She spent many cozy hours with Allegra, watching their sons play together, delighting in the bonds of motherhood that deepened their mutual affection. She had never had many female friends in her mean and wretched London days, not even among the other gladiators; she gloried in the joy of a woman she could call “sister.”
She only thought of Thorne when she was in bed at night, aching for the intimacy of his body next to hers, remembering his sweet words, the look of devotion in his eyes. Then she would remember that that devotion was reserved for her only as his mistress, and she would curse his name as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.
• • •
The bells in the Church of St. Dunstan began to peal softly, wafted on the early March breeze to roll across the village of Mayfield. Thorne laid his hammer across the anvil and wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned to the blacksmith and shook his head. “Vespers, Tom,” he said. “A few more horseshoes and then I should be getting back to the Hall. Supper awaits.”
Tom smiled, a rather patronizing smirk, it seemed to Thorne. “Whatever amuses you, Your Grace.”
Thorne resisted the urge to snap back with a lordly rejoinder. How could Tom, or anyone in the village, understand the joy he took in his work, when any one of them would give a king’s ransom to enjoy his easy life of wealth and privilege. But deciding to work alongside Tom, whatever others might think of his motive, had been his salvation. After his summer at Whitby, he had discovered that he needed to work. Hammering away at the forge, turning out horseshoes, nails, and an occasional iron gate, had kept him from going mad these last couple of months.
Somehow, bent over the anvil, he could think more clearly, accept the loss of Gloriana. He had taught her pride in herself, a sense of her own worth. Why should he be surprised that Penelope’s lies had wounded her so deeply? Perhaps, if his gambler’s luck followed its usual pattern, someone in Virginia would eventually recognize her and send word back to him. He prayed it might be so.
While Tom left the smithy to see to a horse outside, Thorne picked up his tongs, bent over the forge, and pulled out a glowing iron bar from the hot coals, placing it carefully on the anvil. Lifting up his heavy hammer, he began to pound the bar into a graceful curve.
“Your Grace, I’ve brought the carriage around. Will you return to Thorneleigh Hall now?”
Thorne looked up. Dobson stood in the doorway of the shop, hat in hand. Behind him, Thorne could see a very attractive young woman, who peered over Dobson’s shoulder, her dark eyes bright with curiosity. She looked vaguely familiar.
“A few more minutes, Dobson,” he said, pausing in his labors. He smiled at the young woman, noting the fineness of her form, the long ebony curl that sprang from beneath her prim cap to rest on her shoulder. “And this young woman?”
The girl stepped in front of Dobson and gave Thorne a deep curtsy. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “Cleve has told me so much about you.”
Thorne raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Indeed?”
Dobson cleared his throat, his face reddening to the roots of his blond hair. “This is Mistress Martha Rill, my… my pupil from London.”
Thorne suppressed a smirk. “Ah, yes, the silk merchant’s daughter. I saw you once at Havilland House, on your way to your… lesson.”
It was the girl’s turn to blush, her eyes cast down to the floor. “I’ve learned so much… I mean to say… that is, Cleve… Master Dobson is a very skilled tutor.”
From the look on both their faces, Thorne was sure that more than music lessons had been involved. Aware of their embarrassment, he took pity on the couple and changed the subject. “And what brings you down here to Surrey, Mistress Rill?” he asked.
The girl’s face relaxed in relief. “My father had business in Mayfield. I thought… that is, he thought it might make a nice holiday for the whole family. I recalled that Master Dobson was here with you, and determined to keep up with my lessons.” She turned a tender gaze to Dobson. “He has been kindly showing me around the village.”
Thorne laughed. “Has he told you the legend of St. Dunstan, for whom the church is named?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, then, allow me. It seems that the good saint was a fine blacksmith.”
“Even as you yourself, milord, from what I saw.”
Thorne nodded in silent acknowledgement of her compliment. “Just so. It seems that one day, the Devil, disguised as a beautiful woman, paid the good man a visit, hoping to lead him into sin.”
Dobson chuckled. “Even as you yourself, milord?” He grinned.
