The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  “Hush now, we’ve work to be about.” But Susan’s twitching mouth and twinkling eyes gave her away.

  *

  Arthur brought a tray of tea and cross buns to the worktable in his kitchen. “Cook’s ailing,” he explained.

  “Ah,” Thorne said in a wry voice. “I thought perhaps you were priming my pump.”

  “No sense pumping a dry well.” Arthur pretended not to notice Thorne’s glare. “How fares her ladyship?”

  “Generally, or particularly?…now that you’re pumping.”

  Arthur took a cross bun from the plate. “She was seen entering Hodges’ place. Good news, I hope?”

  “Aye, if that’s what you call a nervous stomach.” Thorne took a huge bite out of his cross bun and chewed it slowly.

  Sighing, Arthur did the same, resigned to waiting out the silence. It was a surprisingly short wait.

  “Have you any word from Sturbridge yet?” Thorne asked, having barely swallowed.

  “The Etheridge family, aye. I’d an answer to our inquiry just before you arrived home. They’ve neither seen nor heard from Combs.”

  “What else had they to say? Word of her background, her family?”

  “They said that for three years she was governess to their children.”

  “Governess!” There was relish in Thorne’s slow smile. “I should have suspected as much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I once discovered she’d a penchant for devouring books, is all. Reading, I mean. What else did they have to say?”

  “Mistress Etheridge had only good to say of Combs’ tenure—diligent, bright, well-mannered and so forth. They were sorry to let her go, but their son was of an age to enter his father’s business, their daughter betrothed.”

  “They know nothing of Combs’s past? Had she no references?”

  “Aye, but…” Arthur frowned. “Let me fetch the letter, my memory isn’t what it once was.”

  When he returned, he was struck by the restlessness he detected in Thorne. There was a hunger in the burning blue gaze, and when Arthur offered the folded parchment, it was all but seized from his bony fingers.

  He watched Thorne peruse the page.

  “They say she came to them bearing a ‘confidential however most excellent reference from a titled gentleman in the east midlands’.” Thorne scanned it further. “Claimed and confirmed to have no living relative. Damnation!”

  “M’lord?”

  “That is the strangest part of this mystery.” Thorne laid the letter down with a scowl. “That a woman as educated and genteel as she could come from nowhere and have no family, no friends…then just as mysteriously disappear without a trace, or a word to anyone.”

  He means himself, Arthur realized, trying not to look startled. “Perhaps, being with child, she felt it wise to take refuge in a convent.”

  “Refuge from what?” Thorne countered sharply. “From whom?”

  As Arthur shrugged, Thorne slammed a fist down on the letter and shot up from the trestle, stalked off, and then turned abruptly about. “By God,” he said, his face flushing, “I will have it from you before I leave this house, Pennington—did my wife do something, say something, to offend or harm the Combs woman? You’ve your ear to the ground, what’s the rumor?”

  Arthur refrained from raising his eyebrows. “M’lord, if her ladyship gave Combs cause to leave, I’ve heard nothing of it.”

  “She had better not have given cause, or by God I’ll throw her over the back of my horse and deliver her without further ado to the front door of Saint Mary’s—the shame of annulment be damned! In any case,” he muttered, seeming oblivious to Arthur’s stunned expression, “I’d give my eyeteeth to know the identity of this ‘titled gentleman’ from the midlands. For all I know, he could be an acquaintance of mine. If she’s fled to her home, her roots, he might know the locale.”

  Mind still reeling at the word ‘annulment,’ Arthur said, “You’ll likely bite my head off for this, but why are this woman’s whereabouts so important to you? Is it only because she’s without family and expecting a child?”

  “Is that not enough to stir compassion in you? Would you not feel the same, were you her master?”

  Aye, but not to the point of obsession, Arthur nearly protested, but said only, “Perhaps.”

  Thorne leaned against the kitchen basin and stared out at the bleak December sky. “Yuletide approaches. A time when Christians celebrate the birth of a child.” His mouth took a grim set. “Meanwhile, for expectation of that same joyous event, a good woman is made to feel an outcast in her own home.” He shook his head. “At least the Virgin had a stable,” he muttered.

