Tarleton's Wife

by Blair Bancroft

  When the fire was burning briskly with the addition of dry leaves and a few twigs Daniel said Julia must find for herself, the four friends stood in a ring around the small blaze. Julia produced the handful of rose petals given to her by Mary Carter. Solemnly, she let them drift down into the fire. As the dry petals caught and burned, Julia knew she could not really smell the sweet scent of roses from so few petals and yet…

  With a swift shake to clear her head of fantasy, she picked up the jar of rose petals Meg had taken from the storage shelves and opened it. Julia offered the jar to her companions. Each took a handful and, in turn, tossed the petals onto the fire. Julia was last, upending the remaining contents of the jar over the flames. This time there was no doubt. The sweet scent of roses filtered through the pungent smoke, fleetingly filling the crisp October night.

  Rose petals on a bonfire. Good luck. Luck in love. A silly superstition but no one smiled. Silently, they stood in a ring until the bonfire burned to ashes. Julia shivered on a sudden chill wind. Surely not the best omen for what should have been a lighthearted venture into ancient superstition. With a grimace at her foolishness, she turned and led the procession back to the house.

  The smell of roses filled the room. Julia came to herself with a start. Absurd! There were no rose petals in the bath water. She had been daydreaming. If she soaked any longer, she’d be a wrinkled old hag. And if Nicholas came…

  Oh, dear God, what a fool she was! She had insisted on living in this hidden room to demonstrate that she and Nicholas were living separate lives. She planned to bar her not-so-phantom lover by bolting the door to the upstairs hallway. But she had not done it. She was not only a fool, she was a selfish fool. She was tired of being magnanimous. Sick to death of honor. She did not want the Spanish violet to have her Nicholas. In her determination to have him, she had even stooped to pagan nonsense. Shame, shame, shame!

  Julia washed herself quickly, as the water had grown cool and even the fireplace was no longer adequate to keep her warm. In her haste she managed to get some of the lavender-scented soap in her eye. She was vainly groping for the towel on the chair behind her when it was suddenly dangled above her. A brief touch against her hand, then twitched out of reach. Once again, a tantalizing touch. Then gone.

  “Looking for this?” inquired a smooth masculine voice.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Jack! How could you?” Julia sputtered. She froze, not daring to look down. Knowing all too well the water, once opaque from its infusion of herbs, had turned translucent. She needed at least eight arms to cover all she wished to cover. “Give me the towel and turn your back. At once!”

  “My back is turned, my Jule, I swear it,” came Jack’s bland reply as the towel descended in front of her face. “I even backed up the stairs and across the room. Like the ostrich, I thought you might not see me if I could not see you. But you were woolgathering, so my caution was superfluous.”

  “You are abominable!” A swift glance over her shoulder revealed that Jack was—at the moment at least—facing the staircase. Julia maneuvered the towel until it covered the bare essentials. “If I didn’t need to talk with you,” she announced grimly, “I’d order you out for the black-hearted demon you are. Nicholas could walk in at any minute.”

  “Nicholas is…ah…occupied elsewhere,” said Jack, enjoying the implied slur on the major’s character. “And you know full well I’m a bastard, my dear, as are a good many men whose parents were well and truly married. And how else am I to see you without a full audience of your female followers or a disapproving array of Tarletons? We do need to talk, you and I. You must admit a scanty few lines were a shockingly inadequate farewell.” Jack’s voice had hardened to a chill as cool as the water in the tub.

  He was right, of course. Jack was as true a friend as she had ever had and deserved more than the brief note she had written begging he understand the difficulty of her situation. “Very well,” Julia murmured with unaccustomed meekness. “If you will be good enough to find my robe in the armoire…”

  The robe—of brilliant blue silk, embroidered in the Chinese manner with a red dragon rampant—stood out among the sparse array of black and gray gowns like a beacon. Only one small trunkful of Julia’s new wardrobe had been delivered before she left London. Few of the clothes were what she expected. She had not ordered the blue silk robe with its gleaming red dragon, nor the confection of nearly transparent white batiste and lace that went under it. Nor the array of chemises and other nightwear, all of the finest fabrics and delicately embroidered. Nicholas must have ordered these exquisite garments, Julia thought. Out of guilt? Very likely. Or was it something more?