Thorne gave him a rueful smile. “I’ve had my share of devils disguised as women. I fear the good saint was more clever than I. At least for a time.”
Mistress Rill frowned in bewilderment. “But St. Dunstan?”
“Ah, yes. Of course. It seems that the good man spied the Devil’s cloven hoofs beneath the woman’s dress and grabbed Satan’s nose with his red-hot pincers, thus foiling his evil plan.” He looked meaningfully at Dobson. “’Tis astonishing what a wicked woman can hide beneath her hem.”
Dobson clapped his hat back on his head and reached for Thorne’s coat. “But evil will out, Your Grace. Now, will you return to the Hall before it grows dark?”
Thorne turned back to the anvil. “Only allow me to finish this horseshoe.” He hammered away, the sharp blows of his hammer accompanied by Mistress Rill’s girlish cries of admiration at his skill. Dobson merely smiled his pleasure, having watched Thorne at the forge many times since he had begun working with Tom.
When Thorne was done, he slipped into his coat and made his way to his carriage, which waited outside the forge. He turned to Dobson. “Will you be escorting Mistress Rill back to her inn?”
“If you don’t mind, milord. I can walk back to the Hall. ’Tis not so far.”
“No. I’ll wait for you here. I’ll require your presence at supper.”
Dobson shook his head, clearly vexed by this order. Though Thorne’s relations with his mother had finally begun to thaw, he still found it difficult to address her directly. His valet was still needed to stand at attention behind Thorne’s chair in the dining parlor, silent as always as Thorne directed him to “Tell my mother” this or that.
Thorne wondered when he would ever find it in his heart to forgive her.
• • •
Thorne helped himself to a large slice of cold mutton and plopped a spoonful of mint jelly onto his plate. He murmured his thanks to the footman who had served him, then glanced across the table at his mother. They had scarcely said a word to each other since coming to supper, only nodding politely as they took their seats. But Lady Sarah was looking as smug and satisfied as a cat that had just caught a mouse, her lips curled in a sly smile. Thorne motioned to Dobson behind him. “Kindly ask my mother if there is a reason for her unusual air of merriment this evening.”
Lady Sarah put down her fork, carefully wiped her mouth with her napkin, and took a sip of her wine. “I thought you would never ask.” She took another sip from her glass and smiled mysteriously at Thorne.
Thorne clenched his jaw. His mother was clearly enjoying tormenting him. “Dobson,” he said in a tight voice, “please ask my mother if she intends to answer my question.”
“If you must know, John, I had a letter from London this afternoon. From Lady Singleton. You remember her, don’t you? A tedious woman, but a font of gossip. Wasn’t her daughter the one who ran off with an officer? The girl who bounced when she walked. Didn’t you once liken her to a rabbit? Or was it a grasshopper?”
At this point, Thorne was too impatient to use Dobson as his intermediary. “Enough prattle! What did the woman say in her letter?” he demanded, speaking directly to his mother.
Lady Sarah laughed, a warm chuckle devoid of mockery. “I knew I could get you to speak straightaways to me if I tried. Well then, John, you shall know at once that Lady Singleton passed on the most delicious news. To wit, that Lady Penelope Crawford is married.”
> “I’ll be damned! To whom?”
“To Lord Felix DeWitt.”
“Felix? Gads my life! I would have thought him immune to her tricks, her sham helplessness.”
“That may be so. But Lady Singleton has impeccable sources. I suspect she has half the servants in London on a stipend just to feed her gossip. According to her, Penelope began her campaign to win Felix as soon as we had left the city, begging for his comfort and companionship to ease her broken heart after you had jilted her.” Lady Sarah’s smiling face suddenly dissolved into a concerned frown, warm with sympathy. “Someday, you must tell me the whole story. I know, from overhearing your conversations with Dobson, that the witch managed to cause Gloriana to flee to America, but I should like to hear the tale from you.”
Thorne was suddenly aware that the conversation had become too intimate for his comfort; he wasn’t about to share the pain in his heart with his mother. He motioned to Dobson. “Please tell my mother that I scarcely think Felix would be susceptible to tears and lamentations.”