  “And a husband,” Arthur reminded him. “There is hardly a comparison.”

  “And I say there is.”

  Arthur silently endured the glare of this man who lately seemed a mere impostor of someone he’d known since infancy and loved like a son.

  Thorne finally looked away, picking up his cloak and tricorne. “Forgive me, this has nothing to do with you. I’d no intention of making you my whipping boy.”

  Arthur nodded and watched him go, an ache in his old heart. Thorne’s pride would obviously not allow him to confide in the same man who’d warned him against the folly of a union without love. Hence Arthur could only stand by and observe the ravages of that silent suffering. He hoped fervently that Thorne, who forgave others easily, would eventually find the grace to forgive himself.

  *

  The frigid wind whistled around the corners of the staid old Hall. Casements rattled like oversized, chattering teeth, while the drafts on the north and east sides made the windows squeak in their fastenings. Gwynneth paced up and down her chambers and cast nervous glances at the wooden panels, fearing one or more would fly off its hinges under a barrage of wind and broken glass and come hurtling toward her.

  The clock chimed three quarters past eight. She stared into the pivoting looking glass, seeing herself arrayed for bed in a fetching ensemble that set her skin and her eyes off to perfection. Confection, she amended in silent disdain. I might have come from a box of petit fours.

  She despised the calculation of this seduction, and hated Thorne for not having neatly fallen in with her plans already. Most of all she hated Hobbs for making it necessary. He, the one person she’d thought loved her and respected her as a person with individual rights, had instead taught her more than she ever wanted to know of a man’s potential power over a woman.

  And with that lesson had come the bittersweet realization of what a prize she’d once had in Thorne—who had consistently shown her that a man could be tender, patient and protective of a woman—even if he did not love her.

  She shot one more grudging glance at the mirror. Good-hearted, simple-minded Byrnes had assumed all this preparation was just to inform Thorne of impending fatherhood. She would have been shocked to realize that a woman nearly two months pregnant was in full carnal pursuit of her own husband.

  But I am no wanton, Gwynneth reminded herself, fighting tears as she so often did these days. I was taken by force. And even if I had strutted stark-naked into Hobbs’ room and performed the Dance of the Seven Veils, he’d no right to take advantage of me—his master’s wife!

  But the deed itself was a fait accompli. Her mission was the important thing now, and it must not fail. Once she’d played her part with Thorne, she need only tell him, lie though it was, that Hobbs had admitted fathering Elaine Combs’ babe—and the filthy cur of a stableman would be out of their lives forever.

  *

  Thorne left his study for the library, where the fire he still commissioned—in hopes of finding a lone occupant there some evening—was already reduced to glowing chunks of applewood. From the sound of the black fury outdoors, tomorrow’s routine would be replaced by damage assessment. He preferred, as his father had, calling upon the herders and farmers himself rather than holding court in the great hall. His tenants appreciated it, preoccupied as they were with wind-stri
pped thatch and flattened shearing sheds and cow byres, not to mention dead animals and ravaged crops. His only concern was for Arthur, who would insist on going as always, despite his aching joints and Bridey’s efforts to treat them with burnet-leaf wraps.

  Thorne looked at the lone chair in the corner. There, before he’d convinced Combs to move nearer the fire—and his own chair—she used to sit with her book.

  On a whim, he lit a taper and pulled out the last volume he’d seen her take from the shelves. He leafed through the book of poetry, wondering which rhymes had caught her fancy. He froze at sight of his own signature in a page margin.

  Not so, he realized; it was his name but not his signature. His pulse quickened. He’d seen that handwriting before, in Gwynneth’s wedding-record book. He would know Elaine Combs’s refined script anywhere.

  Thorneton Thomas Wycliffe Neville. Twice she had written it—his entire name. She must have gone to some trouble to learn the second. Hardly anyone knew it and no one ever used it.

