Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  “But nearly two hundred steps,” he growled. “At least let me carry you.”

  She giggled. She had never loved him more than at this moment, when he was behaving like a schoolboy in love. “I’ll be too heavy,” she said, lifting her basket filled with ribbons and laces and a pretty new pair of shoes. “You should never have bought me all these trifles.”

  “When we get home, I want to buy you everything. Gowns and jewels and…” He frowned again as two farmers passed them and chuckled and nudged each other in the ribs. “Damn it,” he muttered, “why does everyone stare at us?”

  “We’re the town attraction. At least since you spoke to the rector of St. Mary and asked him to marry us. It doesn’t take gossip long to spread in a small village.” She pointed up the hill to the ruins of Whitby Abbey, which stood at a short distance from the church. Beyond the ruins was a large, gray stone manor house. “That’s where the Cholmleys live, I’m told. They’re the only gentry in Whitby. The Lords of the Manor. But with the family away in London, and Abbey House unoccupied at the moment, you, my love, are the only nobility here.” She grinned. “And a viscount, into the bargain! ’Tis an event for people who only know farming and shipbuiding.”

  He seemed scarcely to be listening. His eyes were warm on her face, examining her as though he couldn’t get enough of her. “Do you know how adorable you are when you smile? I want to kiss you until you beg for mercy. Right here on the street.”

  She felt herself blushing. “At least wait until we’re married.”

  “Why, then, my bride,” he said, holding out his hand, “shall we?” She nodded and slipped her fingers through his, allowing him to lead her up the stairs.

  They had scarcely taken half a dozen steps, however, when a young woman darted up from the street and curtsied. In her hand she held a large and somewhat bedraggled flower, which she held out to Allegra. “It bean’t right for a bride to be wi’out flowers on her weddin’ day. ’Tis the last from my mam’s garden.” She pressed the blossom into Allegra’s hand, turned scarlet, and skipped away.

  Allegra was still staring after her in surprise and pleasure when an old woman came hobbling up the stairs, leaning on a stout walkingstick. Allegra recognized her as one of her tenants. Several townspeople crowded at the foot of the stairs, looking expectantly up at the crone. She smiled—a toothless grin—reached into her basket and pulled out a bunch of dried rosemary. “We be wishin’ ye well, your worships.” She lifted her stick and gestured at the long, meandering staircase. “Every bride and coffin in Whitby travels this way.” She handed the fragrant herbs to Allegra, then turned toward the assembled villagers. “Well,” she scolded, “what be ye waitin’ on? They won’t bite. An’ that’s the truth, sure as rain.”

  One by one the townsfolk shuffled up the stairs to shyly hand Allegra their bouquets—a handful of sea grasses and reeds, purple heather from the moors, a fading rose—until Allegra’s arms were filled with their bounty and her eyes misted with tears. She felt warmed and welcomed by these strangers—a reminder, lest she forget, that there were more good people than evil ones in the world. She smiled at Grey, too moved, too overwhelmed to say a word.

  He grinned. “Begad, a most excellent village! We shall have a wedding as has never been seen before!” He turned to the old woman. “Does Whitby have a tavern with enough ale to quench a town’s thirst?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Aye, Your Lordship!”

  Grey fished in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a sack of gold coins. “Then tell your tavernkeeper to roast what meats he has, and tap every keg, and make us a wedding feast for every soul in Whitby to enjoy!” He silenced the cheer that rose from the crowd with a wave of his hand. “Those of you who wish it, come to the church and see us married. It would be our honor. But first…” He winked at Allegra and lowered his voice. “I will have my way, you saucy miss.” He turned again to the townspeople. “Find me four strong lads with a stout chair who aren’t daunted by these steps.” He kissed Allegra’s hand, his eyes filled with love. “My lady shall come to her wedding in style.”

  And so she did—borne on the most elegant chair the good citizens of Whitby could find, her arms filled with her fragrant and humble bouquet. The clergyman blessed their union to the accompaniment of huzzahs from the spectators; then everyone trooped back down the hill to celebrate and dance and drink their toasts to the bride and groom.