Lady Sarah sighed at her son’s rebuff and turned her head aside for a moment. She sighed again and continued her narrative. “He was taken in for a time, and Penelope had even begun to hint at a marriage proposal to their mutual friends. When they announced their betrothal, all of London accepted the news as a natural progression from their courtship.”
“’Tis understandable,” he said directly to her, suddenly finding his dependence on Dobson a distraction, given the importance of his mother’s news.
Lady Sarah smiled, clearly pleased with his change of heart. “Not quite as happily as you might suppose,” she said. “Lady Singleton’s spies tell a different story. It seems that, when Felix balked at marriage at the last moment, Penelope contrived to get him alone and offer him the last favors. With a certain amount of discreet disrobing, I’m led to believe. At that juncture, her brother burst in upon them and accused Felix of dishonoring his sister. He threatened to blacken DeWitt’s name all over London unless he agreed to the marriage.”
Thorne shook his head. “My God, the Crawfords must be desperate for money to pay off Nick’s gambling debts. I recall what Felix used to say regarding women who married for money. Matrimonial whoredom, he called it, as though the woman would reap the worst of the bargain. But not in this case. Poor Felix. To be saddled with that conniver for a lifetime.”
Lady Sarah snickered. “I should rather pity the lady, not DeWitt. We both know what a cheeseparing miser he is. I fear Lady Penelope will have to choose between rescuing her brother or outfitting herself in a new gown.”
“True enough.” Thorne had a sudden recollection and laughed aloud. “I’ll wager that Penelope will be paying a higher price than a new gown, if Felix is true to his inclinations.”
His mother raised a questioning eye brow. “Indeed? What do you mean?”
Thorne cleared his throat delicately. “’Tis too immodest a subject to dwell upon. I’ll only say that the lady may have a bit of trouble sitting down after her… encounters with her new husband.” Somehow, the thought of Penelope being soundly thrashed by Felix brought Thorne a measure of satisfaction.
Lady Sarah giggled. “A fitting retribution, and one she deserves.” She looked beyond Thorne to his valet. “But didn’t you get a letter today as well, Dobson? It looked quite thick, with several foreign markings.”
Thorne turned about to see Dobson fidgeting uncomfortably. His valet shook his head. “This is scarcely the proper time or place, milady, to discuss my personal business. Not while I’m serving you.”
“Nonsense,” Thorne growled. “You’re practically family, privy to our intimate conversations.” He motioned to an empty chair at the table. “Sit. You may discuss your business freely here.”
Lady Sarah smiled her approval. While Dobson took his seat, reluctantly sliding into his chair, she poured a glass of wine for him and signaled the footman to bring it to the man.
“It… it was a letter from my father,” Dobson began at last, ignoring the wine. “It seems he has had a change of heart after all this time, and sent me a letter of credit to one of his bankers.”
“A decent sum, I trust?” asked Thorne.
“Eighty pounds.”
Thorne whistled. “A goodly amount. Not enough to live as a gentleman, but…”
“If you please, Your Grace,” Dobson blurted out, “I should like to leave your service.”
Thorne snorted. “Has your sudden wealth made you dissatisfied with living in this household?”
“Not at all, Your Grace. It has been my pleasure to serve you and Her Ladyship these past four years. But I have missed my music.”
Thorne frowned. If he admitted it to himself, he would miss the company of this fine man. “But I’ve allowed you to give lessons. Isn’t that enough?”
“With the money from my father, I thought to open a music shop as well as continuing with the lessons.”
Lady Sarah beamed across the table at him. “A splendid idea. I’m sure there are shops in London where you could rent a space.” The smile deepened. “And court Mistress Rill more freely, I have no doubt.”
Thorne felt torn. On the one hand, he was pleased that Dobson could make an independent life for himself. But he was losing a friend, a man with whom he had shared the most meaningful experiences in his life. “See here,” he said impulsively, “eighty pounds is scarcely enough to start your new venture. I propose a gift of a thousand pounds. That should get you started.”
