by Jackie Ivie
She thought she may have snoozed when the footsteps began echoing again. She shook her head, straightened. If she’d managed to sleep, it had done absolutely nothing for the ache behind, and inside of, her eyes. She put both hands to them and rubbed.
She had her hands perfectly folded in her lap, and was sitting up straight when the same two soldiers came into view again. They were still in perfect lockstep. They didn’t glance her way.
They were given permission to enter at the knock. Constant tipped her head to listen.
“Well? You have an update?”
“His ribs are broken, sir.”
“How many?”
“Too many to count, sir.”
“Too many?”
“Yes.”
Constant caught her hands to her breast to hold the reaction in. They’d hit him that hard, and that often? Oh, Kameron!
“But . . . he will recover?”
“He’s strong. In good health. Doctor Thornacre believes he should make a full recovery. The damage can’t be mended until the swelling goes down, though.”
“I see. Draft a report for his father. I’ll sign it. Anything else?”
“What of the woman, sir?”
“What woman?”
Constant’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. Her fingers went icy.
“The one who accompanied him, sir.”
“There was a woman with him? Why wasn’t I informed earlier? She may know something. Fetch her. Fetch her immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
It seemed an instant later they were both standing in front of her, looking and waiting.
“Mistress?”
She didn’t look at them. She looked at her entwined hands. She gulped. She tried tightening her muscles. Nothing worked. She was afraid to stand. Her legs felt like jelly, and just as strong.
“The commander is requiring a word with you, mistress.”
“A . . . word?” she whispered.
“We’re here to escort you. Now, mistress.”
Constant shifted forward. She put her hands on her knees and silently ordered her legs to support her. The soldiers didn’t wait that long. Large, male hands gripped her upper arms and hauled her to her feet.
Constant dangled between them, searching for some feeling in her feet, and that’s why she got dragged across the threshold and into the commander’s apartments. It wasn’t an auspicious way to meet the man holding her fate in his hands, but there was nothing she could do about it.
“Set her in the chair. Gently, Lieutenant.”
They put her in a chair. She supposed it was gently, but it was mortifying all the same. Constant sank into the padded wingback chair, folded her hands, and kept her eyes on her lap.
“Now, young woman. Speak up. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Constant looked up. The commanding officer was standing in front of her, feet apart, his bearing stiff and militaristic. He still looked short. There was a large portrait of what must be the king, George the Third, behind him. Shelves full of books flanked the painting. A large fire lit the area from a fireplace on her right, bordered by long, velvet drapes. The walls were covered in dark wooden paneling separated by wainscoting in a lighter shade. A coat of arms was mounted above the fireplace. Compared to the dull, nondescript hall outside, it was awe-inspiring. Constant stared.
“Does she have a voice, or is she a deaf-mute?” the commander asked, without taking his eyes off her.
“Well? Speak up, wench.”
They were all looking at her. Constant swallowed in order to find her voice.
“She was at the scene, sir. She had the horse’s reins.”
“Really?” The commander put a supercilious note on the word.
“She might know who the devils are, sir.”
“Has anyone seen to that, then?”
“We didn’t know what to do with her. She claims to be, uh . . . pardon the gall, sir, married to Lord Ballanclaire.”
“Oh. I’m certain she wishes as much. What else does she claim?”
Constant was grateful she hadn’t found her voice yet. She narrowed her eyes and regarded the trio.
“Not much else, sir. No one has spoken to her since her arrival.”
“That isn’t very comforting. You let an unknown woman wander our halls? Worse yet, a woman who participated in Lord Ballanclaire’s beating and near hanging? Where have your wits gone, Adjutant Simpson? Out with the night watch?”
Constant watched a flush rise from the man’s high-necked collar. She almost felt sorry for him. She cleared her throat, making them all look to her again.
“I wasn’t participating in anything,” she told the commander. “I was holding the horse to keep it from bolting and snapping Kameron’s neck.”
“Kameron?” he repeated, lifting his eyebrows.
She nodded. She watched him consider her. Then he pulled a chair forward in order to sit facing her.
“You know who did this?”
She nodded again.
“And yet, you did nothing?”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she stared without blinking, quivering in place as she struggled to stop them. She failed. She watched as he wavered and blurred in front of her as tears slipped from her eyes and more just kept coming. She was disgusted with herself. With good reason. After staying dry-eyed since the onions, she had to start weeping now?
“Hand her a handkerchief, Adjutant. Yes. One of yours.”
Constant ignored the offered linen, lifting her apron instead to her eyes. They waited while she got herself under control. This was horrid. Detestable. She didn’t blame them for any low opinion they might have of her. After enduring what she had, she should be able to explain herself without sobbing helplessly. Nobody said anything as she finally squelched the tears, lowered her apron, and looked across at the commander again.
“Are you ready to continue now?”
Constant forced her face into a blank expression that matched his. She’d been told of the English sense of superiority. Their snobbery. An almost inhuman adherence to class restriction and rules. She hadn’t known it included lack of chivalry. They didn’t even offer her a sip of water. She finally nodded.
“Does that mean you did something about this unlawful perfidy perpetrated on Lord Ballanclaire?”