  He brought the taper closer to the book.

  Thou art blind tho’ thou doth see—

  Search thy mem’ry—discover me

  Met long ago—yet twained by fate—

  Thou know’st me not—here at thy gate

  Tho’ oft-times now thou speak’st to me—

  Thine eye hath yet to know

  The face that came’st to love thee

  So many years ago

  He read them again. Did they mean something to Combs, touch some chord of nostalgia in her, remind her of someone? If so, whom? She’d no family, no friends. But surely she had a past. He smiled at the thought. Of course she had a past, she was flesh and blood, not some meadow fairy.

  He closed the book and put it back, his fingers lingering on its spine. Resting his forehead against a row of volumes, he closed his eyes and surrendered to an unexpected wave of grief. He would give a small fortune just to know Combs was safe and comfortable, never mind her whereabouts. His dreams would be far less troubled if he knew that alone.

  He considered rebuilding the fire in the grate, but as he looked at the empty chairs at the hearth, the impulse died. This room, indeed this very house, had lost much of its charm for him, his marriage as cold and lifeless as the ashes would soon be in the fireplace, and the one kindred soul under his roof gone without a trace.

  He decided to retire early, to seek solace in sleep. On the threshold of the library he paused, then crossed to the shelves and took down the book of poetry again. Somehow the notion of having it in his chambers was comforting.

  *

  He caught wind of her scent as soon as he closed the door behind him. Of course—the storm. He smiled wryly. That Gwynneth would again brave the dangers of his bed said much about her fear of inclement weather. Well, she could sleep there undisturbed. He would spend the night on the upholstered chaise.

  He carefully laid the book of poetry on a shelf of the sideboard, then tossed a spare blanket from a chest onto the chaise. He reached for a pillow, then heard Gwynneth’s muffled voice.

  “You need not sleep there, husband. This is your bed, and I take up little space.”

  He almost smiled. She seemed so vulnerable just now. He saw no sign of the cold, unreasonable nature lurking beneath that fetching face and form—the latter of which was again quite visible through the rose-colored shift and wrapper, now that she’d rearranged the covers.

  “It will be hard enough for you to rest, Gwynneth, with this infernal wind howling throughout the night. My tossing and turning won’t help. I’ll be nearby. You need only call and I shall come.”

  “Then pretend you’ve heard me call, for I need you now, to comfort me.”

  Was there a hint of promise in those honeyed tones? He came to the bedside and bent over her, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of her. She smiled tentatively.

  “‘Tis only the wind,” he assured her in a soothing voice. “You needn’t fear, and as I said, I’m near enough.” He brushed a wayward strand of hair from her cheek and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Goodnight, my lady. Sleep well.”

  Feeling her eyes on him, he blew out the tapers in the candelabra and undressed in the firelight. He’d just settled himself on the chaise when he heard her voice over the racket of the storm.

  “Thorne,” she said plaintively, “I want to have a child.”

  *

  Gwynneth listened to the shrill wind and the crackle of the fire. Looking no lower than Thorne’s naked back, she watched him pad to the sideboard and pour a glass of brandy. He tossed it and poured another, then turned suddenly around—to shock her, it seemed—and held his glass up in salute.

  “You do have a way of blindsiding a man, my lady.”

  Heart pounding, Gwynneth sat up and lit the tapers, then lay back against the pillows and tried to smile seductively. “But husband, are there not worse ways to be blindsided? Is it not an appealing prospect, the two of us making a babe?”

  Thorne set his glass down and leaned his naked hips against the sideboard, folding his arms across a broad expanse of dark-furred chest. “You’ve called me ‘husband’ twice in the last few minutes, yet I can hardly believe this is my wife speaking.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my wife has made it quite clear that physical union is beneath her, altogether unpleasant. And I, being a gentleman for the most part, have vowed never to visit such gross indecency upon her person again.”

  Gwynneth felt her smile fade. A quick downward glance at Thorne confirmed that this was not going as it should. And shouldn’t he have sounded bitter? Instead he seemed polite and matter-of-fact.

