by Carla Kelly
Never in her life had she felt so needed, so complete. She rested her cheek against his head, taking a breath when he took one, totally absorbed in him. She wanted the moment to go on forever, even as at the same time she knew it should not.
“About a month after we learned of Gerald's death, I went to his room to … to put things away,” she began, talking into Jack's hair. “All of a sudden … Oh, it's so hard to talk about, even now—even to you. I was so angry with him for leaving me alone. I'd lost my great companion, my buffer against the slights that were dealt us. It hurt.” She loosened Jack's grip on her and pulled away so she could look at him. “I don't pretend to understand why love has to hurt so much.” She gazed into Jack's eyes. “Gerald had let me down, but it wasn't a thing of his doing. I don't understand why anger has to be part of grief, but it does.” She looked away then, shy again. “I don't pretend to understand it.”
Jack sat back and contemplated his hands for a moment and then went to the window again. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Adrian always was a spendthrift,” he admitted, “a care-for-nobody. I've spent half my life following behind him and shoveling up the residue. Why should it bother me now? Maybe I've turned him into something he isn't. People have a way of looking better and better from a distance, especially when one's own circumstances are far from sanguine.”
She could only agree, thinking how in moments of stress she longed to be back in Sir Matthew Daggett's house, where no heroic efforts were ever expected of her.
Like the summer rainstorm, Jack Beresford's moment of anguish passed. He managed a lopsided smile. “If I'm a wise man, I will appreciate what I have,” he said, almost to himself. “Perhaps I'll learn to polish my pianoforte, even if it is never tuned.”
She nodded. He turned to look at her. “Just don't … don't leave me right now. Coming home is harder than I thought. I know you have to return to Chalcott, but not now, please.”
“No, not now,” she agreed. “Not now.”
OT NOW” BECAME “NEXT WEEK,” AND THEN the week after. As early summer flowered and deepened, no week was the right week to leave.
Alice Banner left, following a note from Lady Daggett, reminding her that she was to return to Bramby Swale and help prepare Amethyst for the coming London Season.
“I do not wish to go, Onyx,” she said as she packed. She straightened up from her task and looked at her charge. “Although I do not think that you need me anymore, my dear.”
Onyx thought a moment and then nodded. It was true.
She made her own decisions and kept her own counsel now. She might have been nearly twenty-three and on the shelf, but at last she knew she was a woman, and Alice Banner's work was done. Onyx also knew that she would miss her companion. Even more than that, she knew Emily would suffer the loss of Alice Banner.
The thought was unspoken, but Alice understood. “When I am gone, if Lady Sherbourn should require my services, please tell her she only needs to write to me and I'll come.”
The two women embraced. “I'll tell her, Alice. Have a safe journey,” Onyx said and left so Alice would not see her tears.
There was no time to mourn the loss of Alice Banner. Almost before Onyx was aware of it, Sherbourn reached out and enfolded her in its generous embrace. Each night after she said her prayers and lay down to sleep, Onyx thought about her growing attachment to the place and the people. She would tell herself that in the morning she would have to remind them all that everyone was managing well and did not strictly need her anymore.
But every morning as she hurried down to breakfast, there would be Jack Beresford, sitting as he always did, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his body relaxed, his mind busy with things for her to do. She could not tell him no. She was not sure that he would have listened to her if she had reminded him that her marriage was only weeks away.
Dr. Hutchins's assessment of Adrian Beresford was on the mark. Lord Beresford would never be released from his addiction to morphine, even though he was alert now and eating again. His system craved the morphine, and as the days passed and the pain increased, it was his solace. After each visit, Dr. Hutchins would walk in the gardens with Jack and Onyx, listening to them, reminding them of what was to come.
“I do not believe Lady Sherbourn hears me,” he said as they walked slowly among the blooming sweet peas.
“She does not,” replied Jack. “She sees that he is alert and eating, and truly looking less wasted, and she … thinks what she will.”
