may not be starved bodies in the street—not yet. But there surely will be before winter’s end.”

  Confusion and bewilderment dragged a frown across his brow. His gaze searched her face. He lifted one hand, drew a strand of her escaped hair between finger and thumb, and his expression softened with tenderness. “I never dreamed it could come to this between us.”

  Cold resentment surged forth. She shook off his hand and twisted away. “I never dreamed you could be so ignorant. Return to Sussex. No one wants you here. It’s far too late for you to pretend to care.”

  “Pretend?” His voice took on a hard edge. “Is that what you think I am doing? Damn it, Rebecca!” His hand cracked against the wooden counter. “What have I done to offend you so? You knew I was leaving! The earldom in Sussex was my responsibility.”

  His anger sparked her own, and she whirled to face him once more. “It’s what you didn’t do when you left, you callous pig! Did you speak to your father? No. Did you speak to mine? No! And now…”

  She tried to stop, tried to cease the lash of her tongue. But too many years of suffering, of living in the destruction of his worthless promises crashed around her shoulders. All the pent-up fury blended with the turmoil of emotion that coursed through her veins, and she exploded.

  “Look around you! It is as obvious as daylight what you’ve done! Your father was incapable of proper overseeing. You left Sharrington to fall to pieces, while you were too busy with your new appropriate wife and your legitimate child! My father could not lift his head above the shame, and yet he paid his rents. He died when you refused to lower your tariffs and Captain Swing’s fervor spread through this town, impassioning men to riot against the machines.”

  Andrew drew back, his expression ghost-white and horrified. “He was caught in the riots?”

  His soft, incredulous tone shattered through Rebecca’s anger. She stopped, mouth slightly agape, and stared. How could he not know? She’d told him everything. One letter after another.

  “Your father, Rebecca—Isaac died? Where is Stephen then?” Andrew’s face contorted with anguish and he repeated, “What happened here—to you? How have I caused this?”

  She recovered enough to utter an astonished, “Did you never read my letters?”

  His expression only clouded with more confusion as he shook his head. “What letters?”

  The floor slowly shifted beneath Rebecca, threatening to pitch her face-first onto the floor. She reached behind her to clutch the counter and stabilize her weak knees. He hadn’t received them. He…didn’t know. Oh, dear Lord. All this time she had assumed he turned a blind eye, too caught up in his marriage and family to care. Her words came out in a whisper. “I sent them through Landess.”

  An oath hissed through Andrew’s teeth. He clenched a tight fist, then took a step forward and caught her free hand. Sincerity poured through his soulful green eyes. “Tell me. Tell me what I should already know.”

  Where to start? Did this mean he knew nothing about Thomas as well? An enormity of emotion threatened to engulf her, and she shook off the chaotic swirling of her head. There were so many things to explain. So much time to catch up on. And still so very few answers.

  “Rebecca, please.” Andrew squeezed her fingers with his quiet plea. “What happened to Isaac and Stephen?”

  She cleared her throat, but easing the dryness did nothing to stop her unsteady voice as she began. “Father went to the granary to doctor the men beaten by Landess’s officials who rose in protest against your tariffs. By mistake, the mob tipped the thresher. It fell on him. His chest was crushed.” The memory rose, the men coming to her door, her father’s shattered body supported between them, their broken, devastated apologies… She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking the horror. “The townsmen did not mean to hurt him. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Dear God.” Andrew passed a hand over his face. When he lowered it, his eyes were haunted. “And Stephen?”

  “Stephen was there, too, not protesting.” She couldn’t prevent a note of resentment. “He’s now in Newgate because Mr. Landess refused to heed our pleas. He dismissed our requests to consult with your father. He also refused to send for you and said you were too busy with your responsibilities in Sussex to give a damn!”

  Another oath slipped through his clenched jaw, and those beautiful eyes sparked with fury. He reached behind her, clasped the hand she used to steady herself, and held it as well. As her gaze followed the motion of his arm, she observed he no longer wore the black band of mourning.

  “And you, Rebecca? His death did this to you? You said I failed to speak to our parents.”

  Spitting out that he was Thomas’s father suddenly stuck on her tongue. There were too many questions as to how he could not know, how he didn’t recall their one night together. Perhaps it would be better to leave him uninformed—it wasn’t as if their stations would ever allow them a future together.

  As she struggled to decide what to say and how, the children’s voices rang out. It was wrong to not tell Andrew. He deserved to know, and Thomas deserved to have his father hear. Her gaze pulled to the wall that divided them, and she worked through her dry throat, “My son…is…” With effort, she dragged her gaze back to Andrew’s. “He is your son. I have been writing to you about him for six years, since the day I knew he would come.”

  He clutched both hands to the sides of his head, grabbed at his hair, then flattened his palms against his temples. His hands slid over his eyes, then down his face. Dubiously, he asked, “How do I know none of this?”