That was a mouthful of large words. It sounded ridiculous, too. If he was attempting to show his superiority through his vocabulary, though, he should have picked on a less educated girl. Constant studied him for a few moments before nodding again.
“And just what would that be?”
Her eyes filled with tears again. She couldn’t seem to help it. What had she done? She’d ruined her reputation with an entire community. The admission in front of all those men today wasn’t going to stay secret. She was a soiled woman now. A woman of low repute and loose morals. A Jezebel. An outcast. Constant had to look down, and watched a tear drop onto her abused and soiled apron. Then another one. She swallowed. It scraped along her throat. And then she answered.
“I . . . wed with him,” she said.
The commander’s reaction was immediate. He choked, and then he was outright laughing. Constant lifted her head and found his amusement helped conquer the unbridled sobs. He wasn’t just chuckling, either. He was near to falling from his chair with merriment. The last tear fell, clearing her eyes. She sniffed the last of her emotion away. And then she just waited.
He seemed to take a long time to sober, but finally he pulled a handkerchief from somewhere in his perfectly starched and ironed uniform, and used it to mop at his eyes.
“You’ll have to forgive me, mistress. It’s not often a woman claims to be Lord Ballanclaire’s wife. His mistress? Yes. His current fancy? Yes. His fiancée? Yes, even that. I’ve heard it all. But his wife? Oh, please. That is too enjoyable.”
“I only know him as Kameron,” Constant said quietly and watched his eyebrows rise.
“So you’ve already informed us.
Kameron, eh?”
She nodded.
“Well, I’ll have to advise you, Lord Ballanclaire is not a man who’d up and marry the local milkmaid. He has women clamoring about him for the chance of a smile. He would not select a local wench of indeterminate origins and common appearance. Trust me. I know the man. I know the family. Impossible. And yet, you sit there expecting me to believe he wed with you?”
She nodded again.
“Good Lord. I believe you’re serious.”
“I have proof,” she answered.
His eyes went wide and he paled visibly.
“Adjutant Simpson?”
The commander’s voice was a bit higher as he spoke the name. Constant lifted her brows slightly.
“Sir?”
“Leave us. Now. Both of you.”
As the door clicked shut, Constant didn’t take her eyes off the commander. He looked nervous now. Moisture coated his face, reflecting light from his fire. He pulled on his collar more than once. It was amazing what his discomfiture did to her confidence. Her hands weren’t chilled or weak, and her legs felt as sturdy as always.
“You say you have proof?”
“I have a wedding license. He signed it. I signed it. It was witnessed.”
“Oh, dearest God! I’ll lose my commission. How could he do such a thing?”
“He was about to be hanged. I don’t think he thought much beyond surviving that, sir.”
“You threatened him?”
It was Constant’s turn to laugh. She put a hand to her mouth to stanch it. “Do I look capable of threatening anyone, sir?”
“Good Lord! Do you know what you’re saying? The Duke of Ballanclaire’s only son and heir can’t be wed to a wench from the backwoods of the colonies! I’ll be in disgrace! I’ll lose my commission! I’ll never overcome this. Not only do I lose my most influential patron’s heir and get him back within an inch of his life, but I’ve disgraced the entire lineage of Clan Ballanclaire in the process! Oh my God! He can’t be tied to a common milkmaid! He can’t. I’ll be a laughingstock!”
Constant watched his outburst without one bit of emotion showing. She kept the shock inside. She didn’t know much about titles and such, but these revelations sounded even more impressive than before. She didn’t know how to answer or what to say. The silence following his words stretched an uncomfortable length. She waited.
“Well? What have you to say for yourself?”
“I’m not a milkmaid,” she said calmly.
He swore worse than Kameron ever had, and then he raked hands through what had been regimentally perfect, groomed hair. Constant watched as every strand of it looked to be standing on end. He stopped finally, took several deep breaths, and glared at her. Constant tensed.
“Does anyone else know you’re here?” he asked.
“Just about everyone in your garrison,” she replied. She didn’t know if it was true, but she knew evil intent when she saw it. She wondered how Kameron managed to conquer fear. He’d been so stoic and calm even with a noose about his neck. She really wished she knew how he managed it. She’d copy it.
“What do you want?” He smoothed his hair back into a semblance of order as he asked it. Constant looked at him.
“Well? How much? What denomination? What bank? Speak up.”
“How much do I want for what?” she asked.
“For that license. Do you have it on—”
“No.”
Her interruption stopped his rise from his chair. He sank back down with a heavy sigh. “This is blackmail, you know,” he said.
“I haven’t asked for a thing. Nor would I take it. That’s hardly blackmail.”
“Then why are you here, camping at my door?”
“I came with my . . . husband.” She faltered on the title. It sounded as strange to her ears as it probably did to his. “I want to see him. I want him to know I’m here.”
“Impossible. Your kind nearly killed him.”
Her kind? She repeated it to herself in a state of semi-shock.
“And you expect me to give you another chance?”
“But, I would never hurt him. I—I love him,” she replied finally.
“Well, join the legions of women with that affliction. I hardly care. I’m not allowing you to see him. I’m not letting anyone to see him. Not until he’s recuperated. I have a career at stake.”
