by Carola Dunn
“It cannot wait so long.”
“I shall send for his Grace’s secretary, my lord.”
“Damn it, man, I can write my own letters,” John protested, but his usual firm scrawl went off into wavery spiderwebs and he was glad enough in the end to dictate.
Even that effort tired him, and Pierce refused point blank to send for Rowson. John had thought to ask him to make sure Rebecca was indeed safely at Lady Parr’s.
“Go to the devil!” he said drowsily and fell asleep.
He woke much revived by the nap and ravenously hungry. Spurning gruel and restorative meat jelly, he demanded a proper meal and received poached plaice and a blanquette of veal. Though roast beef was more what he had had in mind, he was devouring these delicacies when his father came in.
“We shall soon have you hale and hearty again,” the duke said with approval. “Knighton said your constitution is excellent. Since you survived the infection, there is no reason you should not recover your full strength.”
“I’d not have survived, sir, without the best of care.”
“I know it, and I have already rewarded the Rowsons, though they made light of their service.”
“They must have mentioned Miss Nuthall’s part in my recovery.”
“Indeed, they made it plain that you owe your life to that young lady. However, it is difficult to know how I can serve her when she has disappeared. Besides, she is a gentlewoman. One cannot simply offer her money.”
“I am glad you acknowledge that she is a gentlewoman, sir. I hope to marry her.” John had had no intention of revealing his secret to the duke, but in his weakness his father’s sympathy and encouragement overcame his caution.
His Grace frowned and patted his shoulder. “You are naturally grateful to the girl,” he said. “We shall discuss the matter when you are stronger.”
“And I mean to pursue a career in Parliament.”
“Later, dear boy, later. Well, I must be off. I shall see you tomorrow.”
“With or without your help,” John muttered, pushing away his tray. He had overestimated his appetite.
He must obtain a seat in Parliament. He could not ask Rebecca to become the wife of a superfluous fribble. If his Grace would not help him he would go to Hugh Iverbrook, or Lord John Russell, or even Brougham, that brilliant but erratic radical.
His breakfast next morning was brought by Rowson. “That man o’ yours is getting above hisself, m’lord. No visitors, says he, so I takes your lordship’s tray out o’ his hands and tells him we’ve private business to discuss. I seen Miss Beckie, m’lord.”
“Where? When? How is she?”
“She’s at Lady Parr’s right enough. Annie sent me to check yesterday afternoon and I seen her going in. I didn’t speak to her, m’lord, nor let her see me, being as Annie wasn’t sure just what you was wanting.”
“Sir Andrew’s training, no doubt. She looked well?”
“A mite pale and thin in the face, and I can’t say as how she looked happy.”
If John had been able to rush to her side there and then he would have, but he could not so he did not. With all the patience he could muster he set himself to regaining his strength as quickly as possible. He moved from his bed to a chaise longue, and then below-stairs to the drawing room, where one or two of his friends were allowed to visit him—and his mother and her companion drove him to distraction with their cosseting.
In the meantime, he had received an answer from Tom. While Rebecca’s lawyer admitted that the will had been badly drawn up (by his deceased partner), he could find in it no legal justification for giving her even her income before she married or reached the age of twenty-five. The best he could do was to stop paying the income to her uncle while she did not reside with him. It would be added to her principal, to be turned over to her when the time came.
Tom added that he had, with difficulty, persuaded the lawyer to tell him the amount of Rebecca’s inheritance. It was sufficient for her to live in reasonable comfort on the income if she took a small house in the country. By no means a fortune, but at least an independence.
Much good that did her, thought John savagely, since she could not lay her hands on it. Propriety forbade his offering to support her if she would not marry him. She might as well be penniless.
Though he did not mention Rebecca again to his father, he did insist on discussing his parliamentary ambitions. The first morning he managed to walk below-stairs by himself he knocked on the door of the duke’s study. Invited to enter he obeyed, trying to forget that the last time he had been in that room was the day of the duel, the day he had been sent into exile.