  Before she could pull herself together enough to explain that his typhus must have hindered his memory, Andrew pivoted toward the exit. Partially through the ragged tapestry, he stopped and looked back at her.

  “What is his name?”

  “T-Thomas,” she managed. “Thomas Andrew.”

  With a slow nod, Andrew ducked out.

  …

  Speech had become impossible. Andrew’s lungs were too tight, the gnawing in his gut too severe to concentrate on words. Even if he could manage a few, undoubtedly he would choose the wrong ones. Instead, he followed the sound of Alice’s laughter to the door that stood ajar on the opposite side of Rebecca’s front entry. He opened it further with his toe, needing to see, once again, the child Rebecca had borne. His child. His son.

  They played in the center of a floor that needed to be swept. Alice lay on her belly, her injured arm carefully positioned in front of her, her s
lippers kicked off somewhere, and her toes bent over her back. Across from her, Thomas sat cross-legged. Hunched as close to the ground as he could get, he aligned his marble shooter. “If you sit that close, Alice, don’t go crying if I hit you in the face.”

  To Andrew’s surprise, his daughter wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out at Thomas. “I don’t cry.” She giggled as she scooted backward, not an ounce of care given to her dress that was now above her calves.

  My children. Andrew closed his eyes as the vise around his ribcage relaxed. He let the memory come this time, let it engulf him.

  “Andrew, kiss me once before you go. So I can remember it a lifetime.” An inch away from his face, Rebecca’s mouth hovered near his. The wet cloth she held in her hand pressed against his bare chest. Water trickled down his abdomen from where she had rinsed his fevered skin.

  Hesitantly, he lifted his palm to the side of her face, afraid that any moment she might change her mind and pull away. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, spellbound by the light fall of her breath against his lips. When she did not pull back, he slipped his hand to her nape, urging her closer with the press of his fingertips.

  She came all too willingly. Her mouth brushed his. His lips clasped hers to hold her in place. His heart beat wildly. So soft. So perfect.

  With the tip of his tongue, he traced the seam of her mouth.

  “That’s not fair! You cheated!” Alice cried.

  Andrew’s eyes snapped open to find her sitting upright, one fist pressed against her hip, indignation coloring her cheeks.

  Thomas scoffed. “Did not. It’s part of the rules.”

  “Then I should get to do the same!”

  “Fine! But now you’re the one who’s cheating.”

  “I don’t care. I want my marble back.” Alice snatched up the shooter. “I’ll win it, just you wait and see.”

  Andrew smiled at the pair. His son. The child he had always wanted. Good God, all this time he had not been running from a fantasy, afraid he would no longer be able to resist the temptation of Rebecca, when in truth, he had given in to the burning desire, the unending yearning. And she had surrendered as well.

  Rebecca had been his.

  “I have only ever wanted you, Rebecca. Say you will have me, and if I must, I will forfeit everything for an eternity of you.”

  Her fingertips danced across his cheek. In the depths of her fawn-colored eyes, her very soul glimmered. “I long for nothing more.”

  Andrew closed his eyes again, choking down a groan of regret. Even now, he could still feel the scald of his skin where her touch lingered. And yet, he could not quite grasp every nuance to solidify the vision as memory not dream. What followed blended into nonsensical acts. Snippets of making love to Rebecca merged with fantastic products of his imagination that could never be reality. Unicorns, for heaven’s sake!

  Lavender tickled his nose, and he slowly opened his eyes. Rebecca stood across from him by the doorway, keeping her distance. Her features were as ashen as if she’d been brutally struck.

  Andrew pushed away from the doorframe and moved to where she stood. Her gaze never left his. Looking down into her beautiful, expressive eyes, full dawning fell heavily around his shoulders. He had torn her life to shreds and not even known. His marriage had been agonizing. Pledging those vows when he ached to say them to another, lying beside a woman who could never be the one he wanted. Touching her as a husband should, all the while dreaming of another.

  He could only imagine the pain Rebecca must have felt.

  She stared up at him, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes. He knew well enough she would never let them fall. Anger was her recourse. Even at eight, she had stormed and stewed when he caught her by a pigtail and ripped out a handful of her hair.

  “You are telling me then, Rebecca,” he murmured as he eased his fingers to the regal column of her neck, “that I did not dream this?” Drawn to the softness of her lips, he bent his head.

  Beneath his fingertips he felt her shiver. Her voice hitched as she asked, “Dream…what?” Her lashes fluttered heavily. A breath of air escaped her lips as they parted.

  “This,” he whispered. Slowly, he feathered his mouth over hers. Sweet heaven. At her breathless gasp, he captured her lower lip between his teeth and gave a gentle tug.

  Rebecca swayed into him. Soft full breasts compressed against his chest, and the heat of her trembling body saturated him with pleasure. A quiet groan vibrated in his throat. Lost, he deepened the kiss.

