He heard himself say, “I will be here the next time.”
A day of rich joy, he felt himself laugh while he held the baby the midwife handed him. On the bed, the same smile, tired but happy. Her face was pale, dark circles rested under those smiling eyes. “A son, Thomas. We did it. We have a son now.”
More years, time rushing by. The eyes that smiled at him had lines around them now, gentle creases from endless smiles, and her brown hair was snowed with grey. “See our family? Two girls and two boys, how perfect.”
The babies kept coming, with no way to stop them except leaving their marriage bed, something he could not do. Rosaline’s hair went more white than brown, her smile was slower to come, her body became thin with work. The older girls helped, he knew they stepped in while he was away at sea.
Laws changed each time he came back, laws that demanded more money and took away more land. The world he knew was slipping away, only the sea remained constant. Rosaline begged him to stay, but as much as he needed her, the unending sea called and he had to go. She never understood that sailing was as much a part of him as breathing. She tried to understand, he knew she tried, but she never fully realized it, or she would have stopped asking.
And then that awful day when he came home and she was not there. Verbena stood by the fireplace stirring the stew, and when she turned around, there was grief in her eyes. “Mother is dead,” she said.
That day his life lost all meaning. He could not stay in that house with six pairs of eyes staring at him. Her eyes, her hair, occasionally her smile, but never her. The sea called again and again, stronger and harder, and only with the ship beneath his feet and salt wind in his face could he forget.
Somewhere deep in the house a clock chimed the hour, and the world snapped back, the past vanishing like smoke, leaving only endless grief and burning anger. He was in a Thern house, where they had stolen his life, his land and his children. Now, finally he would get something back from them.
A boy, they had told him. A son. No, not a son, a grandson. The Therns did not have time for it, but if young Mr. Damon had gone to all the effort of hiring a wet nurse, clearly he would pay plenty to get it back.
It did not matter which Thern paid.
Another stab of pain twisted him, wrapping around his side. He knew something was wrong inside his body, time was slipping away, but vengeance still burned in him. All those years alone, empty. If the Therns had not kept taking the land, buying it up for the cash Verbena kept saying they needed for those cursed fences, those barriers between the Therns and nobodies like himself, maybe Rosaline would still be alive.
They had everything and he had nothing. First his wife gone, then his eldest daughter dead, and now that rakehell younger son had taken the others. Right out of his own house!
The Therns owed him a life, and he would make them pay.
Reaching down, he unhooked his sailor’s bag and spread it wide. He looked down at the pile of blankets surrounding the babe. The coverings would certainly fit in his duffle bag easily. They would have to, it was cold outside, and it would never do to let the child catch a chill.
He grabbed the corners of the fluffy blankets and lifted the bundle like a knapsack. His grandson mewled as he rolled into the middle, a tiny fist flailed out, but he did not wake. Thomas glanced over at the woman, but she had not moved. Panic formed sickly in his stomach as he stood there and stared at her, holding his grandson in the sling of blankets.
He could almost feel the noose around his neck. It would be hanging for sure if the woman was dead.
He heard a breath from her limp form, and was able to breathe himself. He had not hit her that hard. Thomas tucked the babe into his duffle and hooked the catches.
Then he slipped out the room and down the hall, through the stairway’s doors, and out on the family’s level, placing every step with care. The baby was small, but with all those blankets, it felt heavier than it should.
Back at the window, he tucked one handle over each shoulder to keep his arms free and eased himself out onto the branch. It should have been easy, it was so easy to get in, but his body felt shaky and he was afraid he would fall.
Him? A sailor? Fall? But every grasp was uncertain and each foot placement felt slippery.
The baby started to whimper, and he forced himself to move faster. At last his feet felt solid ground.
Thomas ran.
CHAPTER 28
The theatre was even larger up close, the front marked with tall pillars. It blazed in the darkness like a beacon.
London time was still so strange, people up at all hours. Back in Thernbury she would have been asleep long ago, and here the night’s entertainment had not even begun.
She would not have come, she was after all in mourning, but Damon had insisted that she be seen. “It is not as frivolous as a ball,” he had assured her. “I can hardly wait the entire three months mourning – ”
“Six,” she interrupted.
He pretended not to hear. “ – before I introduce you. Now that our families are being mended, it is best that any rumors be stopped. One evening at the insistence of your husband will be forgiven. After tonight, you may live within the rules as strictly as you wish, but we will take this one night.”
So here they were. Damon’s hand, resting in the middle of her back ever since they alighted from the carriage, gave Verbena a gentle push. Her new gown, stitched with speed and additional seamstresses to make the deadline, was black silk bombazine, high-waisted, with sleeves of the softest matching black crepe, and it rustled under the equally new pelisse that had been finished at the same time. The crisp night air should have chilled her, but both gown and coat were warm. She had not been cold in days.