If he had never been exiled, he might never have met Rebecca. He hoped that was a good omen.
“Good morning, sir. I am well enough now to remind you of my desire for a seat in Parliament.”
His Grace, an active member of the government, looked up from the official papers spread on his huge oak desk and smiled. “Sit down, John. Only yesterday I received from Lord Cathcart an excellent report on your conduct in St Petersburg. I could wish that your duties had not required of you the dissipation I hoped to see you leave behind. Yet perhaps it is the more to your credit that you managed to keep a clear enough head to carry out your mission successfully. And to judge by the amount of gold found in your luggage, you won at the tables as usual.”
“I have lost my taste for dissipation, sir.”
The duke grinned. “As to that, time will tell. Besides, you need only look at the late Charles James Fox to see that you need not turn monk to be an effective parliamentary Whig.”
“Then you will...”
“I happened to meet Holland at dinner last night. I dropped a word in his ear, and I must confess he was near choked with delight that any son of mine should turn Whig. He expects you to call at Holland House to discuss finding a place for you as soon as you have recovered your full strength.”
“Thank you, sir. I am already a little acquainted with Lady Holland.”
“Then your future is assured,” said his Grace dryly.
* * * *
The duke’s willingness to use his influence in John’s favour raised his spirits considerably. However, he still had not found a way to assure Rebecca of a comfortable life if she did not choose to marry him. If only Teresa and Andrew had not disappeared into the unknown—but then none of these problems would have arisen in the first place.
The duchess might find Rebecca a position, but there was no guarantee it would be any better than staying with Lady Parr. John could not bear the thought of her living in a family that treated her as a menial servant.
His brother’s household would be better. Muriel had liked Rebecca, as had little Ned and Mary, and for all his pomposity Tom was never less than kind. John was sure they would be willing to offer her a home for his sake, if not her own. Best of all, he would be able to see her now and then, and perhaps in time he could teach her to love him.
By the time John reached this cheering conclusion, it was the day before Tom and Muriel were due to arrive from Lincolnshire, too late to consult them by letter. And Muriel was bound to go and visit her mother the next day.
She was almost certain to meet Rebecca there, before John had seen her. However she felt about him that would be unforgivable, after what they had gone through together.
Therefore John must go to Rebecca tomorrow. He was not yet as strong as he had hoped to be, but his heart lifted at the thought.
He went up to the nursery to join Esperanza for tea. Though he had not yet ventured out of the house, the stairs were no longer the insurmountable obstacle they had seemed only a few days earlier. Perhaps the obstacles between him and Rebecca would also give way before his persistence.
All the same, after Esperanza’s usual energetic greeting he was glad to sink into the shabby old wing chair by the fire.
“Let me hold my godson,” he begged Annie. The baby gripped one of his fingers firmly in its tiny brown hand and went ba
ck to sleep.
The nurserymaid brought up a tray of tea things from the kitchen and was sent to take her own. As a treat, Esperanza was allowed to toast muffins at the fire. Annie made the tea, poured John a cup, and went back to her ironing. The only sounds were the swish of the iron, the crackle of the fire, and the quiet muttering of Gayo on his perch in the corner.
The smell of singed muffin assaulted John’s nostrils.
“Dearie me!” said Esperanza. “Uncle John, do you mind if it’s a little bit black?”
“Not at all. Don’t touch it till it has cooled a bit.”
Annie was about to set down her hot iron to come to the rescue when a sudden shriek from the parrot made them all jump.
“Hello, hello, dushenka!”
“Miss Teresa!”
Andrew and Teresa were standing in the doorway, looking as cheerful and unruffled as if they had just returned from a drive in the park.
Esperanza hurled herself at her parents. The abandoned muffin went up in flames, Annie scorched a pinafore, the baby woke and began to wail.
