Dawn in My Heart

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  She undid the small buckle and put the collar around Sophie’s neck. “Oh, Sophie, if you could see yourself.” Gillian gave her dog a hug. “What a good girl you are.”

  She had been right about the dog’s character. She was gentle and obedient. “I’m so glad you’re mine now. Lord Skylar promised you could live with me wherever I go.” Giving Sophie a hug, Gillian felt touched by Lord Skylar’s gift, more so than by the jewels he’d given her.

  The thought of them filled Gillian with a surge of remorse as she remembered her careless attitude toward his gifts. She would wear the necklace and earrings at the next opportunity, she decided.

  Yesterday, the first of her new wardrobe had been delivered. Gillian walked over to her dressing room and pulled open her wardrobe. She fingered the satins and woolens, furs, sarcenet, and lawn of the new gowns, riding habits, cloaks and pelisses….

  She stood there many moments, thinking of her future. She was sure she’d made the right decision in deciding to marry Lord Skylar. Any other girl would be overjoyed, but all she felt was fear and guilt. Sophie came and stood beside Gillian, and she petted the dog absently.

  What did Lord Skylar offer her? Perhaps no grand passion or romantic fantasy, but he’d always treated her respectfully and kindly. Perhaps an affection would grow between them over the years and through their children. And in time, Gillian’s feelings for Gerrit would disappear. Or, hopefully, be transferred to Lord Skylar, however unlikely that possibility seemed.

  Yet, was it fair of her to give Lord Skylar nothing more than a mild affection, and an heir?

  But he had never asked for anything more. He didn’t strike her as a passionate man like Gerrit. All Lord Skylar seemed to require was fidelity and an heir.

  Were these things enough for her?

  She longed for warmth and affection and love.

  Gerrit made clear he offered her none of these things.

  He’d told her he had ruined her for any other man. Her conscience reminded her how true that was. She turned away from her wardrobe, too scared to dwell on the consequences of the reckless decision she had taken three years ago. In scarcely more than a fortnight she would be wed, and it remained to be seen if her new husband would have an inkling of what she had done three years ago.

  She would make Lord Skylar a good wife, she promised her image in the mirror. The thought made her feel better, but would her future conduct be enough to erase her past?

  Chapter Seven

  A week later, Tertius attended a ball given by the duchess in honor of the nuptials. More than a hundred people crowded into the Burnham mansion.

  His foreboding about the wedding had grown. He sensed all was not right with Gillian no matter how much she tried to convince him she was agreeable to the marriage.

  He bowed over the duchess’s hand then turned to Lady Gillian. His eyes focused immediately on the emeralds around her neck. “Good evening, my lady,” he murmured as he bowed over her hand. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  He made no remark about the jewelry, but looked at her sharply before taking his place in the receiving line to greet the other guests. What had made her decide to finally wear his gift? Was it to mark the occasion of their first public appearance as a couple?

  Later, after the two had danced a few sets, he asked her if she cared to take a turn about the gardens to cool off. She accepted and the two walked onto the quiet stone balcony.

  When they stopped at the far end, away from other promenading couples, she fingered the emerald pendant hanging from her necklace. “Thank you for the necklace. It truly is beautiful.”

  “You didn’t think so when I first sent it to you. What happened since then?”

  She looked away. “Nothing. I always thought it beautiful.”

  “You were angry at me, then?”

  “No—yes. It was because you didn’t come riding that day, and I heard nothing from you afterward.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you keep your appointment with me that day? My mother said you were ill.”

  He didn’t answer right away, not relishing the thought of getting into the whole sordid business of his fever. With a sigh, he said, “Let us say there was a breakdown in communication. I had instructed that a note be sent to you, but it seems it was never delivered. I take full responsibility for that lapse and have dealt with the matter so it should never occur again.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Were you ill?”

  “No, I haven’t, have I? I was indisposed. A few lingering effects of the long sea voyage taken so soon after the fever. Just a trifling thing.”