  Six long years he had carried the fragmented memories. Now he held her, drank from her honeyed lips. And though he now knew this was not the first time he’d been allowed this indulgence, the tidal wave of bliss that poured through him made it seem like it was. Dear God above, how could he have believed the intoxicating way her tongue danced against his was a mere dream? She was sweeter than any wine, more rich than fine chocolate.

  The moment shattered as Rebecca braced her palms against his chest and shoved away. “Stop.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Her shoulders heaved as she struggled to regain control over her breathing. “I won’t let you break my heart again.”

  He gritted his teeth. He deserved that remark, yet knowing such didn’t stop the daggers that slashed his heart. “I will fix this, Rebecca.”

  She shook her head. “The damage is already done.”

  He inclined his head toward where the children played. “Does the entire village know he is mine?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “They know I was the one who tended you. When Thomas came, it was a natural assumption.”

  Damnation! Somehow, he would prove he was not the calloused cad she and the rest of Sharrington assumed. And one way or another, he would make this up to her. Starting now. Though how he could repair the suffering she’d endured, he did not begin to know. But he would, if it required his every last breath.

  Resolved, he called over his shoulder, “Alice, come along, sweetheart. I must take you home. I have errands to complete.” The first stop was the butcher’s. When he had arranged the ten hogs, he would ensure the woman he loved and the child he sired would never need a morsel of meat no matter what became of him.

  Chapter Six

  Confined within the quiet of his office, Andrew took a moment to absorb the last several hours. He had arranged the hogs with little difficulty. Adding to the butcher’s order, he paid for a goose that seemed too large for himself, Alice, and Fortescue. But Christmas was in two days, and he’d promised Alice the traditions he’d grown up with in Sharrington. He’d also secured a new household cook, who had been recommended by the butcher, a young mother of three whose husband had recently abandoned the family for unknown reasons. Matilda was her name, as Andrew recalled.

  The errands had not ended there, however. Following Rebecca’s suggestion, he spoke with the apothecary, paid two dozen outstanding debts, and arranged a credit of sorts, in which the man would simply fill what the villagers needed for the next year, and Andrew would pay him a percentage of what they could not afford. He hoped the year would allow Sharrington to prosper enough so he did not need to maintain the charity.

  Finally he spoke with the mill owner, apologized for Landess’s overly tight coin purse, and arranged a meeting between them two days after Christmas, in which Andrew intended to discuss his ideas for a new mill that would double current output and double available jobs. After leaving, he drove past the thatcher’s—his name also supplied by the butcher—and after some careful negotiation, secured a new roof for Rebecca, to be laid tomorrow. In the morning, Andrew intended to track down the sheep farmers closest to Sharrington Manor and open three pastures that appeared to have been dormant these last several years. First, however, he needed to find their names.

  The entire day had been productive, but it cut short his cherished time with Alice. Not long ago he’d fed her a meager supper and put her to bed. With her sleeping soundly and the moon beginning its ascent, he still had work before him.


  Reaching down, he picked up the carton of correspondence from Landess that he had never bothered to open. Those men’s names were likely in his annual statement of records.

  His hand stilled over the hasp. Rebecca’s letters would be in here too. If he had only been less stubborn about his determination to forget Sharrington and the love he could not have, he would have had his very heart’s desire. For no loss of inheritance would have stopped him from returning to her side.

  He blew out a hefty sigh and steeled himself against the inevitable words within. The farmers’ names would wait until morning. Rebecca’s letters called to him.

  Andrew unlatched the hasp and opened the carton. One by one, he opened each envelope, scanned the contents, and set them aside. Bits and pieces of information caught his attention—Stephen’s arrest had been documented, but not his name. Only a brief notation that the surgeon’s son had been part of the uprising. There was no mention of Isaac’s death.

  Nor, when he finished the chore, was there any letter from Rebecca.

  Rage coursed through him. She’d never been one to lie.

  The need for a target crept through his bloodstream, and he flung the carton across the room. The heavy wood crate cracked against the wall, knocking down a picture that crashed into a porcelain vase and shattered it on the floor.

  Damn that man! What else had he seen fit to withhold?

  “Fortescue!”

  Heavy steps hurried down the hall. The door opened, and the old valet stuck his head inside. “What is the trouble, Your Grace?”

  “Send for Mr. Landess immediately!” Andrew shoved out of his chair and stalked to the mess on his floor. “And find me something to clean this up with.”

  “Mr. Landess? Your Grace, it is growing late. Can it not wait until morning?”

  Andrew kicked the pottery shards into a tidier pile. “No, it cannot—” He stilled his foot. It was indeed well beyond the normal hours for business, and Fortescue did not need to be driving in this cold weather. “Never mind, Fortescue. Look after Alice. I will see to this myself.”