Summerton steepled his fingers and tapped them on his lips. “It may do you good to speak of it,” he said after a brief silence.
Halcombe took a moment to marshal his thoughts, and then said simply, “It began with the death of her father. Or even before, as I’ve begun to wonder if Frances would have been so foolhardy as to take her boat out in chancy weather if circumstances had been better between us. Not only had she just buried her beloved father without my support, she believed my absence was deliberate. Her state of mind was perhaps not…” He cut off the supposition and leaned back. “It is no longer important. Frances did take the boat out and…”
The fire had died down by the time Halcombe fell silent. Summerton rose, picked up a pair of long-handled tongs, and laid a few small logs on the grate.
“It might have been possible to get a message to you from France, given the right contacts and circumstances. Do you feel Frances could have done so if she had tried harder?” Summerton asked.
“No, I cannot place any blame on her, considering her situation.” Too restless to sit, Halcombe stood, picked up the empty platters, and carried them to the sideboard. He uncapped a decanter and held it up. “Brandy, Colin?”
The viscount nodded. Halcombe half-filled two fat-bellied glasses and handed one to his host.
“You are serving me my brandy again,” Summerton said, and grinned. He set the fireplace screen back in place and returned to his chair.
“You should serve a poorer quality of brandy if you don’t want your guests to drink it,” the earl said, responding to the amusement in Summerton’s eyes. He chose to lean on the fireplace surround, one foot braced on the settle. “I kept waiting for you to offer, but…”
“That puts me in my place! I shall have to brush up on my hosting skills.” Summerton swirled the liquid in his glass several times and then drank. “It is rather nice. I believe I will order more of it.” He looked up, the laughter fading. “I doubt Frances was any too happy, trapped in France. And I can see why it was easier to persuade her fishermen that arranging passage to Portugal rather than England was less dangerous. The situation in Portugal was reasonably stable and some trade had continued.” Summerton frowned, and after a moment’s thought, added, “Nor is Napoleon’s net work of informers and recruiters any secret.” He hesitated for a moment and then continued in a voice laced with quiet sympathy. “But why Frances did not send word to you at once when she reached Portugal is beyond my understanding. I never thought of her as being capable of such cruelty. I imagine you were not the only one who felt her loss.”
Halcombe shook his head, his face tight with pain. “Indeed, her housekeeper, Rose Blount, and Mrs. Blount’s son Thomas are like family to Frances. They were heartsick, of course.” He straightened, put down his glass, and shrugged out of his coat before dropping into a chair.
“I would have sworn Frances had not a mean bone in her body,” the earl continued. “She was the sweetest girl imaginable. But her survival, and Flora’s, was her primary concern for a long time and in ways I don’t totally understand, the experience has changed her. Yet I find it impossible to believe that her failure to tell me she was alive the instant they arrived in Portugal was a deliberate act of cruelty.” His gaze met Summerton’s and he made no attempt to hide his anguish. “I can more readily believe that once settled there she planned not to return to England at all.”
“Surely you are mistaken!” Colin said. “She loved you. It was obvious to the most casual observer.”
“Perhaps she did. I believed so at the time. So much so that I took it for granted, I suppose.” He frowned. He still had not reconciled Frances’ accusations with his own memories. More to the point, he had not come to an understanding of why she had felt so wronged. “You know what kind of marriage my parents had,” he said after some thought. “Theirs was an arranged pairing, and while neither was opposed, they had little in common and developed only a mild affection for each other. My father was a countryman at heart, content to pursue his scholarly studies and manage the estate, in that order of preference.” Halcombe’s harsh tone lightened and he smiled at his companion. “You spent enough time with us to know Father was a great gun when he was enthusiastic about something. Remember all those times he had us plotting out imaginary treasure maps?”
Summerton had often visited Halcombe Manor during school holidays, along with Montford, the third member of their ‘terrible trio’. The viscount laughed. “You were always much better at the mapmaking, as I recall, while Montford and I preferred the searching, especially if it involved mucking about in the water or mud.”
“And now you go about dressed to the nines,” Halcombe joked. “Montford, I hear, is still slogging about the countryside.”
“Not dressed to the nines,” Summerton said in a pained voice. “I profess to a preference for Brummell’s style. Montford follows no style at all and somehow gets away with it, the devil.”
No matter how he dressed, Baron Montford stayed in society’s good graces when he was in England, which nowadays was not often. Not for the first time, Halcombe wondered what it was about the baron that people found so charming, when he was not particularly handsome of face or imposing of body.
“The man has a knack for it,” Halcombe agreed. “My mother being one of the few exceptions. I don’t think she ever approved of him.” He frowned. “Leticia did not approve of a great many things, including my father much of the time. She disliked the country and cared for little other than fashion, propriety, and touting the fact that she was a countess. It was not a match made in heaven,” he added dryly.