Dobson’s blue eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t accept it, Your Grace,” he said in a tight voice. “I may be your inferior, but I have my pride.”
Thorne dropped his gaze. “Forgive me, Cleve. I offered as a friend. For I should like to maintain our association once you’re settled in London. Will you accept my money as an investment?”
Dobson relaxed. “To be paid back when I have established myself, milord.”
“Of course. And you must call me Thorne.”
“No.” Dobson shook his head, though Thorne could see that he was pleased their relationship would change. “Not until I’ve left your service. I have my standards. I will, of course, find you another valet before I go.” He looked meaningfully at Thorne, and then at Lady Sarah. “And must I train him as a go-between?”
Lady Sarah stared at her son. “What do you think, John? We’ve done quite well this evening, speaking directly to one another.”
Thorne hesitated. A sudden vision of his father, lying cold and dead in his coffin, flashed before his eyes. “Yes, Dobson, I think the new man should be properly trained.”
His mother rose from her chair, tears welling in her eyes. She stumbled to the door, then stopped. “Will you not be satisfied until you’ve quite broken my heart?” With a sob, she fled the room.
Cleve stood up, frowning, and bowed formally to Thorne. “By your leave, Your Grace,” he said coldly. “Allow me to go and comfort your mother.” At the door he turned. “Circumstances have broken your heart. But the unhappiness in this household is of your doing alone. I find that unfortunate in a man who wishes to call me friend.”
He was out the door before Thorne could find an angry response, leaving him sputtering in outrage at his servant’s effrontery.
But a small finger of self-doubt scratched at his gut, wondering what Gloriana would have thought of his cruelty to his mother.
Chapter Sixteen
The March wind whistled around the stone corners of Baniard Hall, rattling the windowpanes and shaking the trees outside, but within the snug parlor a blazing fire from the hearth warmed the room. A large round table, pulled close to the fireplace, was comfortable enough to seat Grey and Allegra and their guests.
Gloriana carefully poured out a cup of tea and handed it to the elderly woman who sat across from her. “Your tea, Lady Mary. Just a touch of cream, as you requested.” She acknowledged Allegra’s smile of pleasure with a nod of her head; they had spent several busy hours together this week, as Allegra patientl
y and kindly instructed Gloriana on the niceties of presiding over the tea table. Lord and Lady Sewell, Shropshire neighbors, were the first guests invited to the Hall since Gloriana had returned home.
Lady Mary took the proffered cup and saucer. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “How nice to be cozy on such a blustery day.” She sighed. “I fear spring will never come.”
Gloriana shook her head. “Oh, but I saw a few crocuses popping up next to the garden wall on my walk this morning. And the lilacs have begun to bud. You mustn’t be…” She searched for one of her newly learned words, “…melancholy. Spring will soon be here.”
Lord Sewell reached over and patted Gloriana’s hand. His aging fingers were dry and wrinkled, but his touch was warm with sincerity. “I like your spirit, young woman. For my part, the chill weather makes me sleepy.”
Allegra laughed. “It seems to affect my dear sister-in-law the same way. After her walk, we had to rouse her to come to the dinner table.”
“Indeed.” Gloriana hoped that the smile she had pasted on her face wouldn’t betray her. “All I wanted to do after my walk was curl up with a warm coverlet and sleep. I felt chilled to the bone.” In truth, she knew exactly why she had become so sleepy these past three months. She was clearly pregnant with Thorne’s child. It had been difficult to hide her condition from Allegra, to pretend she was simply not hungry when her stomach grew queasy; she was grateful at least that she’d been able to vomit in private on her morning walks.
Lady Mary clicked her tongue and wagged a reproachful finger at Allegra. “For shame, Lady Ridley. Your brother’s widow is surely the most charming and lovely woman I’ve met in many an age. To keep her to yourself all this time. How could you?”
Lord Sewell harrumphed. “Now, now, my turtledove…”
She glared at her husband. “Do you deny she is beautiful? Gracious?”
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