Come Midnight

by Veronica Sattler

  At length, they drew her before the tall pier glass, bidding her to keep her eyes closed. "Till all's in place for the full effect, miss," the maid who had dressed her hair explained. She set upon Caitlin's head a coronet of moss green leaves and flowers: tiny, perfect gardenias with the dew still on them, cunningly interwoven with sprigs of baby's breath. With the marquis's approval, all had been plucked from Ravenskeep's conservatory that morning. The maids told Caitlin the flowers were gathered by none other than Townsend himself, and fashioned into a wreath by Mrs. Needham.

  "Ohh," Caitlin breathed when she opened her eyes. "Sure and I scarcely recognize meself!" She met the pleased gazes of the maids in the glass. "I-I look like the faerie queen—like Queen Mabhe herself, and no mistake."

  "Ye make a fine, loverly lady," the younger maid offered shyly.

  "A right proper marchioness," the older said with a nod.

  Just then, a knock resounded at the door.

  One of the maids opened it, and there stood Andrew, who had come to collect her for the ride to the church. The bridegroom, it had been decided, would drive there ahead of them in his gig, leaving the coach for Caitlin and her proud young escort.

  Dressed in formal attire—satin knee breeches and silver-buckled pumps, a white waistcoat and starched cravat setting off his cutaway tailcoat of dark blue kerseymere—Andrew reminded her of a young prince. On his dignity, he presented a solemn face as he made her a leg, wobbling only slightly. Then, as he straightened, he took his first real look at her; and dignity went by the boards.

  "Caitlin, is that really you?" he cried, eyes like saucers. "You look like"—he bit his bottom lip, pondering for a second—"like Cinderella at the ball!"

  "Milord is too kind," Caitlin murmured, sinking into a deep curtsy. "Or perhaps 'tis Prince Charmin' I'm seein'?" she amended, rising and smiling into his wide blue eyes. "Sure and ye must be royalty itself, rigged out in all the grand finery o' the world."

  "Papa's valet did it," he mumbled, blushing. Then, on his dignity once more: "Allow me to escort you to the church, dear lady." He crooked his arm, offered it with solemn mien. "Our coach is waiting."

  Chapter 17

  They were wed in the small Norman church where the Lightfoot family had worshipped for generations. And if the vicar—who, after all, had his living from Ravenskeep—noticed that the marquis failed to participate in the prayers, he didn't say so. The bride noticed, of course, as did others. The best man was quick to note the lapse, being a man who rarely missed anything, but he did not remark upon it. His Grace had wrestled with his own demons upon a time and was not one to cast stones.

  As for the remaining guests, Her Grace and Lady St. Clare nodded knowingly to each other upon the bridegroom's silence; then, with a glance at the bride, the pair shared conspiratorial smiles. Sir Patrick attributed the marquis's behavior to a clear-cut case of the wedding nerves; he silently cheered the poor fellow when Ravenskeep spoke his vows in a firm, clear voice.

  What impressed everyone was the calm serenity—as well as the fresh, unspoiled loveliness—of the bride. Caitlin moved through the ceremony with the grace and equanimity worthy of a queen. To some raised in the Roman church, the simple Anglican ceremony, conducted entirely in English, might well have proved off-putting; but it was all one to her. She sailed through her vows with nary a misstep, a placid, benign expression on her face. The one exception occurred when the six-year-old at her side was asked, "Who giveth this woman?" The child replied with a ringing, "I do!"—at which point she smiled. Yet it was a gentle smile that in no way marred that collected, unruffled demeanor.

  It was when the ceremony itself was over that something changed. They had all gathered in the small vestibule where the marriage lines were to be signed and witnessed. In that rather ordinary, unprepossessing room—and quite unexpectedly—Caitlin found it necessary to fortify herself in order to maintain her peaceful facade.

  She wasn't entirely certain how it happened. One moment she was reaching for the quill the vicar handed her, ready to affix her signature below Adam's bold scrawl. The next, as she dipped the quill into the lovely little antique silver inkpot Mrs. Wells had provided, a clock somewhere—she was never sure where—began to toll the hour. Everyone heard it. The tiny chamber seemed to vibrate with the chimes: eleven of them. Eleven, not twelve. And even if there had been twelve, these would have signaled noon, not midnight. And yet, and yet....