  “I would have understood if I’d known. But so many days of nothing but silence…I didn’t know what to think.”

  “As I said, I’m sorry the note never reached you. As for the illness—” he shrugged, dismissing the topic “—a tedious subject.”

  Before she could contradict him, he said, “I have been thinking we could start our honeymoon journey at Bishop’s Green in Hertfordshire.”

  “That is your family seat?”

  “Yes, my dear.” It was the first time he’d used a term of endearment to her and he did it deliberately to gauge her reaction. She made no acknowledgment of it that he could see.

  “Who is its present mistress?” she asked.

  “It has none. So you shall have that honor.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Oh, he’s rarely there. He prefers to spend his time in town or as a guest of the Regent in Brighton, playing the aging dandy.”

  She smiled. “I find him a sweet old man.”

  “Sweet? I wouldn’t call him that.” A vain, lecherous old scoundrel, he thought to himself. “At any rate, we can tour the estate at Bishop’s Green. It is the closest of our estates to London—an easy journey for the first day.” When she made no comment, he asked, “How is Sophie?”

  “Wonderful. I’m sure she must have lived with a family at some time. She has adapted beautifully.”

  “No overturned furniture? Broken vases?”

  She laughed. “Not a teacup.”

  They fell silent again.

  His gaze wandered over her features, seeking something…some key to her thoughts. They had almost achieved their former camaraderie, yet he felt she still shied away from him. Her eyes had barely met his the entire evening.

  “You’ve never called me by my given name,” he said lightly.

  She turned startled eyes to him before looking away again. “I don’t feel I’ve known you very long.”

  “Are you waiting until we are wed?” he asked, amused.

  Despite the semidarkness, he detected the color that rose in her cheeks.

  “My name is Tertius, Gillian.” Why was it so important all of a sudden that she say it? It was as if his name on her lips would mark her unequivocally as his.

  “Ter-shus,” she pronounced. Then she giggled nervously. “It sounds like a monk’s name.”

  He chuckled in reply.

  “Is this like a monk’s kiss?” he asked.

  Before he could question the wisdom of the move, he leaned his face toward hers.

  “What—what are you going to do?” she asked, one hand going involuntarily to clutch her necklace.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered against her lips.

  “You are?” she asked faintly. Her hand fell against his chest as if to stop him.

  His gloved fingertips touched her chin lightly, guiding her face upward. He breathed in the scent of her perfume, soft and sweet like lily of the valley, suggesting femininity and innocence.

  His lips touched hers, lightly, coolly, and he drew back after a few seconds, observing her once again from his height.

  She hadn’t moved. She looked a little stunned. Then she pressed her lips together as she looked off into the garden, and he had the impression that if she were alone she’d take out a lace handkerchief from her beaded reticule
and discreetly wipe her lips.

  He rocked back on his heels. His unplanned experiment had yielded no great surprises. Not a hint of desire had stirred her. He had no inclination to press her further at this time. In short, she was as interesting to kiss as a sponge.

  He didn’t understand how a person who showed such enthusiasm and spirit at other times could be so timorous when it came to the physical aspects of courtship.

  What would his married life be like? he wondered dismally as he left the ball in the wee hours. Could he teach Gillian to enjoy the pleasures between a man and a woman, or would she stiffen every time he chose to come near?

  Gillian’s wedding trousseau kept growing. Her wedding gown now hung apart from all the other dresses, like a wedding cake towering above the other confections surrounding it. It was a magical creation of silk and satin and tulle edged in yards and yards of Belgian lace.

  Her trunks were full of new things from underclothes and lacy nightgowns to slippers and half boots and bonnets for every sort of outing.

  The excitement of so many new things helped keep any misgivings at bay. Now, on the eve of her wedding, she told herself sternly that she would survive it. She reassured herself as she remembered Lord Skylar’s kiss. It hadn’t felt at all unpleasant. Maybe she could grow to like it.