  Apparently considering their discussion at an end, Thorne strode casually to the chaise, rolled himself onto it and flipped the blanket up over his hips.

  Gwynneth grasped at the only weapon left in her limited arsenal: she began to weep.

  “God’s blood and bones,” Thorne muttered. Rising, he yanked on his dressing gown, then came to sit on the edge of the bed beside Gwynneth.

  She pouted, her lashes beaded with tears. “You only want to punish me for wounding your pride. But you cannot deny me a child. Indeed you once said to me that even my priest would tell me that begetting children was my duty…do you remember?”

  He met her gaze levelly. “What I remember most, my lady, is that you informed me that the disgusting act of physical union was perhaps for others, but not for you…that you believed you were intended for ‘a higher purpose’.”

  “I was afraid, can’t you understand? For a woman, the ‘act of love’ is a degrading ritual, a trial to be borne all her married life. And I shall do so! But you, sir, must not try to pleasure me in any way, because ‘tis pleasure that turns a mere trial of necessity into a sin of wicked depravity—a mortal sin, Thorne, and I do not want to go to hell when I die!” She closed her eyes, shuddering, and murmured, “And the pain…such dreadful pain, I wasn’t prepared for that…”

  He frowned intently at her. “What pain, Gwynneth? I caused you no pain. I warned you of it, damn my idiocy, but I never followed through.”

  Gwynneth’s cheeks began to burn. “It sounded as if it would be dreadful,” she said lamely.

  “I tried to tell you the pain would soon be over, never to be endured again, but your fear had already made you deaf.” He rose, but she grabbed hold of his hand and gave him a pleading look.

  “I was yet a girl, Thorne, in many ways. I’ve since confided my feelings to Father Chandler, and-”

  “But you couldn’t tell them to me,” he cut in. “I, who struggled to understand your reticence and did my damnedest to be gentle with you.”

  “You needn’t curse!” She hurled the covers back. “Why must you resort to that whenever we disagree?”

  “I apologize. ‘Tis late and I’m tired…no doubt you are, as well. We’ll discuss your maternal inclinations tomorrow. Whatever we say now will only alienate us further. Good night, my lady.” Belting his dressing gown w
ith a jerk, he strode through the arch.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded, scrambling from the bed and trailing him into the sitting room, her stomach knotting.

  “Where I can be assured of some rest,” he said without turning around.

  “But the storm!” she cried. “I shan’t be able to sleep for terror!”

  Already in the gallery, hand on the door, Thorne sounded wearily patient. “Then I’ll send for Byrnes.”

  *

  On the library settee, Thorne lay staring at the wavering shadows on the walls. The wind and rain had finally subsided, but sleep eluded him for the fact that in this room he could think of little else but Elaine.

  Elaine? When had he ceased thinking of her as “Combs,” he wondered, startled.

  A good name, Elaine—sturdy and brave like the women warriors of legend, yet feminine and refined. “Elaine.”

  Good God, had he just said it aloud?

  He forced himself to consider Gwynneth’s unexpected proposal. Even if he could somehow manage to perform—and performance it would be, no two ways about it—there wasn’t any guarantee Gwynneth’s womb would quicken at once. Few things made him queasy, but the thought of repeated attempts at coupling with a frigid shrew brought a bitter taste to his mouth—and of course the minute she knew she was enceinte, she would bring all physical relations to a halt, he was certain of that.

  Until she wanted another child.

  Hearing the clock strike one, he threw the blanket back impatiently, his stomach joining in the protest with a growl. And no wonder. Supper had been a strange affair for the second consecutive night, Gwynneth playing ingenue instead of nun and he wondering at the charade—though the objective was clear enough now—so he had eaten little and left the table early.

  He padded on bare feet to the great hall, past the glowing coals in the huge hearth and through the kitchen door. As the only light in that room came from the banked fire, he reached for the nearest candle. He’d no sooner struck tinder than there came a commotion from the direction of the larder, and then a muffled grunt.