“It is entirely natural, but then the burden falls on you two,” the doctor replied.
“We can bear it,” Jack said.
Yes, we can, Onyx thought. We could not bear it alone, however. I cannot leave Jack. Not yet.
“And how, sir, are you?” Dr. Hutchins asked.
“I don't sleep on that arm yet, but I am much better,” Jack replied.
Only someone who sees him occasionally would even have asked, Onyx thought. She derived a secret satisfaction watching Jack Beresford eat his steady way through every meal the serving maid set before him. The starving man with the gaunt cheekbones who had saved her life—or at least her virtue—on the highway had disappeared under the weight of several well-placed pounds and ounces.
He was outdoors every day, usually on horseback, overlooking the labor of the men of Adrian's estate. Emily was aghast the afternoon he came into Adrian's room with his clothing soaked and smelling of sheep dip, but Onyx only laughed and tossed him a towel from Adrian's closet. Lord Sherbourn went so far as to comment, “Some of us truly throw ourselves into our work.”
As he dried his hair off and put the towel around his neck, Jack had looked at them and flashed his famous smile, the one they saw more and more frequently. “I can't help it, dear brother. Being bailiff seems to suit me right down to the ground.”
“To each his pleasure,” Adrian had replied and then laughed in that hissing way of his, the way he laughed to keep from hurting himself, when Jack flicked him with the towel.
Onyx knew that Jack was stronger the morning he came up behind her in the hall, grabbed her about the waist, tucked her under his good arm, and ran with her to the curving driveway, where his horse was waiting. She shrieked and laughed the length of the hallway and was still laughing when he set her down by the door.
“I just wanted to see if I could do it, Onyx B,” he explained. “You're in serious danger now.” He swung into the saddle, blew her a kiss, and jumped his horse over the fence into the haying field. She stared after him while Albert forgot his training and laughed out loud, and Chalking looked on, his lips twitching.
“Albert, laughing only encourages him,” Chalking said when he was under complete control again himself. “Remember when he was a child?” He paused a moment to reflect. “Of course you do not—you were a child then too.”
Onyx picked up her hairpins from the floor and tucked them back into her disheveled chignon. “Chalking, it's good to have laughter around here.” Adrian was calling for her, demanding to know what was going on. She hurried to tell him.
“Not now” is going to turn into forever if I don't leave right now, she told herself that night in bed. Her dreams were restless ones, wild ones, dreams that made her blush, and Jack Beresford figured in all of them. She filled herself with resolve, but it vanished every morning over breakfast with Jack Beresford. All he had to do was look at her, smile, and say, “Onyx. I have a little task for you today. But only if you have time …”
She rescued kittens from the stable, climbing the rickety ladder while the coachman held it steady and looked the other way when she came down with her dress full of mewing babies. And then it became her task to feed the poor motherless things, sitting cross-legged on the floor by Adrian's bed and then transferring the kittens to his lap, where they purred and slept.
When the kittens graduated to pabulum and Emily took over, there was the matter of hiring a cook that fell to her. “I can't do that, Onyx,” Jack told her over br
eakfast of burned toast and overbaked egg. “I wouldn't know how to go about it. And Emily? Onyx, really. Do this little thing for me.”
And Onyx did; her reward was Jack's sigh of pleasure after the evening meal and Adrian's better coloring.
“You are a woman of considerable competence,” Jack said one evening.
She looked up from the letter she was writing to Andrew Littletree. It was a letter long overdue, considering that he wrote to her every week without fail, adjuring her to follow Christian principles and then reminding her what they were, as if she had never gone to church or cracked open a Bible in her life.
“What?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. He burst into laughter, holding up both hands to ward off her irritation. “No, no, I mean it! And I mean nothing by it!”
She put down the pen. “Jack Beresford, you are a great rascal, and you know it.”
“Hear, hear,” said Adrian faintly.
