by Carla Kelly
“I suppose one must,” Onyx agreed, offering him her cheek to kiss, which he did, after looking around to make sure no one was watching. She let him help her into the carriage and Alice after her. Private Petrie mounted the major's horse and waited close by as John Coachman, grumbling as he always did at the start of any journey, heaved himself into the box and unlimbered the whip.
The first miles were covered in silence. Propped up with pillows, Jack Beresford reclined on the seat opposite Onyx. His eyes were closed, but she had no idea if he slept.
Alice Banner spent those early miles scolding her charge until she was satisfied that she had done her duty. When she finished, Alice leaned back in her corner and was soon snoring.
Onyx glanced at the major then and saw that his eyes were open. “You heard every word of that!” she accused in a low voice.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Beau Wellington always advised us to cover heavy ground as lightly as possible, so I thought it prudent to keep my eyes closed until she was finished. I too had a tyrant for a nursemaid once.”
She said nothing, only sighed and looked out the window.
“Poor Onyx. Does everyone bully you?” he asked.
“Almost,” she answered. “You do not.” She spoke without thinking and then looked at him in confusion.
She wanted to tell him that she had been bullied since the death of Reverend Hamilton. Bullied by Sir Matthew into conformity; bullied by Lady Daggett's velvet threats into obedience; bullied by Alice, who loved her but treated her as a child; bullied now by Andrew Littletree, who took every opportunity to remind her of her good fortune in accepting his proposal. She was not slow of thought; she knew that a long look down the years ahead would show her years of gibes and reminders to come of her lower station and meager expectations.
Onyx looked into the major's eyes, and it was almost as if he read her thoughts. But there was sympathy in his eyes, and it stung her.
“Don't feel sorry for me,” she said, raising her chin higher.
“I don't,” he said, “but I do wish you trusted me enough to tell me all of what's bothering you.”
“I … I don't know you well enough,” Onyx stammered, and then she thought about the few days they had spent together. She realized with a pang that she knew this man better than anyone she had ever known before, even better than Gerald.
It would have been easy to say nothing, or to smile and turn the subject, as she had always been taught to do. She was too honest for that.
“No. I know you better than anyone,” she said, and he did not disagree. It sounded so bold, but it was honest. “And yet, at the same time, I know so little about you.”
The carriage jolted, and she held her breath as the pain crossed Jack's face. “That's true,” he said when he could speak again. “What do you want to know?”
“Where are you going? Where do you live?”
“North of here. Yorkshire, in fact. Can't you tell by my accent?”
She shook her head. He sounded evasive, but perhaps it was her imagination.
“My brother … I own s-some land in Yorkshire. Not far from York.”
“Are you married?”
He grinned then. “Well, I was only yesterday, but the lady cried off.”
It worked. He coaxed a smile out of her. “Silly! That doesn't count!” she exclaimed. “Can you never be serious?”
“You know that I can be, Onyx,” he said, sitting up and stretching his long legs out straight in front of him. “Now, tell me why you are so meek and biddable, and yet so entirely brave, and such a complete paradox?”
She ignored the latter part of his question. “I have to be ‘meek and biddable,’ Major. You see, I'm not really here.”
He cocked his head to one side, as if inviting her to continue.
Onyx glanced at Alice and lowered her voice. She took a deep breath. “Sir, Gerald and I were found on the steps of the Reverend Peter Hamilton's church in a little village near Bath. We're illegitimate.”
There. She had said it. Onyx looked at Jack Beresford, wondering how he would take that piece of news.
If she had expected surprise or the repugnance that she had come to expect when someone discerned the family skeleton, she saw none of that in Jack Beresford's eyes.
“I have even heard of such things in Yorkshire, Onyx B,” he said. There was amusement in his voice, but she knew it was not at her expense. “Surely there must be more to your story than that, or I shall be sorely disappointed.”
“Oh, much more,” she said. “Papa, or rather I should say the Reverend Hamilton, took us home and sentimentally kept the names for us that were pinned on our blanket. But he considered us his own children.”