  It was night before they climbed the steps again on their way home from the merry tavern scene. They waved to the townsfolk who wished them a good night, and made their way slowly up the hill.

  They were silent, filled with the wonder of their love, the clear stillness of the night, the beauty of the large, full moon—so bright that it blotted out the stars. They passed the tombstones in the churchyard, old and weather-beaten, and watched the face of the moon play hide-and-seek through the ruined Gothic arches of the old abbey.

  Grey stopped suddenly and dropped to one knee before her. “I salute you, my love,” he murmured. “Anne Allegra, Viscountess Ridley. It has a fine sound to it. It suits you.”

  She felt a surprising pang of anger and regret, like a sharp knife to her heart. “They should have been here to share my joy,” she said, feeling the hot tears flow.

  He rose to his feet and pulled her into his arms. In the bright moonlight she could read the uneasy doubt on his face. “Allegra, I hoped…my gift…Will it be enough to ease your sorrow, I wonder?”

  “What is it?”

  “I had a letter from Gifford. Just before I left Wenlock Edge. He and Briggs have obtained the king’s pardon. The Baniards are absolved of their crimes. Your father’s good name is restored.”

  Her rush of joy was followed by bitterness. “The king’s pardon came too late.”

  “Will you still nurture your hatred? Let it go.”

  “I thought I had,” she said. “When Tom died. But I think I’ll hate John Wickham forever.” She sighed. “Take me to bed, love. And make me glad to be alive.”

  They held the candle between them as they mounted the steps to their bedchamber. They undressed quickly and lay down together on the large, curtained bed. Though Grey was a solicitous and tender lover this evening, Allegra found herself chafing with a vague discontent. His caresses, his kisses, the way he touched her body with gentle hands. She felt a distance in his manner tonight, a diffidence, a…a lack of passion, she thought suddenly. Had the ceremony of their marriage destroyed the spontaneity that had brought excitement to their previous encounters?

  And then she remembered his behavior all day. She sat up in bed and put her hands on her hips. “Am I to have eight months of this?” she demanded. “Eight months of being treated like a fragile child’s poppet whenever you take me to bed?”

  He sat up in his turn and scowled at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I have a body that was tempered by a great deal of work, Grey. You can be more forceful when you make love to me. I’ll not break.”

  “’Tis only your condition. I have concerns. That’s natural enough.”

  She flounced out of bed and stood in the center of the room, glaring at him. “Then you shall not have me at all, milord. Not until I’m brought to bed with our child.”

  “Rebellion? So soon as we’re married?” He crooked a finger at her. His eyebrows arched devilishly in the light of the candle. “Come here, you saucy wench.”

  She shook her head and danced around the room, waving her arms at him like a teasing child. “You’ll have to catch me.”

  He growled and leapt out of bed, charging her like a wild bull. Laughing, she managed to elude him at first. But he was fleet of foot and the room was small. She found herself backed into a corner, unceremoniously tucked under his arm, and flung across the bed. She tried to scramble away, but he pinned her down, one large hand on the flat of her belly. The other hand pried her legs apart. “You imp, is this forceful enough for you?” he said, and plunged his fingers within her.

  She gasp
ed and writhed at his loving assault, managing at length to wriggle from under his imprisoning hands. And when he rose on all fours to pursue her, she caught him off guard with a violent push and toppled him onto his back.

  Pressing her advantage, she straddled him and positioned herself above his eager, poised member. “How do you like a timorous lover, milord?” She lowered herself gently onto his shaft, and watched his look of surprise turn to one of anticipation. But—though he thrust upward with his hips, urging her to move—she kept her body still, his member captured and restrained within her. He groaned in frustration and she grinned.

  Lifting her forefinger, she began to scrawl words across his hairy chest. Letter by letter she spelled out her message, forcing him to speak it aloud while he gasped and twitched at the sensuous touch of her finger. “Allegra is not fragile,” she wrote. She dotted her “i’s” by tickling delicately at his nipples.