  All at once, she was hearing another clock, in another time and place, and it was tolling the hour of midnight. Signaling the end of her last moments on earth. Tis but thirteen hours from now ....

  Clutching the quill tightly to keep it from trembling, she made herself sign in a steady hand. Thirteen is a number like any other number. Tis thought unlucky only by the ignorant and the superstitious. You will not cave in now, Caitlin O'Bri—ach, 'tis Caitlin Lightfoot now! Lady Caitlin Lightfoot, Marchioness of Ravenskeep, and you will not bring cowardice and dishonor t' the name!

  Willing her hand not to shake, she handed the quill to the duke for his witnessing, and things proceeded apace. Then it was over, everyone kissing her and wishing her happy, congratulating Adam and smiling at them both.

  In the midst of all this, a small hand touched hers, and Caitlin looked down into Andrew's angelic face. "Caitlin ... ?" he questioned shyly. "Would—would it be all right to call you Mama now?"

  Touched to the quick, she felt the burn of tears behind her lids. She blinked them back and dropped to a crouch, so their eyes were level. " 'Twould be more than all right, Andrew. I've loved ye like me own since— ach, since I can't remember when! I'll adore ye callin' me Mama, wee macushla, and count me blessin's each and every time ye say it."

  The child's radiant smile pierced her heart, even as the small arms flung joyously about her neck soothed it. "I love you, Mama."

  "I love ye, child o' me heart," she murmured in an unsteady voice. And wondered, with a sickly panic, if there were any way to make it bearable for him: when the morrow came, and she was gone.

  While she'd waited for them to return from their ride the day before, she composed a long letter to the child, which she'd leave with the one she'd written his father. In the latter, she'd asked Adam to give Andrew his when he judged the time was right. The thrust of both letters was the same: death could never undo the love they shared. She'd also written, she firmly believed her soul would win heaven—to soothe the lad; and more importantly in Adam's case, informing him she'd outwitted Appleby, with Megan's help. She ended the letters saying she expected them both to join her there. And until that far-off day, they must never doubt she was with them in spirit—and would be, for all time.

  Cold comfort to the grieving? Yet the child will have his da. Aye, they'll have each other, which is more than they would have had without your intervention. You must believe they'll be a comfort to each other—you must!

  But would that ever be enough? With a dismissing shake of her head, Caitlin swallowed her misgivings as Andrew trustingly clutched her hand and everyone filed out. It would have to be.

  ***

  When they returned to the Hall, Caitlin was touched to see the staff lined up to greet them on the drive. Then she learned they were there not to greet the newlyweds, as she'd thought, but to greet her in particular! She was their new mistress, Adam whispered to her in an aside, and they expected it. It was also customary, he added with a sheepish grin, for the new mistress to say a few words to them at the end.

  He introduced his marchioness with a formal speech, much as if she were meeting them for the first time. They stood all in a row, with Townsend at the head; then Mrs. Needham, proceeding through the ranks of maids, of footmen and underfootmen, of gardeners and undergardeners, to the meanest scullions and stable boys at the end. As the majordomo named each one in turn, the servants curtsied to her, or bowed, or simply tugged humbly at their forelocks, in the age-old sign of obeisance.

  Caitlin found her tongue and thanked them, managing a few words of
appreciation for their guidance and support since she'd first come to the Hall. "There may be some that feel I've risen above me station," she told them, "and so I have. 'Tis a long way from Ireland's bogs t' Ravenskeep Hall." She took a moment to smile at a young Irish maid named Bridget, who'd just been taken on a few days ago. "And longer still, t' the lord's table at the Hall. Yet I promise ye this: 'twill niver make me toplofty or foolishly proud. I want ye t' know I feel honored t' be yer mistress."

  Led by Fergus, they gave her a rousing cheer—which even the stern glance of Townsend couldn't quell—and Caitlin had to swallow to dislodge the lump in her throat But the majordomo had a surprise for her that was even more touching. At his quiet nod, the door opened— and through it walked Jepson and Mrs. Hodgkins!