“An estimable man,” stated the major.
“He was all that we could ever have hoped for,” Onyx said simply. “I loved him dearly.”
There was a moment's pause. “And did he adopt you two?”
She shook her head. “He wanted to, but Mama—Lady Daggett—would have none of it, especially after Amethyst was born to them.”
“Then Amethyst is your … well, I suppose she is no relation.”
“True. Papa considered Gerald and me his children as much as Amethyst. He chose the name Amethyst to match mine. Mama cared for us only because he did.”
“So that was how the wind blew.”
“Yes.” Onyx ventured a look at him. “This doesn't seem to be bothering you. Why is that?”
“Why should it bother me?” he asked in turn. “How is any of this your fault?”
She knew that surprise showed on her face. “I really can't say. I don't know that I ever thought of it that way before.”
“Tell me where Sir Matthew Daggett entered the picture.”
“When we were ten, Papa took ill and died. Mama returned home.” Onyx sighed. “I think she was glad enough to go. She is the daughter of a baronet, and many had been whispering for years that in marrying Papa she had married beneath her station. Yes, she went home.”
“And you two went with her and Amethyst?”
“What could she do?” asked Onyx. “She could not abandon us, although I … well, I do not know.” Onyx rubbed her arms, as if to ward off a chill. “When Sir Matthew married her, she warned Gerald and me that we were to stay away from the rest of the Daggetts, and not to call attention to ourselves. This is … difficult when you are twelve.”
It was not a time she remembered with any pleasure, so she was silent then, until Jack recalled her to the moment.
“Onyx, when you are deep in serious thought, your eyes turn from Wedgwood blue to stormy gray.”
She glanced up from the contemplation of her hands, surprised, forgetful for the moment where she was. “Are you always so poetic, Major?”
He carefully lowered himself to the pillows again. “No, and that's the surprise of it. You seem to bring out the Byron in me.”
Her eyes widened. “That would be a terrible thing, Major! My … the Reverend Littletree says Byron is a shockingly bad man.”
“In this instance, I must agree with the vicar's superior knowledge. But tell me, lovely Onyx, what do you mean when you say, ‘I am not really here’?”
“Mama remarried someone more in her own style, but Gerald and I were always a reminder of her earlier marriage, and what she considered the Reverend Hamilton's folly. We soon learned to avoid family gatherings when anyone of importance was present, anyone titled or in any way distinguished. Anyone who might cut her dead if the issue of our background were raised. Mama insisted.”
Onyx was not looking at Major Beresford when she made this artless confession. If she had been, she would have been troubled by the expression in his eyes. As it was, the harshness in his voice startled her.
“And so you vanished when company came, eh?”
“That's … about it,” she replied, uncertain of his tone. “Mama didn't want anyone to remember us. I think it even troubles her now that Gerald and I were—are—called Hamilton.�
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Onyx clenched her fist. “But what are we to call ourselves? Everyone must have a last name. Even … even Gerald and Onyx.” She fell silent, looking out the window at countryside that might well have been a blank wall, for all that she saw of it.
“I am still puzzled about one thing, Onyx,” Major Beresford said finally, interrupting her highly unproductive thoughts.
“Sir?”
“How is this your fault, that you should be punished? Did these circumstances make Gerald less of a soldier? I know they did not. Does it make you less of a woman? I cannot see that it does.”
She stirred, uncomfortable, confused again under the intensity of his gaze. “I've cried myself to sleep on many occasions, Major, wondering that very thing.”
He sat up again and held out his good arm to her. “Come over here and sit by me, Onyx B. You look so lonely over there.”
She did as he said and was soon curled up under his good arm. “I suppose this isn't very dignified, my dear Miss Hamilton,” he said. “If Alice should wake up, we can say that I needed someone to lean against.”