  A vision of the heavy cotton petticoat she wore on the long trek over the mountains leapt into her mind. The petticoat limp and grayed with constant use, its myriad pockets sagging with precious papers and coins. And with the petticoat came unwanted memories. Cold. Exhaustion. Hunger. Despair. And at the end…tragedy.

  And now, comedy. Julia snapped back to the present at the sight of Jack making an ostentatious show of crossing the room sideways. He was holding the blue robe out in a fine imitation of a matador challenging a bull. She made a futile stab at maintaining her anger but her lips twitched as she accepted the prize. Hastily, Jack turned away to restoke the dying fire.

  Somewhat reassured by the sight of his back bent low over the hearth, Julia hopped out of the tub, threw the robe around her shoulders and ran lightly across the room to search out a dry towel. By the time Julia was dry and enveloped in damp folds of blue silk, she could not keep her teeth from chattering.

  “For God’s sake, come over here and warm up,” Jack snapped. “I won’t eat you, you know.”

  The lure of the now crackling fire was too great. When Jack set a comfortable upholstered chair directly in front of the fire, Julia curled up in it with gratitude. She was, however, only momentarily diverted by the sudden comfort of physical warmth. Their conversation was destined to be uncomfortable. Possibly worse.

  A tiny gleam lit Jack’s eyes as Julia glared up at him. Withdrawing a chased silver flask from an inner coat pocket, he unscrewed the cap and held it out to her. “Brandy. Purely medicinal,” he said with a quizzical smile. “We can scarcely talk with your teeth sounding like a parade ground tattoo.”

  While Julia took a few cautious sips from the flask, Jack swung the ladder-back chair around until its back was almost touching her knees, forming a barrier between them. He straddled the seat, leaned his chin on the top rung and flashed her a wicked grin. “So are you married or not?” he inquired amiably. Jack cupped a hand behind one ear. “What was that, my Jule? You’re not sure? Don’t be daft, girl. Nicholas may be a tad forgetful but none of us doubts you’ve loved him to distraction for years. You’re not the woman I think you are, Julia Tarleton, if you let him get away with this.”

  Julia searched the familiar contours of her friend’s remarkably handsome face. In appearance, Jack Harding was far more the arrogant aristocrat than his younger brother would ever be. “You don’t mind?” she inquired softly.

  Jack ducked his chin, studying the dusty toes of his boots. “Of course I mind,” he said lightly, “but the truth is we’ve been spared bringing about our own mutual ruin. With Old Nick’s resurrection, there’s no doubt what your future should be. You’re his wife and there’s an end to it.”

  With his last words Jack raised his green eyes to hers. The tiny quirk of his lips, the quizzical tilt of his head brought a lump to her throat.

  “But if he is fool enough to choose the Spanish child,” Jack added purposefully, “you know I am yours to command. I’ll not encourage you to abandon wealth and security but I’d need no persuasion to join you if you choose to go.” His strong fingers seized Julia’s chin, tilting her face to within inches of his own. “And yet another but. Understand this, Julia Tarleton, you’ll not run off again. Not without me.”

  Julia’s lips quivered, her eyes misted. Jack was a rogue and a radical but h
e was her rogue. She never doubted they could make a good life together. In time. If…

  Quietly, as matter-of-factly as she could, Julia told him of her days in London, ending, “I really don’t know how things will turn out, Jack. I offered Nicholas an annulment. He seems reluctant to accept.”

  “Is he now?” said Jack softly. “It seems Old Nick is developing better taste than I gave him credit for.” For a moment he rocked back in the chair, then forward, banging the legs against the floor with a snap which made Julia start. “The question, my dearest Jule, is what you want.”

  Julia developed a fascination with the tassel on her belt. “I thought I had a choice,” she admitted. “I tried to do the right thing. I served myself up on the unpalatable platter of honor but Nicholas rejected the sacrifice. Which might be all well and good if I could accept his sacrifice. I know it’s quite stupid but some stubborn part of me wants him only on my terms. Not for honor but for love.”