Halcombe lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug and continued. “But you know all this. I mention it merely to explain why my view of marriage, and Frances’ idea of it, were so different.” He stared at the glass in his hand. “Frances feels the only use I had for her was her dowry, and a bedmate. She claims that we never spent any time together out of bed, and that we never conversed without my mother present.” His voice dropped. “She is right. I was totally caught up in restoring the estate and never gave much thought to what she did all day.”
Richard looked up, his forehead creased in puzzlement. “I assumed it was the same kind of thing my mother occupied herself with—following the London fashions so she could dress well, making and receiving calls with her friends, and running the household. Even though Leticia did not approve of Frances, she was conversant with what was expected from my countess and was too much of a snob to have her daughter-in-law be less than a credit to her.” He made a dismissive gesture. “That’s what women do, isn’t it?”
“Some women,” Summerton agreed. “Many women, I suppose. But why did you think Frances was one of them?” He bent forward, fists on his knees. “She had never gone about in society, was raised by a scholar, and she was educated above the average woman. It had to have been like walking into an alien world for her.” Colin reached out and laid a hand on the earl’s arm. “We have been friends for a long time. I know you would never have married someone you did not care about, no matter how much money was involved.”
Halcombe jerked and jumped to his feet. “Damn it all, of course I cared for her! Frances was…she was a breath of spring air, sunlight dancing on the water, a clear summer sky. I’d never known anyone as delighted with life as she was.”
Wearily, he grasped the edge of the mantel and leaned his face on his outstretched arms. “I was obsessed with the estate, so angry with my father for his neglect, my mother for her extravagances, I could not think about anything else,” he said in a muffled voice. It sounded so cold, so unfeeling, but it had not been that way for him. The hours he spent with Frances at night had made the long days of hard work worthwhile. She was so loving, so responsive to every kiss and caress.
“God, Colin. What am I going to do? She has every right to feel the way she does. I don’t deny I neglected her shamefully. But I cannot forget, or forgive her for staying away—for keeping my child from me.”
; Only the faint snap of the burning logs sounded in the room for a long time. The mixture of wood smoke, brandy and leather drifting in the air made him think of the Manor library, once his haven—and then his wife’s. Why had he never joined her there and allowed himself to enjoy one of their spirited discussions? These were questions he could not answer. Hearing Summerton stir behind him, the earl turned to face him.
“Do you truly feel you are entirely to blame? Frances also had a responsibility in participating in your marriage,” Summerton said. “She never struck me as a passive woman. Nor do I think your so-called neglect is the sole reason she stayed away so long.” His voice sharpened. “Talk to her. Ask her!” He stood, a faint smile easing the serious expression on his face. “I cannot tell you what to do, old friend. Only you can make that decision.” Colin hesitated, grasped Halcombe’s upper arm for a moment, and added, “When you decide what you want—from her, from your marriage—you will know how to proceed.” He left quietly, seeming to sense the earl was beyond further discussion.
His head aching, Halcombe banked the fire and replaced the screen. What did he want? How was he even to know what he should want, when he had only his parents’ marriage as an example?
If you imagine the things they did not have, it is not so difficult—an amicable companionship, a loving family, satisfying work. Surely these things are possible, but can you and Frances set aside your grievances so easily?
Never easily, Halcombe admitted silently, but imagining years of dissension between them chilled his soul. No, there was no escaping this union. Nor did he want to.
Halcombe felt more defenseless than he ever had wandering around Europe during a war. It seemed that dodging armies was much safer than navigating a marriage. His—theirs—at times seemed a veritable battlefield!
Chapter Twenty-one
Prussia, 1806
Halcombe heard the cannons boom as he cautiously led his mule across a field stubbled with the remains of the harvest. He had no intention of getting caught up in the inevitable confusion that always surrounded a battle. Although it was unlikely that anyone would take notice, dressed as he was in the plain jacket and pants worn by the native yeomen, any information he could glean at this point was not worth the possible loss of his mule.
His pack already held a number of maps, painstakingly drawn as he had wandered the Austrian-Prussian territories—now mainly occupied by the French—under the guise of an itinerant scribe. Halcombe had come up with the idea when Summerton suggested that he travel throughout the area to record major routes and topographical information for the government. It had not only given him a reason to travel from town to town, but provided him with enough income to pay for his basic needs.
Besides, it was not the damn information. In truth, he simply could not face the carnage again. Damn the French. Damn all the fool generals, the stupid officials and the self-serving politicians who send these men and boys to die while they remain safe at home on their fancy estates.
Bile rose in his throat. Once before he had seen the aftermath of a battle. The memory was raw still—the pitiful cries of dying men, their voices drifting with a ghostly presence in the lingering haze from the smoking guns. There was so little he could do…so little that anyone could do, other than load the living onto the wagons for the agonizing trip to a makeshift field hospital. Untrained in any kind of medical procedures, Halcombe had joined a work party detailed to dispose of amputated limbs. The smell of rotting flesh had mingled with the odors that eddied over the rows of wounded—blood, gunpowder, and the stench of sweat, fear and unwashed bodies. He was no coward, nor did he feel himself to be overly selfish, but guilt racked him as each step took him farther and farther from the battle.