“You’re a selfish man,” she answered finally.
“Every commissioned officer is. Especially one whose career is supported by the Duke of Ballanclaire’s patronage. If he withdraws it, I’m finished. You don’t know how it works, do you? Why do I even ask? Of course you don’t. You’re nothing but a common wench. A pretty one, but nothing extraordinary. Tell me something, would you?”
“That depends on what it is,” she answered.
“Why you?”
“Why me . . . what?”
“Why did he pick you? Women have tried entrapping Lord Ballanclaire since he left the nursery. And yet here you sit. It’s insupportable. I don’t know what he sees in you. I certainly can’t see anything remarkable.”
She’d known Kameron’s words had been fantasy. The rug-selling story. Her turquoise eyes. Her lashes. Her eyes filled with tears again. Despite everything.
“Oh, bother. You are an emotional sort, aren’t you? That’s another surprise. Ballan can’t abide scenes. That’s why he gave off his attendance on the Marchioness of Barclay. She wept and cried and tried to hold him, and he walked out on her, anyway. It was that incident that got him assigned out here to my regiment. Damn him, anyway.”
“I don’t think I wish to hear much more,” she said.
“Why not? Don’t you want to know of this man you’ve coerced into marriage? Obviously it was a lightning-swift courtship, probably held at the end of a musket. Perhaps that was it. You’ve a bountiful shape. Perhaps that was what intrigued, and then entrapped, Lord Ballanclaire. Well? Was it?”
She didn’t so much as breathe. The space about her heart pained too much. “I don’t think . . . you’ve listened to a thing I’ve said, sir.”
“Of course I have. I just have too many problems with all of it. Starting with you. What am I to do about you?”
“If you’ll see to my safe passage from your fort, I’d like to leave.”
“Oh no. I can’t allow that. I lost Lord Ballanclaire for nigh a sennight. If I lose the woman claiming to be his little colonial wife, I might as well commit suicide for the effect it will have on my career.”
“You’re not losing me. I’m leaving of my own accord. Kameron won’t even need to know. I said we’d married. I didn’t say we wanted to. I did it to save him. Just as I told you.”
He rolled the reply through his lips. She guessed what it was. Disbelief and suspicion. And perhaps a touch of distaste. Constant stood and pulled the marriage license out of her bodice. She unfolded the document, pressed it flat against her thigh to iron out the wrinkles, and then held it out to him. She watched as he read it. Then she turned and walked over to his fire.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Burning the proof.”
Constant dropped it atop the log. Both of them watched it curl and turn brown, then catch fire. A few moments later, it was gone.
“Why did you just do that?”
He had a stunned expression on his face. She told herself she didn’t care, and then worked at making it true.
“I already told you why. I love him. It’s true. It will always be true. I didn’t coerce anything. I didn’t force anything. I saved him. And now, I’ll leave. Could you arrange a safe escort from your fort now? Please?”
And maybe, if she was extremely lucky, she’d make it that far before the uncontrollable sobs overtook her again. Maybe.
OCTOBER 1772—DESTINY
Chapter Eighteen
October was absolutely beautiful this year. Constant looked out the window of her chamber on the bounty of red, gold, and dark green leaves still cove
ring most of the tree limbs. It had been a long, extended summer. It had been hot. Very hot. The cool temperatures of fall were a blessing after such heat.
And she hated every moment of it.
October carried with it memories, and memories carried agony. Constant held Abigail to her breast and tried to hold in her tears. The baby wriggled in her arms, but she always did. Her twin, Benjamin, was the opposite. He liked being held and coddled and crooned to. Constant looked to where Benjamin was sleeping, and smiled.
Memories were even harder to endure when looking at her babies every day. Benjamin and Abigail were not only twins, but they both looked exactly like their father, from the tufts of white-blond hair atop their heads to their golden-brown eyes.
Constant closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe slowly and carefully through a shudder that heralded an onslaught of weeping, and then she managed to stifle it. She felt as though she’d spent an entire lifetime of tears already. Her children didn’t need to see more of them. She put Abigail’s wriggling form next to her brother and watched as the tot tried to roll over to get nearer her sibling.
Constant smiled again, and then she dropped her head into her hands and gave in to the sobs.
As Widow Ballan, such displays of emotion weren’t considered strange. In fact, she was usually smothered with hugs from her employer whenever emotion overwhelmed her and she didn’t get to her chamber quickly enough. At times like that, all Constant could do was hold on to the other woman and sob.
She breathed deeply, ending the storm of tears for the moment, and wiped quickly at her face. She couldn’t give in to grief. Not yet. Maybe later. As her breath calmed and her shudders subsided, Constant said a prayer of thanks and opened her eyes.
She looked down at her children, brushed a finger across first Benjamin’s wisps of white-blond hair, and then his sister’s. They had been her salvation. She knew that much.
It hadn’t taken long after she’d left the fort to find employment as a cook, for Madame Hutchinson’s boardinghouse needed one desperately. There had almost been a riot at the steps when she’d chanced down this street, one of the boarders threatening a fire to match the one left in his innards by the resident cook.