Seemingly endless groups of people funneled toward the impressive building like ants moving toward their anthill, London in miniature, from all levels of Society, those dressed much like herself and Damon, in rich capes and greatcoats, down to rowdy clumps of men and women in clothes patched from top to bottom. Scattered among the moving mass, children held out bouquets of hand-made flowers and called, “Gifts for your ladies? Gifts for your ladies? A penny each.”
Verbena’s heart ached as she watched them. They were about Annabelle’s age, so young, with dirty faces and ragged clothes.
“No,” Damon ordered. She turned and looked at him. “No, Verbena, we can’t take in all the poor children in London.” He winced. “I agree, it is a blight on the conscience of England.” He looked down at her face. “Oh, very well, my dear.” Damon lifted her hand and pressed a quick kiss on it. “Stand right here and do not move.”
He went up to the nearest ragged little girl, younger even than Annabelle and plucked her entire supply of tiny bouquets from her dirty hand. Verbena could not see the coin he gave her, but the little girl’s eyes went wide. “Oooh, thankee, sir!” The girl whirled around, grabbed the hand of another girl slightly older, and they dashed off. Safe for the night, at least.
He came back and gave an elegant bow as he presented his handful of posies to her. “Your flowers, my lady.” Damon’s eyes twinkled as she took them.
Verbena stared into those dark eyes that held such compassion. “That was very kind of you, Damon. You saved two small girls, did you see that?” She tucked her free hand into his arm. “Odd, how little it takes to make such a big difference.”
The huge doors of their goal were held open by ushers. Light beckoned from deep inside.
She waved a hand at the crowd around them. “Damon, are you certain this is not the Season yet? There are so many people here.” If it was like this and the Season had not yet begun, what would it be like later? Edeline had told her a bit about London’s merry whirl.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating the cold air. “Some have already returned from the country, waiting for Parliament to open. It is not going to be as crowded inside as you think. The season will get under way shortly after Easter, so enjoy what space we have while we have it.” His hand slid up
and down where it rested on her back in a subtle movement, sending strength and support through her layers of clothing. She lifted her chin and stepped forward with paper-thin confidence she hoped no one could see through.
They swept through the doors and into Covent Garden Theater. Verbena gasped, her sound swallowed up by the pound of voices and the vibrations of laughter on the air. Stairs reached up floor after floor, chandeliers hung from the ceiling, prisms casting rainbows all over the walls. The crowds outside had been jammed into the foyer, and odors assaulted her: perfume layered upon perfume, unwashed bodies, a faint tinge of horse. She was jolted from side to side with people pushing past, and only Damon’s arm firmly around her waist kept her from losing her footing. She doubted she would have landed on the floor, there was no room to fall.
“Follow me,” Damon shouted over the roar around them. “I have a box.”
“Your own?” She had a hard time keeping up with him despite his solid support as they climbed a stunning staircase leading to the floors above. She noticed everyone on the stairs with them was dressed as elegantly as herself. All those in more everyday garb spilled through the doors on the main level. “Why did you not tell me you had your own box?”
“I could say I meant it as a surprise.” Damon did not give the main floor swarming with shouting, swearing theatre-goers so much as a glance. It was quieter up here. He looked back. “The truth is, I did not think to mention it. I purchased it before I left for the war, and my friends used it until this past summer when I came back well enough to use it again. It is just where I go to watch the opera.”
Last summer was still a delicate subject, fraught as it was with pain. They both turned their attention to the openings at their side and pretended to be absorbed in finding the right one.
Partway down the hall, dotted with curtained alcoves that had to be the boxes he referred to, Damon pulled aside a velvet hanging and waved her inside. “Get yourself settled, my dear, and let the curious come to us. I doubt we will have long to wait.”
Verbena was surprised how high up they were. She pulled her chair away from the box’s edge, tucking it into as much of a corner as she could make, and sank down. The wall on her left separating her partially from the neighboring box gave the illusion of security. She unfastened her pelisse and slipped it off. Despite the sharp chill of the night, warmth from all the bodies in the building left her arms just pleasantly cool.
She smoothed the wrinkles out of the gown, and reached up to make sure the jet earrings were still tied to her ears. On her left hand, her wide gold wedding ring shimmered warmly, announcing to all her honored status. She loved the feel of it.
The ceiling arched high above her, and another row above their own with more boxes just like theirs ringed the walls. How could anyone enjoy the performance if they were hanging so high above the floor? She was glad Damon had not chosen a box up there.
Down below them, the auditorium floor was a moving sea of people. A fistfight broke out beneath them just as Damon lowered himself into the chair beside her. She pointed at the fight. “I have the strangest urge to go down and knock heads together. If people don’t know how to behave so everyone can enjoy the performance, then they should not come.”
He reached over and took her hand, patting it just as he would have patted one of the girls’ heads. “That is part of the performance.” His eyes twinkled. “You will see soon enough.”
A male voice boomed out behind them, making her jump. “Damon, old chap!”
Her husband’s eyes closed for the barest second before he rose and turned slowly to the uninvited guest. “Fitz.”