“Gerald went to war then,” said Onyx, scarcely hearing him. Somehow it was easier to talk when she didn't have to look at Major Beresford. She felt protected now. “Papa had left him enough money to buy a pair of colors. It was a small legacy that Mama could not touch. She was so glad to see him go.” Her voice broke and she drew a long breath as Jack's arm tightened around her. “That was four years ago, when we were eighteen. And then one of Papa's cousins invited me to London for the Season.”
“Did you go?” Beresford prodded when she fell silent again.
“I was almost all ready, and then Mama changed her mind. She was afraid such notice of an illegitimate child would reflect ill on her. And so I unpacked everything.”
“I'm sorry. Would you have liked a London Season?”
She turned to look at him for the first time, her face alive with the glow from her eyes. “Oh, yes! Above all things. I've always wanted to see Vauxhall Gardens, and the opera, and the Elgin Marbles, even if they are stored in a shed.” She touched his arm. “Have you seen them?”
“Yes, I have. I escorted my totty-headed aunt, who only wanted to make sure that she was seen there. I think I would enjoy even more the opportunity to show them to you. We could even witness a balloon ascension. Would you like that?”
“Oh! Indeed I would.” She sighed with pleasure. “I own I would not care to dance until dawn, but I would like to look in at Almack's and drive down Rotten Row during the fashionable hour.”
“And buy a poke bonnet with feathers?”
“Yes! And not even have to mind the expense. Just walk into a milliner's and say, ‘I'll take that one, and that one, and …’ Oh, but I am rambling on in a fearsome way,” she concluded.
“And I enjoy it, Onyx,” the major replied simply. “Do you realize that I have not thought about Spain in quite a while?”
She smiled but said nothing. The major looked at her, watching the way she blushed under any scrutiny. “And do you know something else?”
She shook her head.
“I have hardly stammered since you woke me out of that nightmare,” he said softly.
Onyx worked her way out of his grasp so she could regard him better. “I did not know that you stammered in the first place, Major. It could not have been very noticeable.”
He had no answer for her except to take her hand and raise it to his lips. “God bless you, little lady,” he said, kissing her fingers lightly.
He laughed softly when she retreated in confusion to the other side of the carriage and resumed her place next to Alice Banner. With a wink to her, he lowered himself to his pillows again and closed his eyes, leaving her to her own disordered thoughts.
When her agitation lessened, she observed the sleeping man across from her, wondering about him. That he was a gentleman, despite his rough language, was obvious. He had been at war; he was used to male company, the talk of men who had no time for frivolities. He must be somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, but she could not be sure. She remembered Gerald's one visit home before his death, and her discomfiture at observing how much older he seemed. It was the same with the major.
By no exercise of the imagination could she call Jack Beresford a handsome man. His features, though regular enough did not come together in any way remarkable. The lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth were attributable to long hours in harsh sunlight. His skin was leathery and well-tanned, his hair auburn. He was quite tall, but much too lean.
As she analyzed the major's appearance, Onyx told herself that in no way did he come up to anyone's criterion of male beauty. The Reverend Littletree, for all his little tics and quirks and thinning hair, was probably a better looking man. But the vicar lacked Beresford's cachet, that indefinable something that a woman of Onyx's inexperience with men could not put into words. Whatever it was, she knew that when Major Beresford finally said good-bye, turned his back to her, and continued his journey to Yorkshire, he would be hard—perhaps impossible—to forget.
Alice woke up when the afternoon was blending into early evening. She watched her charge, who was looking out the window.
“Have you decided what you plan to tell Lady Bagshott about this little delay?” Alice asked finally in her dry fashion.
“The truth, of course,” replied Onyx, “except where Private Petrie is concerned. No good will ever be served by involving him with the brigands.” She sighed. “I hope Lady Bagshott is of an understanding mind. Jack needs a place to rest, and I still feel responsible.”
Alice patted Onyx. “I know that you do.”
Onyx smiled on her sleeping charge. “Do you know, Alice, it is too bad we are not sufficiently beforehand in the world to command Lady Bagshott's services.” The smile left her face. “As it is, we will hope for the best.”