  Smiles wreathed the faces of the two London servants as they came forth to wish her happy. From the looks of Adam and Andrew—and the child's giggle—she knew this had been their well-guarded secret: a loving conspiracy between them. It wrung her heart.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. No matter how hard Caitlin tried to cling to what was happening, time flew. It seemed the guests had only just arrived when she and Adam were waving good-bye as their conveyances pulled away. The Westmonts and the St. Clares left first, with Ashleigh and Megan whispering encouragement with regard to "the plan" as they hugged her. Then the vicar and Mrs. Wells took their leave, though Jeremy remained behind to spend the afternoon with Andrew.

  But this, too, seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. The boys began their play by rolling a ball of yarn for Athena the cat. She and Adam watched, sharing in the fun. Yet it seemed only minutes later that the vicar's manservant arrived to collect the child and drive him home for supper.

  In fleeting moments, when she risked a glance at the clock, Caitlin began to hate the sight of it. It was becoming more and more impossible to forget what lay ahead. How could she savor every minute—as she'd enjoined Adam to do—when the hours raced by, like hounds on the chase!

  Worse, she learned Adam hadn't been able to forget—though he'd been managing to hide it well. It happened during supper, with one of those surreptitious glances at the clock she hadn't been able to curtail. As she quickly tore her gaze away, she chanced to meet her husband's eyes across the table. He was quick to shutter them, but it was too late. She saw the wild grief and desperation burning there, like unholy blue fire in his own private hell. And for the first time, Caitlin had real doubt about what she'd done.

  ***

  They spent a far longer time than usual putting Andrew to bed. Because they both knew this was more than likely the last time Caitlin would be there for the ritual, they'd tacitly agreed to make it memorable ... and special. But what made this all so very hard was that the child must be shielded from their painful foreknowledge. For one thing, Andrew couldn't hope to understand the things they knew, or how they'd come to know them; and for another, there was always the hope, albeit a slim one, that what they feared wouldn't come to pass. Thus, they'd resolved to tuck him in with cheerful smiles, as if all were right with the world.

  Adam's presence, while he was there, helped center Caitlin and gave her support in moments when she weakened. As when she wondered how the child would fare when there was no one to listen to his prayers, Adam's difficulty being what it was. Will the lad continue in his simple child's faith, despite the absence of a loving parent beside him? Or will he, because he is alone, begin to doubt? God protect him from the loss of faith that's blinded his father to the Light!

  Another difficult moment arose when Andrew asked for the tale of the "Sleeping Beauty" as a bedtime story—Jeremy had recommended it—and they came to the place in which the princess falls into a deathlike slumber, through the enchantment of an evil witch. My clever young Druid witch! All at once plunged into the ugly recollection, Caitlin shivered. Andrew, of course, could know nothing of that, but he was given to comparing her to the heroines of the various fairy tales she'd read him ... You look like Cinderella at the ball! Would he draw another, and much less benign, comparison when she was no longer among the living?

  She envisioned the sleeping princess, lying on her bed, still as death. Is that how he'll think of me when I'm gone? Will he imagine me in a tower room, all twined about with thorns, waiting for my hundred years to end? Will he grieve anew when he realizes he'll have died himself long before that magical awakening could ever come to pass?

  Still, with Adam in the room, Caitlin managed to carry on without faltering. Then came the moment when the child would say his prayers. When his father had slipped away—this time with a sweetly understanding nod from Andrew—she had all she could do to get through it without breaking down:

  "God bless Caitlin—I mean, Mama—and thank you, God, for giving her to me ..."

  Holy Mother of God, help me find the strength to leave this child. . .

  "God bless Papa ..."

  Help him to lead his father to the Light, to succeed where I could not. . .

  "God bless Jeremy . .. God bless Jepson and Mrs. Hodgkins ... God bless Townsend ..."

  Guide them as they fill his days with friendship and love....

  When the last prayer left his lips, when Caitlin had added hers and crossed herself, she had to believe her own had been heard. "G'night, Mama," Andrew murmured with a smile, and before she could respond, she saw he was asleep.

  "Good-bye, wee son," she whispered, her eyes blurring with tears. Tears that had blessedly been held in abeyance till now. Sparing the child from asking why she cried, sparing her from answering him with a lie. And that, too, like so much else, had to be enough.