  Her wedding night wouldn’t be so very different. All she’d have to do was close her eyes and it would be over almost as quickly.

  It couldn’t be any worse than that last time.

  Unfortunately, there was always that niggling worry. Would Lord Skylar be able to tell anything? She had no one to consult. She didn’t dare ask her mother. In the old days she would have asked her maid, but her mother had long since dismissed Sally and replaced her with the dour-faced Martha. The two names said it all. Martha always looked disapproving, just like Templeton. Martha reminded Gillian of those schoolgirls who never misbehaved and would go running to the teacher the moment another girl did.

  So who could advise her? No one. Where was her dear papa when she needed him most? A wave of despair swept through her. None of this would be happening if Papa had still been alive when she’d first met Gerrit. If her father had seen how much she loved Gerrit, he would have arranged for the two of them to be married. He’d never denied her anything.

  But now she had no one to confide her terrible secret to. She’d have to pray and hope for the best. Dear God, Don’t let Lord Skylar find out. Don’t let him know.

  She knew what she’d do, she determined after pacing her carpet. Act the way she’d acted the first time. Frightened, a little scream of pain—would it still hurt? Undoubtedly. So, that wouldn’t be difficult, she thought with a grimace.

  For truth be told, she was terrified of her wedding night. Lord Skylar—she couldn’t bring herself to think of him by his Christian name—just standing there observing her, let alone—

  No! She wouldn’t even think of what awaited her.

  On their wedding day, Tertius stood before his bride in the crowded cathedral. Despite the precipitate date, the church was packed with both families’ many friends and relations. When Gillian lifted her veil, her wide, frightened eyes swallowed up her whole face. She looked ready to faint. Tertius wondered if such had been the pallor of those aristos being led to the guillotine.

  Her hand was cold when he placed the gold band on her finger.

  He bent to kiss her for the second time in their acquaintance, and it was like kissing a marble statue, cold and lifeless. He replaced her veil, the fleeting image of covering a corpse’s face flitting through his mind.

  He took her arm and led her from the church, to begin their new life as one.

  Tertius rested his head against the edge of the tub. For some inexplicable reason he was loathe to leave its warm cocoon. He should be counting the minutes impatiently before he could be with his new bride. Instead he was filled with an inexplicable sense of dread.

  “Shall I bring you your towel?” Nigel’s noiseless approach no longer startled him. Tertius merely opened his eyes and said, “I suppose so.”

  “Your bride be waiting, all prettied for you.”

  Tertius made no comment, submerging his head one last time in the warm water before standing and taking the soft towel handed to him by his valet.

  As he was wrapping the towel around his waist, he caught sight of himself in the mirror opposite him and immediately averted his gaze. He’d always been thin but now he looked positively emaciated. He hadn’t managed to gain back any of the weight lost during his fever in the Indies, and the latest bout had taken even more.

  What was the matter with him? The frustrated question revolved for the hundredth time around his mind as he rubbed himself vigorously with the additional towel Nigel gave him. When it wasn’t a fever, it was excruciating migraines like a vise at his temples, behind his eyes. Even the blandest foods disagreed with him. He was no doubt becoming dyspeptic, like his great-uncle Harry, who was forever popping peppermints into his mouth, a habit Tertius was beginning to develop of late.

  It must be the wretched English climate with its fog and coal smoke, he told himself in reply—ignoring the glorious summer weather the city had enjoyed.

  The wedding banquet had been rich and sumptuous, but he hadn’t dared overindulge in either food or drink. Even so, he still felt a nervous flutter in his stomach.

  He donned a silk nightshirt and dressing gown. At least they’d both be fully gowned. Just as well, he thought, though the thought gave him no pleasure. It wasn’t what he was accustomed to. As he belted the dressing gown, again forced to notice the spareness of his waist, the sudden question popped into his head, what would Edmund have done?