  “But you do love him, you silly widgeon.”

  “You’ve got it backward. I want him to love me!” she wailed.

  “Now I know you’re mad,” Jack retorted. “Don’t cry for the moon, Jule. He’ll not long mourn for his little Spaniard. You’re thrice the woman she is. Take things as they come, my priceless idiot. Perfection is an hallucination of the mad. Grow up. Settle for the possible, or you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

  Julia found she was still clutching the silver flask in her lap, its etched design now oddly patterned against her palm. Blankly, she stared at the uneven indentations, her eyes crossing, blurring until the pattern became a sneering, triumphant goblin face. The winter spirits had arrived just in time to complete the absurd tangle of their lives. She thrust the flask at Jack, then vigorously rubbed the palm of her hand with her robe, like some latter day Lady Macbeth succumbing to hysteria…

  No! Not Julia, daughter of the regiment. She was made of sterner stuff. Which made the problem no less difficult to solve. Easy enough to agree with Jack in principle. Almost impossible to act upon his advice. She was as stiff-necked, stubborn, prideful and independent as Nicholas. She might wish to give in, to compromise but innate dignity kept her back straight, her knees stiff.

  In short, a cold bedfellow.

  Julia sighed. Perhaps…in the morning life would be more appealing. For now, there was another problem to be dealt with. There were, after all, more serious matters than the tangle of her personal life.

  “Jack,” she said abruptly, “I’m told there may be a Runner in town. A Terence O’Rourke. Do you think it’s true?”

  “The devil alone knows,” Jack admitted. “I’ll grant you O’Rourke’s not your usual wool buyer. Even when he moves slowly, he reminds me of a sleek cat just gathering his muscles to pounce. Likeable chap, though. Kissed the Blarney stone, that one, and doesn’t sit on his purse. In truth, we’re keeping an eye on him. And praying he returns to Ireland—or wherever he comes from—as soon as may be.”

  “Then why are you doing anything as suicidal as stirring up the mill workers? Yes, the women told me, you dolt! They say you’re bored, that we’ve grown too tame for you now that our farm workers are no longer starving. Have you no sense at all, Jack?” Things have just quieted down and now I discover you’re bent on finding another way to hang. So do not scold me, if you please. I risk nothing worse than a broken heart. You are risking your neck.”

  The light of a crusader’s spirit flared in Jack’s deep blue eyes. “The mills are far worse than the farms, Jule. Woodworthy pays your mill workers no better than he does the cottagers. They work inside in the noise and the dust of the looms from dawn to dusk and seldom see the sun. Their houses are dark hovels with no patch of garden to grow a bite to eat. Woodworthy controls not only where they work but where they sleep and where they buy what few items they can afford. They’re so worn down from the way they live that few have the strength to fight back. You can’t just expect me to pass by on the other side of the road, now can you?”

  “Saint Jack!” Julia responded tartly. “I’ll remember to say a prayer for your crusader’s spirit when I see you swaying on the gibbet. Let’s be truthful, you great looby. You simply enjoy a fight. The more trouble you can stir up, the happier you are.”

  Jack examined this scarcely novel suggestion and meekly hung his head. “You’ve found me out,” he pronounced mournfully.

  “For heaven’s sake, Jack, be sensible! I’m told they intend the Guy to be Nicholas. You must stop them! He holds us all in the palm of his hand. It’s Nicholas’ workers you’re leading into mischief…or worse. His mills. His farms. Nicholas’ wishes affect us all. Your life. Mine. Sophy’s. Meg, Daniel, all our workers. You’ve got to put a stop to it, Jack. We can’t risk his anger.”

  Julia leaned forward, her face close to his. She twined her fingers around one of the hands which was supporting Jack’s chin on the top of the ladder-back chair.

  Softly, smoothly, his lips barely moving, Jack murmured, “And what can I do, my Jule, that you can’t do better? My influence with the men is not half as powerful as your influence with Old Nick.” He leaned closer yet, his lips almost touching hers. “I could even be persuaded to be burned as a Guy if I had a lovely wife to soothe my wounded feelings.” Jack was so close she could feel his breath upon her mouth.