You are needed at home. The reminder did little to assuage his self-reproach, but the letter telling him of his father’s death was already two months old by the time Halcombe received it. He had known at once from the salutation, addressing him as the Earl of Halcombe, that the familial line had once more passed to another generation. Truly, he was needed at home.
The news of his father’s death was both shocking and unexpected, for while not in robust health, his father had been neither elderly nor infirm. Halcombe at once made plans to depart immediately for England—immediate being a relative term, as travel through the tattered remains of the Holy Roman Empire was anything but swift. Now his problems were confounded by what appeared to be a major battle between the French Army and the Prussian forces.
He did not need to study one of his detailed maps to determine his location. He knew, more or less, where he was and the fastest, least dangerous route to take. Fast was another inaccurate term since river transportation was not swift, but he believed safety the more important of the two and the Elbe was a major waterway. It did mean, however, giving up his mule.
The earl looked at the patient animal plodding along beside him and smiled. The purchase of the oddly named Simon was one he had soon come to appreciate when he began this trek. Slow as the creature might be, he was dependable, skilled at foraging, and so unprepossessing that few were inclined to steal him. Halcombe would miss the trusty old beast. He would not miss dodging the soldiers or the ill-kept, bug-ridden inns where he sometimes took shelter when a stable or barn was not available. Nor would he miss grappling with the constant fear that someone might expose him for the Englishman he was. His language skills had stood up to the task, but he was more than ready to go home. Halcombe wanted desperately to breathe in the scent of rich, damp English earth. He longed to see the morning mist rise over the Manor’s fields, the tall grass streaked with the golden rays of the rising sun. He’d had enough of this rut-filled road stretching endlessly ahead.
Halcombe was not the only traveler headed away from the battle. Several farmers, their wagons loaded with goods, had prudently turned back, and there were enough single riders to make him, and his mule, blend in. He trudged along, absentmindedly avoiding the worst of the muddy puddles churned up by the passage of wagons and animals. His mind drifted to the conversation he’d had with Summerton almost two years ago—it was the exchange that had brought him here. Still seething from the last argument with his father, Halcombe had carried his ire to London, where he knew he would get a sympathetic hearing from the viscount. He had descended upon Colin in a state of high dudgeon.
***
“Father is spending money like it was manna from heaven, Colin, and not on the estate! I cannot even blame my mother this time. She has also remonstrated with him, feeling as she does that if money is to be spent, it should be on her,” Richard said with a sarcastic bite. “But she has had no more success than I have. Father will not listen and any attempt to make him do so ends with us having the most awful row.”
“Is Halcombe keeping a mistress?” Summerton asked.
“I wish he was,” Richard said bitterly. “No doubt it would be cheaper. No, he is buying books and maps for his collection, and when I tell him the estate cannot support such expenditures, he sends me packing.” Richard felt his face settle into the hard, dissatisfied expression he seemed always to wear these days. “I have no authority, and watching this mismanagement is driving me crazy. I don’t know what I can do to bring him to his senses.”
“Perhaps you should go away for a while. Give both of you a chance to cool down. It may be that if he sees you are concerned enough to actually leave, he will reconsider,” Summerton suggested.
“Go where? Europe is out and I am not spending months on a ship traveling to America. Wherever it is I might conceivably go, it cannot be costly,” Richard growled.
“I don’t think Europe is entirely out.” Summerton braced his palms on his desk and leaned forward. “How would you feel about undertaking a commission for us?”
Richard hesitated and looked warily at Summerton. “Who is ‘us’ and what kind of commission are you talking about? I am not the type of man to skulk around spying on people.”
Summerton appeared highly diverted by
the notion and shook his head. “No, I cannot see you as a spy. You are too truthful, for one thing. Successful spies must be excellent liars,” he said with a laugh. “No, this is something different. How you go about it is up to you.” Summerton was quiet for a time. He then rose, picked up a small globe from a bookcase and brought it back to his desk.
He rotated it slowly for a few minutes, and then said, almost to himself, “The world is changing—alliances are shifting—sometimes even from day-to-day. Napoleon has swept the old order away in many areas and information about the new boundaries is scanty.” Speculation narrowed his eyes. “I’d like you to go over to the continent and draw up some maps—wander around, find out what is going on. You know enough of the local languages to pass for a native. I believe you could pull it off.”
Startled, Richard frowned. “You have more confidence in my abilities than I do. How the hell do you expect me to hide the fact that I am an Englishman poking about in a place where I don’t belong?”
Summerton grinned. “Oh, you’ll think of something, I’m sure.”
***
Halcombe rubbed his mule’s neck affectionately. He had thought of something, and he had actually succeeded beyond his and Summerton’s expectations. People saw what they expected to see and not once had he been questioned about his identity. That he would be gone this long a time he had not foreseen, nor could he have anticipated his father’s untimely death, but otherwise, he was glad he had done it. And doubly glad that he had swallowed his pride and made peace with the old earl before he left. For all their differences, Halcombe had many good memories of their times together. All the same, he deeply regretted that he had been absent when his father died.
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