Trying to hush his godson, in what he recognized as an inept male fashion, John watched the family reunion. He envied Andrew his wife and daughter, an abstract envy with nothing of jealousy in it. Teresa was his dear cousin and an admirable person; it was Rebecca he wanted at his side for the rest of his life.
Annie rescued the baby from him, or vice versa, as Teresa surfaced from her daughter’s embrace. John rose to his feet while Teresa kissed Annie and admired the baby, then she turned to him.
“John, my dear, you are shockingly thin!” She hugged him. “Nothing but skin and bones. Have you been ill?”
“I shall tell you everything later. It’s good to see you.” He shook Andrew’s hand.
Teresa glanced around. “But where is Rebecca?”
“That is part of the story.” He shook his head as she appeared about to demand instant elucidation. “I know you better than to think you need to recover from the fatigue of a journey of several thousand miles, but it will wait until you are settled in. You do stay here, do you not?”
“At least until after Christmas,” Andrew said with a grin. “I dread the consequences of refusing the duchess’s standing invitation. Come and put off your bonnet, Teresa. We shall be with you in half an hour, John, if that suits you.”
“In the library,” he agreed.
They went off with Esperanza between them, hanging onto a hand on each side. John made his way below-stairs, trying to decide what to tell them about Rebecca. As he could not explain her absence it seemed better not to try. He would just tell them what happened in St Petersburg and on the way home, and then ask Teresa if she was willing to take Rebecca back as governess to Esperanza. He could not think of anywhere she was more likely to be happy—except, he hoped, in his arms.
Andrew joined him first and poured them each a glass of madeira. While they waited for Teresa, he told John something of their journey from the moment Rowson left them in Russia.
“It sounds as if you positively enjoyed it,” John observed.
“We did.” Teresa came in at that moment. “It was a splendid adventure. Your experience was less than agreeable, I collect. Tell us.” She sat down beside her husband.
As briefly as he could, John described Rebecca’s arrest, imprisonment and rescue, and his own injury and long illness. They were horrified.
“That settles it,” said Andrew, standing up and moving to the fireplace, where he leaned and stared into the flames for a moment before turning and straightening. “We endangered our friends, our daughter, and our servants to gratify our desire for new experiences. It is time we settled down, my dear.”
Teresa laid her hands on her slender middle, and John guessed that she must be with child again. She nodded, a trifle sadly, and said with resignation, “All good things come to an end. I am determined to like Warwickshire.”
Andrew laughed. “I am glad to hear it, but I do not mean to retire to my estate and grow corn just yet. I believe I have earned a post in Vienna, or even Paris.”
“Oh yes!” Ever impulsive despite her matronly dignity, she jumped up and ran to kiss him. His arm was about her waist when she turned back to John.
“But that does not tell us why Rebecca is not here,” she pointed out.
John felt his cheeks grow warm. Teresa and Andrew exchanged a glance and she came to take his hands in hers.
“Have you quarrelled?”
“Good heavens, no!” His astonishment overrode his embarrassment; he could not imagine quarrelling with Rebecca. “No, it wasn’t that. To tell the truth, I haven’t the least notion why she isn’t here but I shall go tomorrow to find out. Only there is one thing I must know: will you take her back as Esperanza’s governess?”
“Of course. For as long as she wants to stay.” Teresa looked at Andrew again and he agreed.
John heaved a deep sigh of relief. If Rebecca accepted his hand tomorrow it would not be because she had nowhere else to go but because she loved him.
Chapter 20
Rebecca sat at the little marquetry table in the parlour window, the only delicate object in a roomful of furniture as heavy as her heart. Though it was past ten, the sun had just risen above the houses on the opposite side of Hill Street. Frost sparkled on the tile roofs. Below, a dray horse clopped steadily along the cobbles, its driver huddled in his greatcoat on the rumbling wagon.