  He looked at himself in the mirror, startled for a second. It had been a long time since he’d stopped asking himself that. It was a question that had plagued him many times during those first few years out in the Indies as he struggled to prove himself on the failing plantation.

  He felt the gooseflesh rise along his arms. Why the question now, on the eve of his wedding night? Edmund was dead, and he, Tertius, was alive. So, what did it matter what Edmund would have done?

  As Nigel handed him his tortoiseshell comb, Tertius asked him abruptly, “Do you believe the dead come back to haunt us or help us?” He tried to smile, as if the question were asked in jest.

  “The dead be all around us,” he answered seriously, his muddy green eyes as always shockingly light against his smooth brown skin.

  “But it’s not the dead to fear as much as the living,” Nigel continued as he hung up the used towels.

  “I agree with you there,” he replied grimly. “Right now, the thought of bedding an innocent virgin stops me cold.”

  Nigel didn’t smile in reply. “I wouldn’t fear the new Lady Skylar as much as the old Angelique.”

  “Angelique and I parted on very good terms. I know you are used to females throwing hysterical fits when you break things off, but Angelique was a mature, intelligent woman who knew the conditions of our…friendship.”

  Nigel shook his head, pity in his eyes. “Angelique be not so sweet at your goodbye as you think. She put a curse on you, as sure as I’m the son of Rose. Everything you touch start to go against you—family, riches, gaming, health. You’ll see.” He looked at him significantly. “It’s the voodoo. It make everything turn against you. You might think you’re free of Angelique, but she have you.”

  Tertius gave a grunt of laughter though he didn’t feel at all like laughing. “I’m miles from her.”

  “It doesn’t matter how far you go from her. She has you like this.” Nigel clamped his large brown hand around Tertius’s wrist, his nails pink with the pressure. “She can make you dance as if you right dar with her.”

  Tertius shook him off with another laugh. “You’re a fine one to talk to on the eve of one’s wedding night.”

  Nigel stared into Tertius’s eyes, his expression serious. “I don’t speak like this to spoil your evening but to warn you. Yo
u must have someone with more power than she to ward off dis curse.”

  Tertius turned away from him. “Thanks for your warnings, but I think they are unnecessary. I shall bid you good-evening before your mumbo jumbo begins to make sense. I’m off to produce an heir. Wish me luck,” he quipped, eyeing his man from the doorway of the dressing room. “You go on to bed. I shan’t need you any further tonight.”

  Tertius entered his bedroom. He was used to the superstitious practices of the Indies, but he knew it had no power over a European.

  It was true he had begun to tire of his six-year relationship with the Creole woman, Angelique, and was almost relieved when his father’s summons came. It served as a convenient way to end things with his mistress.

  Why or when his restlessness with Angelique had begun he didn’t exactly know. She was the perfect mistress. A widow, wealthy in her own right, old enough to lead an independent life and know how to please a man, why had Tertius begun to feel constricted—almost oppressed—in his last year or so in Jamaica?

  Angelique was beautiful, intelligent, a renowned hostess, and an independent woman successfully running a plantation of her own.

  Why had he felt she had encroached into every area of his life, from becoming his hostess to probing into his business affairs?

  Tertius prowled his room. As he’d told Nigel, Angelique had taken the news of his departure with amazingly good grace. Better than he’d expected after their longstanding relationship. She’d even hosted a large farewell party for him.

  Tertius brushed aside Nigel’s ghoulish warnings. He had more important things on his agenda tonight. How to please one surely nervous and uncertain young maiden.

  Despite his mocking tone to Nigel, Tertius felt queerly hesitant tonight of all nights. He didn’t understand exactly why. Did it make so much difference that this was to be the first time he would make love to a woman—his wife—in a joining sanctioned by God? Did a wedding ceremony make so much difference? He twisted the new wedding band around his finger. The matching band was now around a small, slim finger of a young woman sitting in the next room. He glanced toward the connecting door. His life was no longer independent after this night. It would be shared with another body and mind.