They shook hands. What might have been a smile bent Damon’s mouth.
“Thing is, man, there is a rumor going around that you are wed.” Fitz stepped closer, as if he thought their conversation could be overheard. Verbena was positive he had not seen her yet. “The report is that there are children old enough to be out of the nursery and into the schoolroom, and a babe.”
With a subtle move, Damon suddenly blocked her view of Fitz, and his view of her. “Take care, Fitz.”
Fitz’s voice became more urgent. ”I don’t remember you having children. The babe makes sense, you were out of Town for Andrew’s funeral, I can see grabbing comfort from the village doxies, but you don’t have to marry them. Just pay them off! A little cash, a pretty brooch, and get out of there. No one will challenge you if you ever deny it.”
Damon’s shoulders were rigid. “You have been misinformed. It is true, I am recently wed, to a lady in every sense of the word. The child is my late brother and sister-in-law’s child. The younger children are my wife’s siblings. You should know better than to listen to useless gossip, Fitz. It can only get you into trouble.”
Verbena had heard enough. She stood and stepped around Damon, ignoring his restraining hand. “How do you do?” Her voice was cool. It was not solely this man’s fault, she had to remind herself. He was merely spouting what the men of his class thought. She contented herself with resting her left hand on Damon’s arm, making certain the wedding ring caught the light. “I don’t believe we have been properly introduced.”
She saw Damon sigh, watched his coat move with the heavy breath, then he turned around and drew her forward. “Verbena, I would like to present an old friend of mine, Mr. Fitzgerald. Fitz, my wife, Mrs. Thern.”
Fitz’s mouth sagged. She knew he wanted to look her over, but manners, arriving a little late, prevented him. “Beg your pardon, ma’am, er, Mrs. Thern. I did not start the rumors, you know, I just wanted to know the truth.”
“I have two brothers and two sisters, as Damon said,” she said, “and they adore my husband.” Her breath caught as she realized what she had said.
They adore my husband.
Not just them. No, not just them at all.
Adore. The word whispered in her mind, and floated like a feather down to her heart. I adore my husband. I do. She wanted to laugh, and sing, and throw her arms around her husband, standing there with his polite look on his face and a hint of pride in his eyes.
I am one of the lucky ones. I love my husband. And how worthy he is.
Somewhere between that early injury and his solicitous care, the walk down the drive and the gifts he had rescued for Edeline, all so carefully chosen, somewhere between finding clothes for her brother and sisters and rescuing Mrs. Smythe, even giving a little girl enough money to keep herself and her sister safe for one night, she had fallen in love with her husband.
She wished she had the time to relish in the moment, sit and absorb it, take his hand in hers and tell him. How surprised he would be. The laugh softened into a whisper of tears. She forced them back. There would be time later. There would have to be time later. The floating feather of contentment and joy turned into the first brushes of unease.
How was she going to tell Damon?
And how did he feel? Did he feel even a portion of what she did? The wedding ring felt warm on her finger. He had said he valued her when he gave her his grandmother’s ring. Did value equal love?
The box was abruptly quiet, and she realized they were waiting for her to answer. She had not even heard the question. “Beg pardon?”
“No, my dear, Fitz was begging yours.” Damon smiled, but it was grim and humorless.
She could not help it, she beamed at Fitz. “Of course I accept your apology.” How could she not, when talking to him had finally opened her mind to what her heart had been trying to tell her?
Fitz blinked, and bowed, a bow worthy of a queen. “I shall help you straighten out the story. I assure you, not another untoward word about you will ever pass my lips. You are indeed a prize, and I envy Damon.”
She smiled at him, and curtsied. “Thank you.”
The box was chilly after Fitz left. She turned toward Damon, nervous about meeting his gaze. She was so full of emotion she felt it must flow out from her like sunbeams. Would he see her love in her eyes? Would it embarrass him if he did?
“At least he had the courage to come to you about the tale, rather than spreading it behind your back.” She waved a hand toward the milling, teeming mass around them. “How many others have come to find out the truth?”
“Don’t look now, my love, but you will have plenty more chances, starting just about now. Another group of old friends is coming.” He nodded to a nearby box, where a group of four gentlemen all were rising. One of them caught her eye and winked.
Damon the Demon.
“Prepare yourself for some more explanations.” He glared over at the now-empty box. “When I said I wanted to introduce you, these were not the friends I had in mind. If you would, this time please allow me to do the talking.”
Her wedding ring still felt warm on her finger. She looked down at it, and it glowed gold and proud.
*
The beginning of the opera came as a relief. She was tired of meeting people. Somehow she had imagined, after their brief time last summer, that Damon’s social whirl had been totally blown away by the injuries of war. Based on the number of friends who insisted on finding out if ‘the tale’ was true, and said tale seemed to grow with every new collection of guests to their box, he could spend every day with a different person and still not have made the circuit before the month’s end.
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