The sunlight fell on the sheet of paper on the table before her. She was writing a letter of acceptance but the words came slowly, her pen often wanted mending, the ink clogged and must be thinned. She was easily distracted, by a maid shaking her mop out of the window or a footman popping up from the area to run an errand like a rabbit emerging from its burrow.
She set down the quill with a sigh. It was an excellent position she had been offered, but it was no use pretending she cared.
Lady Parr had received a letter from Muriel two days ago. No opportunity of reminding the world that her daughter had married the heir to a dukedom was allowed to pass, and failing any other audience Emma Curtis and Rebecca must suffice, so by now Rebecca was thoroughly familiar with the contents.
“Dear Muriel will be arriving in town the day after tomorrow,” Cousin Adelaide had announced. “They always spend Christmas with the duke and duchess, usually at Five Oaks, the Kent estate, but this year they will stay in London, I collect. It seems that though Lord John is much recovered from his shocking ordeal he is still too weak to travel.”
Rebecca clenched her fists in her lap, determined not to reveal her eagerness for further news.
“Does Lady Danville bring her son and daughter?” asked Miss Curtis. “I quite long to meet your dear little grandchildren. They must be the best behaved children in the world, I am sure.”
“Yes, and that brings me to another matter. Rebecca, I informed Muriel that you are in want of a situation, and she writes that she will be happy to employ you in the nursery. It is excessively obliging of her, I vow, but then Muriel always was a dutiful daughter. So you need look no further.
“Indeed, Miss Nuthall, you are very much beholden to Lady Danville,” declared Emma Curtis.
“It is very kind of Cousin Muriel,” Rebecca had to agree. At the same time she had resolved not to accept unless she exhausted every other possibility. She liked the family, but living in John’s brother’s household she would be unable to avoid seeing him now and then, and that would be agony.
The next day she had been offered a position as governess with a family residing near Bath. She had met and liked the mother and two small girls, and she would be well paid. It seemed ideal. Yet here she was, a day later, unable to put pen to paper to accept.
Rebecca’s pride was waning. She must see John once before she went away. If she had already arranged her future he could not think she was pursuing him.
She went back to her letter.
As she dipped her pen in the inkstand, a hackney clattered to a halt just below her
window. It was too early for genteel visitors, and the carriage was too close to the house for her to see who stepped out. There was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat at the door, and she heard the sound of Donald’s voice, followed by his footsteps clumping up the stairs. Lady Parr was forever scolding him for his elephantine tread.
The footman opened the parlour door. “It’s a gentleman, miss, says he’s your uncle. A Mr. Exbridge.”
Rebecca shivered. For a moment a wild, unreasoning terror overwhelmed her, then she forced herself to remember that she was not afraid of him any more. She remembered the cell in the Peter-Paul fortress, and the endless hours wondering whether John was going to die in her arms. It was like looking down a long, dark tunnel, and the little, angry man at the far end was her uncle.
Donald’s voice seemed to echo from the tunnel. “Miss? Are you all right? I’ll tell him you’re not at home.”
“No, let him come up,” she said calmly. “Only leave the door open a crack and wait just outside, if you please.”
There was no sense in taking chances. Nonetheless she was confident, in control of the situation. She was writing when she heard the door open again and Mr. Exbridge snapped, “Rebecca!”
“I shall be with you in just a minute, Uncle. Pray be seated.” She could almost feel the outrage directed between her shoulderblades, but when she turned to him a moment later he was sitting down and there was as much puzzlement on his face as fury.
“A fine greeting this is, Niece, when I have come all the way to London to fetch you home.”
“You came all the way to Lincolnshire before, sir, with no better success than you can expect now.”
“Ah, but your fine friends are not here to protect you now, my girl. Her ladyship writes that you have lost your position and that she cannot offer you a home.” He was sneering now, the confusion gone as he recalled her invidious situation. “So off you go this instant to pack your traps and we’ll catch the Mail this very evening.”
“No, Uncle, I shall not go with you. Indeed, I wonder why you want me. There is no love lost between us, I think.”