  “No more,” he muttered at last. “Grey is not a patient man!” He grabbed her around the waist, wrenched her off him, and threw her onto her back. He thrust himself wildly into her, wringing a cry of ecstasy from her lips. He was as forceful as she would have wanted him to be, riding her with a passion that left her senses reeling. By the time they climaxed in a burning, drenching thrill, he had taken her in every position he could devise.

  She lay exhausted, warm and contented. But after a little while, she began to giggle. “I have no doubt our child slept through all of that.”

  He nuzzled his head against her neck and kissed her and nibbled at her ear. “For what I have in mind for you in the next few months,” he said, “I hope he’s a very sound sleeper!”

  The night had grown cold. They dressed for bed, crawled between the heavy blankets, and fell asleep entwined. The happiest day of my life, thought Allegra, just before she drifted off.

  She woke to the sounds of a struggle, a muffled cry, the gurgle of a choked voice. The bed was empty. She groped for flint and candle, striking a light with shaking fingers. She scrambled off the bed and held the candle high.

  Grey knelt on the floor, straddling the slight, well-knit figure of a man. He had one hand at the man’s throat and the other on his hand, which clutched an evil-looking knife. As Allegra watched, Grey wrenched the blade from the man’s fist and sent it spinning across the floor. “The bloody rogue tried to kill me as I slept,” he growled.

  Allegra frowned down at the stranger. How dare he disturb their sweet idyll? A thief in the night, no doubt. His dark, greasy hair was loose and wild, and his face was twisted into a savage scowl. He shook his head from side to side, clutching at Grey’s hand on his throat. He uttered a foul oath, then looked squarely at Allegra for the first time.

  She gasped and fell back a step, one hand going to her bosom. “Godamercy,” she breathed. “Charlie?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Charlie gulped the last of his ale, banged down his tankard and rubbed his sleeve across his mouth. “Have you nothing stronger than this, Annie?”

  Allegra frowned in dismay. “I have a few cordials that I distilled.”

  “But no brandy?” He sneered in Grey’s direction. “Did you marry a toupet man who doesn’t drink?”

  Grey muttered darkly. Allegra put a restraining hand on his arm, her eyes begging his silence. For this was Charlie—alive! Her own dear brother come back to her. She couldn’t bear to see a quarrel between the two men she loved the most.

  She had wept and hugged Charlie, ecstatic to see him. She had assailed him with questions, so bubbling and happy and unbelieving that she scarcely waited for him to answer one before asking another. He had seemed uncomfortable with the extremity of her emotions, turning her aside at last with a brusque request for food and drink.

  “Will you have more cold mutton, Charlie?”

  “No.” He stood up and restlessly paced the room, then stopped and looked at Grey. “Ridley. There was a rogue of that name who bought Baniard Hall from young Ellsmere, I heard.”

  Grey lowered his shaggy brows and clenched his jaw. “I am that man, sir.”

  Charlie let out a shout of laughter. “Zounds, Annie, but you turned out to be a shrewd one! You were a sweet little chicken. But I never thought you could look after yourself so well. ’Tis a pity there wasn’t a Wickham heiress. I might have married and screwed the whore to get back the Hall myself.” He laughed bitterly. “A nice bit of revenge that would have been, eh?”

  Allegra pressed her lips together. “Charlie, Grey is the man I love. I won’t have you talk that way.”

  Her brother shrugged. “If you choose to feather your nest on your back, Annie, why should I give a fig?”

  “Now, damn you, sir!” Grey leapt for Charlie.

  “No! Grey!” Allegra rushed to intervene. “Please, love,” she said, putting her arms around Grey’s neck. “Do you think that Charlie suffered less than I?”

  Grey untwined her arms and took a deep, steadying breath. He nodded at Charlie. “You were a gentleman once, sir. I trust you haven’t forgotten that. This is my wife, my viscountess. And your sister. Kindly have the honor to show her respect, and we can be friends, as God intended kin to be.” He hesitated, then offered his hand.

  Charlie muttered a soft oath to himself and accepted Grey’s gesture of peace. He looked abashed at his own behavior. “My hand, sir. ’Tis difficult to forget the past, you understand.”

  “For Allegra as well. Bury your anger, and rejoice that you’ve found one another again.”