“I merely said that you are a woman of great competence,” said Jack again in an aggrieved tone.
“And that has always been the prelude to another request,” she responded, wondering what evil demon was nudging her on. It was guilt, pure and simple. She never dreamed about Andrew Littletree. “Is it kittens this time? Another cook? New wallpaper in the parlor? Are the underhousemaids quarreling?”
“My, we are testy,” Jack said. He smiled at her in that maddening way of his that only became another source of irritation to her.
She felt a spark of real anger then, and the unexpected emotion almost took her breath away. She felt helpless and foolish. How can I lash out at this dear man? she thought. What is the matter with me?
“I'm sorry,” she said and folded her hands across the writing desk. She had been feeling out of sorts for days now, berating herself because she did not have the spirit to leave this place, angry with herself for turning her dreams over to Jack Beresford each night.
It wasn't something she could tell anyone. How could she explain to these people that she was dreading her return to Chalcott and marriage to the Reverend Littletree? In the spring, before Jack Beresford had thrown his pistol to her and she had shot the highwayman, the whole idea had been possible. She had known that there would never be a better offer than that awarded her by the condescending vicar. In ways both overt and subtle, lest there be any mistaking the message, Lady Daggett had let her know that someone of her background could look no higher.
And now Andrew Littletree had taken up where her mother had left off, digging and jabbing, reminding her, admonishing her, scolding her. Onyx was beginning to dread the arrival of the postboy with the mail. And she did not know how to tell anyone how she felt. No one had ever been interested in her feelings before. She was tired of “gratitude” and “duty.” Maybe she was just tired.
Onyx covered her face with her hands for a moment and then rose quickly to her feet. “I'm sorry,” she said again and fled the room.
She wanted to be alone, to try to make some sense out of the strange restlessness she felt, the curious wantings that made marriage to Andrew Littletree seem a pale shadow indeed. No one at Sherbourn could possibly understand how she felt—most assuredly not Jack Beresford. In a mysterious way that she still resolutely refused to consider, he was the author of her misery.
Onyx walked to the bench at the edge of the formal garden and plunked herself down. She wanted to indulge in a cleansing bout of noisy tears. She had no idea what she wanted.
She knew Jack would follow her, and she bitterly regretted her hasty exit from Adrian's room. She rested her chin on her hands. Lady Daggett would never know her. She had changed from a pliable ghost who did what she was told, into … What? I don't even know who I am anymore, she thought.
“May I join you for a moment?”
She didn't move or even look up, but Jack sat down beside her.
“What's troubling you, Onyx?” he asked at last.
“I don't think it's anything I want to talk about.”
He moved closer to her but made no attempt to put his arm around her. She could still savor the spicy fragrance of bay rum about him, even though it had been hours and hours since he had shaved and ridden out on his daily supervision of the estate. How tired he must be, she thought, with another pang of guilt. There is Adrian to worry about, and Sherbourn, and now I am a trouble.
“If it is something you wish to talk about sometime, only ask me, Onyx,” he said finally.
Before she realized what he was doing, he turned toward her and clasped her face carefully between his hands, looking into her eyes, searching them. “I know you are a believer in small pleasures, but at some point you may have to fling open your arms and grasp something greater. I only hope your courage won't fail you.”
She wanted him to kiss her. She wished he would, but he did not. He only touched his cheek to hers for the smallest moment and went back into the house.
Onyx sat on the bench and watched the lights in the house wink out one by one. The candles in Adrian's parlor burned the longest. Jack was probably sitting with him, waiting for the dose of morphine to glaze his brother's eyes and then staying a few minutes longer.
Emily's light was out quickly, and then Jack's. Onyx got up and went in the house, closing and locking the front door. The stairs were familiar to her in the dark. She had been up and down them many times to check on Adrian.