  “You might. Nick would not,” Julia snapped, moving back from the dangerous force of his charm. “You’ll mend matters because it’s the only thing…”

  It was too late, the temptation too great. Jack’s hand snaked out, brought her lips back to his. He was spared the box on the ear Julia was about to deliver when he found himself flat on his back on the hearth rug. As he tried to shake the ringing from his ears, the towering form of Nicholas Tarleton reached down to haul him to his feet for another blow.

  “It’s not what you think!” Jack asserted as the major hoisted him by his shirt and hit him with a left, which sent him crashing into a delicate inlaid desk. Jack grabbed for the desk’s equally delicate chair to steady himself. He tripped, crashing once again to the floor amidst splinters of white and gold wood.

  “Damn it, Nick, I’m not going to fight you,” Jack declared, resting on one elbow. “I know how it looks but Julia just finished telling me she loves you. I was a bit dog-in-the-manger. Couldn’t resist one last try, don’t you know?” What he saw in his old friend’s face gave little hope for the triumph of reason.

  Nicholas had endured a bad day. He had visited Violante with reluctance, with some vague hope that seeing her might be all that was needed to turn his world right-side up again. It had not proved true. He had come away in a rage, indulged in far too much brandy at Ellington Park, been taunted by a mob on his own land—an offense for which any other landowner would have had the militia out long since. He had ridden the last leg home, his fury increasing with every clop of his horse’s hooves. He would have it out with Julia this very night. Yet by the time he came within a mile of The Willows, he’d been bitten by his wife’s bug of self-sacrifice. If Harding was her lover…if she wanted to go away with him, Nicholas Tarleton would not stand in her way. The scandal he could endure.

  Hell and damnation, he’d be well rid of her.

  But when the door behind the tapestry slid silently back into the wall, revealing Jack kissing his wife, the events of the day, well doused in brandy fumes, exploded into a rage as murderous as the major had ever experienced in battle. He’d kill the bastard!

  As Jack struggled to his feet, Julia grabbed her husband’s arm. In one smooth motion the major picked her up and flung her onto the bed where she bounced once. She opened her mouth on a furious protest, then clamped her jaws tight about her tongue. Drawing herself up to her knees, Julia watched in wary silence.

  “You’re really spoiling for a fight, aren’t you, Old Nick?” Jack taunted. “For her honor? Or yours?” As he spoke, he rushed at the major, knocking him backward into the open central portion of the room. “You’re a damn fool,” Jack growled as he atte
mpted to pin Nicholas to the floor. Bodies twisted, hands struggling for a grip, knees searching for vulnerable body parts. “Julia’s the most virtuous wife in Lincolnshire,” Jack panted.

  Nicholas broke free, beating Jack to his feet by a matter of seconds. A feint with his left and Jack was once again propelled across the room, this time by a hard right to the jaw which sent him staggering back against the corner of the dining table. The sharp stab of pain ignited the anger lurking beneath Jack’s humiliation at being caught with his friend’s wife. Both men settled down to fighting in earnest.

  They were evenly matched. Six feet two of sandy-haired fury to six feet of chestnut-haired scorn and anger. To the accompaniment of Julia’s occasional pleas of “Stop! Stop it, I say!” they wrestled, exchanging a series of hardy blows, several times coming close to singeing themselves in the fire. The silver candelabrum on the table crashed to the floor, the mirror on Julia’s dresser disintegrated into a mass of silver slivers. Dining chairs went askew, the wardrobe door came open, the ladder-back chair and desk chair lay where they had fallen.

  With a battlefield roar Nicholas charged once more, sending Jack flying into an as yet undamaged portion of the room. The painted porcelain bowl and pitcher on the washstand crashed to the floor. Jack, considerably more sober than his opponent, came to his senses first, appalled by the destruction of Julia’s room, not to mention his friendship with Nicholas. And all because of his own arrogant assumption that he could treat Julia as if she were his and not the wife of his old friend Nick. Time to end it, though far too late for sweet reason.