  “Aye.” Charlie resumed his pacing, stopping to peer out at the night sky and drum his fingers against the windowpane. “So Tom Wickham is dead. I came here to kill him when I heard in London that he’d inherited this place. It must have been recent, his death.”

  Allegra sighed. “Scarcely a month ago. He…he died in my arms,” she added, chewing at her lip.

  Charlie’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile. “I should have liked to see that.”

  She started to protest, then kept silent. Was Charlie’s hatred any more bitter than her own had been? Best to shift the discourse. She could tell him of Tom’s bravery at another time.

  She looked toward the window; it would soon be dawn. Grey had long since donned shirt and breeches, but she was still in her nightshift. Perhaps she would go upstairs and put on her gown. “Have you slept at all tonight, Charlie?” When he shook his head, she reached to help him off with his coat and make him more comfortable. “Let me fetch fresh sheets for the bed, dear one, and then you can take off your boots and sleep for a little while.”

  The coat was well cut and of a fine, expensive cloth, but uncommonly heavy. Allegra frowned. Was that the outline of a pistol in a deep, inner pocket? “You were in London?” she asked. “What did you do there?”

  He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “This and that. There are few opportunities for a man who must use an assumed name.”

  Godamercy! In all the excitement, she’d never told him the glad news. “Not any longer! Oh, Charlie. You can be Charles Baniard again. And forevermore. We’re free! Tom willingly confessed his father’s plot before he died. The king has granted his pardon. The Baniards are absolved. Oh, Charlie,” she cried again, throwing her arms around him, “don’t you understand? You’re free!”

  “Free?” He snarled and shook her off. “Three years ago I escaped from the plantations. A runaway. For two years I tried to leave America. I was a fugitive, living on the road, stealing food and clothing, milking untended cows and eating grass to keep myself alive. Through rain and cold and bitter nights. And always fearing that I’d be discovered. I managed at last to find a ship, and served like a dog ’tween decks to earn my passage. I came home to learn that John Wickham was dead, Tom Wickham vanished, and the Hall sold to this caitiff.” He gestured angrily in Grey’s direction. “Free?” He spat the word. “There’s a rope waiting for me, on some gibbet, for returning from transportation.” He gave Allegra a sarcastic bow. “Or would you like ‘Charles Baniard’ to openly turn himself in?
If I escaped hanging, they’d merely send me back to the plantations. So much for being ‘free.’”

  Grey stepped forward. His face was like stone, but his voice was calm and reasonable. “I still have influence at Court, I think. I can plead your cause in London. A pardon, at the very least, from your wrongful sentence. If I speak to the right people, perhaps I can have your title restored. Baronet, was it not? And then we might arrange a sinecure or small pension from the king, in compensation for the loss of your estates. I think it can be done. Give me the name of the plantation owner as well. I’ll send him a fat settlement, to satisfy him and keep him from making mischief against you.”

  Allegra’s heart swelled with gratitude. How good and generous of Grey. She slipped her arm through his. Dear heaven! She felt the unexpected tremble of his body, the quivering in his arm, and stared in sudden shocked remembrance. How could she have forgotten his humiliation in Ludlow, the dreadful story of his London disgrace that Dolly had told? And now, to return to London again, to brave the Court, the scorn of society…Oh, God, how difficult this must be for him! “Are you sure you want to do this for Charlie, my love?”

  He looked down at her. She could see the veil of fear and haunting doubt in his eyes. “’Tis for you, Allegra,” he muttered. “Not for him.”

  “But perhaps Gifford…or Briggs…”

  He sighed tiredly and passed a hand across his mouth. “And if they failed? How soon would it be before I saw reproach in your eyes? Contempt? It was a mad dream I had, to think I could hide away in Shropshire forever. Let me face my demons and prove my worth, if I can. With a worthy cause.” He squared his shoulders and managed a thin smile. “Come, Baniard, what do you say to that?”

  Allegra blinked back her tears. How she loved him—this good, brave man. She wondered if her brother would ever appreciate Grey’s sacrifice. “You see, Charlie,” she said, “your little Annie made a fine choice for a husband. God willing, Sir Charles Baniard will be restored.”