The lamp by her bed had been lit, and the covers turned down. Onyx smiled to herself. Emily was such a dear. She undressed quickly and pulled on her nightgown. There on the pillow, in the edge of the shadows, was a note. The handwriting was the bold scrawl she remembered from an earlier letter. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
Forgive me. I would like to say more, but for now, just forgive me.
Jack
She clutched the note to her and hopped into bed, pulling the covers over her head. The tears came then; they were not the noisy, gusty kind she used to cry, but the silent tears that slid down her face and did nothing to ease the pain.
Onyx slept toward morning and woke later than usual, the note still tight in her hand. She read it again and put it under her pillow. She dressed hurriedly and ran down the stairs and into the breakfast room.
The room was empty except for Albert, who was clearing off the table. He looked up when she made her precipitate entrance, blandly ignoring her expression of deep dismay when she saw that Jack Beresford was not in attendance.
“Onyx, there you are!”
Emily came into the room, pulling on her gloves. “You must come with me.” She accepted the cup of tea that Onyx handed her, took a sip, and put it down. “Jack told me something this morning over breakfast that he had forgotten to tell us last night. One of the crofters’ wives has a new baby. Imagine! Jack said that he came upon the happy event yesterday when he stopped for a drink of water. Jack told me quite solemnly over tea and toast this morning that I needed to remember my role as Lady Sherbourn and take something to the family. Cook has prepared a basket. Do say that you will come with me.”
“I should not, Emily,” she protested. “Who will watch Adrian?”
“Adrian sleeps now, and Chalking is with him,” Lady Beresford replied as she took Onyx by the arm. “Jack told me that you could come. He said you need to get out more yourself. “
“I suppose he is right,” Onyx said. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. “I will come. Let me get my shawl.”
An hour later, she had to agree that Jack was right. The day was beautiful, the wind teasing and light, the sky that particular shade of cobalt that she was coming to call “Yorkshire blue” in her mind. The lambs in the pastures on both sides of the road had outgrown their stiff-gaited, lopsided air and frisked about with complete assurance that they would not fall. Onyx sniffed the air appreciatively. The fragrance of drying timothy grass from the hay fields was everywhere. In fact, the road was cushioned by dried timothy that had fallen off the hay wains.
Emily drove the gig, sitting upright, her hands he
ld high and light. Onyx admired her skill and told her so.
“Adrian taught me to drive,” she replied. “He is … was such a whip. You only had to promenade on Rotten Row at five of the clock on any afternoon and see what an admiring crowd he could collect when he was handling the ribbons of his phaeton.”
“You must have been an excellent pupil,” Onyx said. She wanted to curl up under a tree and sleep. The training derived from boring hour after boring hour at Lady Daggett's whist table came to her rescue, and she stayed awake and managed to maintain an alert expression.
The baby was properly cooed over by Emily, who flitted about on light feet, patted each towheaded child on the head, and distributed jellies and fresh fruits from the Beresford succession houses. She shook her head at holding the baby, however. “Dear me, no,” she said in her soft way when the woman in bed held the infant up to her. “I would not know what to do!”
Onyx took the infant and cuddled her, admiring the fine way her lashes curled and the way she rooted toward Onyx's finger when she touched her cheek.
“Onyx, you are good with babies,” said Emily. “Think what an unexceptionable mother you will make.”
“Lady Sherbourn, how you run on,” Onyx teased in turn. She handed back the baby, watching with a smile on her face as the mother opened her nightgown and began to nurse the baby.
Onyx looked about the room. It had been newly plastered. Outside, the workmen were putting the final touch on the thatching.
“Major Beresford has seen to it,” the crofter's wife explained. “He has been riding all about, so my man tells me, seeing to what needs doing.”
Emily was quiet. She went to the doorway and stood looking out, as if propelled there by the woman's words.
After another smile at the baby, Onyx collected the empty basket, said good-bye, and left the cottage. Emily was already in the gig. She was silent for much of the ride home. As Sherbourn came in view, she sighed and slowed the gig, her hands expert on the reins.