They did not stop for the night but continued on by the light of the full moon to Chalcott, arriving there, as near as Onyx could judge, at about the time when at home she would have been beaten at the whist table by Lady Daggett for the second and final time of the evening.
Her uneasiness increased as they turned off the main highway beyond Chalcott village and traveled down a well-graveled road with hedges of sweet-smelling orange blossoms. Major Beresford was awake and sitting up, but he was not speaking. His gaze was inner-directed again, and she knew he was in pain. She did not trouble him with words, but in the little voice inside her mind, she urged John Coachman to hurry.
They turned off the gravel road and Chalcott Manor was before them.
“Alice, look!” Onyx exclaimed.
The house rose before them like a giant wedding cake, all arches and ogives, comings and goings of massive walls and mullioned windows. It was such a house that she, in her prosaic way, would never have imagined. She could only fold her hands together in her lap and stare at it. She began to feel the familiar discomfort that overtook her whenever the Daggetts prepared for an evening's entertainment and she knew she was to be excluded.
Private Petrie had ridden ahead of them and already dismounted in front of the main entrance. With an insouciance that quite took her breath away, he swung off the major's horse and strode up the front steps to ring the bell. I would have found a servants’ entrance, Onyx marveled as she watched him.
By the time Sir Matthew Daggett's venerable traveling coach creaked to a halt, Petrie's peremptory summons had been answered. A servant, looking quite as antique as the house, came onto the driveway, followed by another retainer equally ancient. Before either of them could open the carriage door, John leapt off his box and shouldered them aside. He flung open the door, muttering something about “showing these old furriners how we as come from Bedfordshire do things.”
With a glance back at the major, who watched her, but still said nothing, Onyx accepted John's hand and stepped lightly to the ground. She smoothed her wrinkled skirts about her and looked up in time to watch the majesty that
was Lady Amanda Bagshott silhouette herself in the front door and pause.
Onyx would have known her anywhere. Lady Bagshott and her brother, Sir Matthew, shared the same long nose and pointed chin. As she stood in awe, watching Lady Bagshott descend the steps, Onyx was reminded of the time Gerald threw her into whoops by declaring quite solemnly, “If ever Sir Matthew loses all his teeth, his nose and chin will surely meet. Perhaps they will grow together.”
As the image rose before her eyes, Onyx resisted the urge to lean against the carriage and laugh until her sides hurt. Such foolishness would never do. Even as she wondered at the majesty before her, there was something about Lady Bagshott, some resemblance that she couldn't quite place.
But this was hardly the time for philosophy. Gathering her courage about her like a threadbare robe, she came toward the formidable dame, dropped a graceful curtsy, and extended her hand. “Lady Bagshott, I am Onyx Hamilton,” she said in her soft voice.
The dowager did not accept the proffered hand. She came closer and at her leisure looked Onyx over from head to foot. Never was Onyx more conscious of her shabby clothes, the meek little hat with no plumes to recommend it, the gray pelisse with the tear at the elbow she had so artfully mended, but which now seemed to stand out like a windmill on a Spanish plain. She knew that her face had no blemishes, and she wondered why she worried anyway, as Lady Bagshott's eyes lingered on it and then passed down to her generous bosom, where they paused.
Lady Bagshott's voice boomed out as she stared at Onyx. “Young lady, such bosoms are not the fashion!”
A week ago, Onyx would have dropped over in a dead faint if anyone had said such a thing to her. In her anger, Onyx whipped off her gloves and held them in one hand. Lady Bagshott stepped back one pace, as if half-expecting the overendowed Miss Hamilton to slap the gloves across her face.
Lady Bagshott's sudden movement recalled Onyx to her present dilemma. She slapped her gloves in her other hand, bit her lower lip until it hurt, and raised her chin higher.
“Lady Bagshott, we can find ample time in the future to discuss my physical failings. I regret the intrusion at this late hour. I regret that I must disturb the tenor of your household in any way, but I have brought with me the man who rescued Alice and me on the road some days past, and he is in need of a place to sleep.”