  ***

  This time Adam had waited for her. He stood in the hallway, mere steps from Andrew's door. "Come," was all he said when he saw her face, and he opened his arms to her. Caitlin felt them close around her like a benediction. If this was the only kind of prayer he could manage, she might sorely lament what that limitation cost him, but she was passing glad of the human solace he offered tonight. To deny her need of it would require another lie she was loath to own. She craved those arms about her. Adam's solid presence was a comfort past telling. She needed it like all things green and growing needed the sun and the rain. She would savor what she could. 'Twas too late for regrets.

  ***

  They made love for the last time in Adam's chamber. In the marriage bed of Catherine and Thomas Lightfoot, that was now theirs. As it happened, when he'd thought about their wedding night throughout the day, Adam hadn't intended to fall into bed at once. He'd wanted, above all, to delve through every corner of his mind, in the hours before midnight, to somehow find a way to save his wife. In his heart, however, he knew it would take a miracle to reverse the dark tide that swept them inexorably toward the abyss.

  And Adam had long ago stopped believing in miracles.

  In the end, the delving mind lacked conviction and surrendered to the passions of the heart. And of the flesh. He defied the fast-ticking minutes and swiftly fleeting hours by making love to his bride with slow, deliberate hands; with long and languidly arousing kisses; with whispered words of praise and adoration. It was much like the first time he'd made love to her ... achingly slow and sensual... intoxicating and delicious in its anticipation... wildly fulfilling in its hectic, shattering climax. And yet it was not like the first at all, for never was joining so bittersweet.

  And in those dwindling, bittersweet hours, Caitlin understood Adam's brave defiance. For years he'd been a military man, a fighter. And what was a fighter but a man of action? Yet now he found himself frustrated, unable to act And so, true to his nature, he fought where he could. Caught in the net of helplessness that held him in thrall, he would recklessly—defiantly— thumb his nose at it. Caitlin knew exactly what he was doing. And in this, she became his willing accomplice.

  "Ach, macushla!" she cried breathlessly, writhing on the bed as he covered her naked body with slow, burning kisses. "I've a need t' know the taste o' ye, as well." With this, she turned on her
side to face him. It was a balmy night, and they'd opened the windows and pulled aside the draperies. A full moon rode high above the trees, bathing the chamber in silvery light; she could easily read the mild surprise on Adam's chiseled features. He said nothing, but the quirk of a brow pulled at the thin scar that slashed across his face.

  Saving nothing more, Caitlin ran her tongue experimentally along his neck, and then across the muscular curve of his shoulder. "Ye taste salty," she whispered, moving slowly downward. And smiled to herself as she felt Adam suddenly go very still beneath the cat-like laving of her tongue.

  Proceeding to his pectorals, where the flat disc of a male nipple beckoned like an oasis amid the crisp whorls of chest hair, she encircled it with her lips. Sucking gently, she felt him shiver. And when she flicked the tightening center with her tongue, she heard him groan her name.

  "D'ye like this, a stor?" she whispered, sending a breath of cooling air across the tiny, moist protrusion, causing it to pucker into a hard knot.

  "Minx!" Adam accused—his turn to writhe now—as she grazed the turgid crest with her teeth. "You know I do."

  "And this.. . ?" she questioned. Sheathing her teeth with her lips—as she'd often felt him do with her—she pinched the taut bud between them, then worried the captive flesh with her tongue. At the same instant, her hand slid across his flat abdomen. She grasped, at its base, the rigid length that had sprung against her belly. Gently, then more firmly, she squeezed the throbbing shaft and, with it thus in hand, began a slow, upward stroke toward the tip.

  "Caitlin!'' Adam rasped, stilling her hand by covering it with his. "Do you want this spent too soon—and upon the sheets?"

  "Ach, niver! But, Adam, I—"

  "Hush," he murmured, and pressed her gently back into the mattress. Now it was his turn again. And he played upon her quivering flesh like the master he was. First, he turned the tables on her, teasing her responsive nipples in exactly the same fashion she'd employed with him. He was not content with just one breast, however, but played upon each in turn. While his mouth worked its magical mischief, his deft fingers did wickedly arousing things to the one abandoned by tongue and teeth, for he was most reluctant to leave either unattended when he played upon its twin.