by Godman, Jane
An unexpected smell of burning made her think of bonfires and the way, as a child, she would watch the plumes of smoke spiralling into the sky and wonder if they went all the way to heaven. How nice it would be to have such carefree musings today! In addition to the mental scars left by her encounter with Sir Clive, her thoughts seemed determined to focus on her relationship with Jack. She had never doubted her own feelings for him. From the very first moment she saw him, lying under that tree on the hard December ground, she had loved him. That love had never wavered, despite the rage and contempt her subsequent actions had awakened in him. Now that their passion had been rekindled, she was forced to wonder how he really felt about her. He had loved her once; of that she had no doubt. But now? Was she just a warm body that happened to be conveniently close by? She knew that she could not engage in the physical act of love without deeper feeling. But it seemed, from her admittedly limited experience, that men could do just that. They appeared, for example, to actually enjoy encounters with ladies of dubious reputation. Thoughts of Lady Cavendish and her practised, scented charms niggled her.
Rosie thought Jack might still love her, but she was by no means sure … and theirs had not been an easy romance. Would he think she was worth sticking with, in spite of all the pain she had caused him? Or would he be happier to walk away and return to his wandering lifestyle … or worse, to his sophisticated mistress?
These were the thoughts playing through her mind as she walked towards the rose walk, always her favourite place. Rosie froze in shock as she stepped into the walled enclosure and Sir Clive’s groom approached her. Her instinct was to take him to task for trespassing, but a glimmer of suspicion dawned and, instead, she started to turn away. She was forestalled by his words.
“Miss Delacourt? Lady Harpenden has asked me to escort you to her. She told me to tell you the matter is urgent.”
Warily, and remaining poised for flight, Rosie said. “Please tell her ladyship I will wait on her shortly …” Before she could finish, another man came up behind her and, unseen by Rosie until the very last minute, threw a heavy cloak over her head, wrapping her in it and lifting her bodily off her feet. Grunting a little as she struggled wildly within its folds, he threw her over a shoulder which resembled an iron girder and turned towards Sheridan Hall. From the musty depths of the cloak, Rosie heard Poulter abjuring him to hurry about it. Sir Clive, observing the encounter from behind the shelter of an elegant fountain, permitted himself a brief, triumphant smile.
The man carrying Rosie appeared to have muscles of steel as, no matter how hard she kicked him, he did not flinch under the flurry of blows. They covered the distance between Delacourt Grange and Sheridan Hall rapidly and, within minutes, Rosie was thrust unceremoniously into the drawing room. She spun round like a little hell-cat to confront her abductors, just in time to see the door slam shut.
A soft, anguished sound drew her attention and she turned back into the room, giving a gasp of horror at the sight which met her eyes. Lady Harpenden was seated on a high backed chair, her hands bound behind her and her feet securely tied to the chair legs. A gag had been stuffed into her mouth, and her breathing was laboured because her nose appeared to be broken.
With an exclamation, Rosie rushed forward and gently removed the gag allowing her ladyship to draw in several deep, ragged breaths. Her blackened and bruised left eye was nearly closed and her right eye registered fear and confusion. She seemed incapable of speech. Rosie untied her hands and knelt to release her feet. She was about to help her up when a guttural, panicky sound rose in Lady Harpenden’s throat. Her eyes – fixed in horror on a point just above the younger woman’s left shoulder – told Rosie everything she needed to know.
“Hello Rosie,” Sir Clive’s voice was level, even conversational, “How nice of you to pay my aunt a morning call. You must excuse her if she has not thanked you suitably … her manners seem to have deserted her somewhat today.”
Rosie got slowly to her feet and turned to face him. Although she was trembling with terror and revulsion in every fibre of her being, she was determined that he should not know it. “Clive, your aunt needs care urgently …”
“Shut your chattering mouth!” The mercurial switch from polite chit-chat to a deranged snarl shocked Rosie, even though she had already witnessed his capricious mood changes at first hand. His mental state seemed to have deteriorated further, a thought which caused an icy finger to draw a line down her backbone.
“I’ve had quite enough with my Aunt Harpenden here telling me what I should and should not be doing. I don’t need to hear it from my bloody insubordinate wife-to-be as well!”
Sir Clive looked awful. His skin was the colour of uncooked pastry, the puffiness of his face accentuated by his hollow, sunken eyes. Even at a distance of several feet, the unwashed, feral smell rolling off his body made her stomach turn. The wild expression she had noticed occasionally seemed now to be a permanent feature and his lips were constantly flecked with spittle, which he kept wiping away on the left sleeve of his coat. The other sleeve was stiff with dried blood and the arm itself hung loosely at his side. Rosie, her mind racing with options for a possible means of escape, decided that she could not rely on the fact that he appeared to be unable to use that arm.
“Since I now have your undivided attention … both of you …” he gave his aunt a mock bow and she moaned uneasily, “Let me tell you what we are going to do next. My Aunt Harpenden,” he turned to Rosie, “Was most surprised to see me here, which struck me as odd. This is, after all, my home. We discussed the delicate matter of money in great detail last night, and I believe she has now come round to my way of thinking. Is that not so, Aunt Alberta?” Lady Harpenden nodded her head obediently and Rosie’s heart ached to see this proud woman reduced to such straits. “We had a little … altercation,” Sir Clive snickered reminiscently, “Over how I choose to spend my inheritance, but we have now resolved the matter to our mutual satisfaction. My aunt has most generously agreed to meet my needs from her own fortune! Is that not most bountiful of her, my dear?”
Rosie had been scanning the room for something to use as a weapon, but Sir Clive’s words brought her attention fully back to him. He seemed to require a response, so she smiled weakly.
“Splendid!” he rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Now, my dear, we must press on with the wedding plans, must we not? I must confess my anticipation of our wedding night has been heightened even further by recent events.” He licked his lips lasciviously and Rosie felt sick bile churn in her gut.
“You cannot think I will marry you now?” The words burst form her before she could check them.
“My dear Rosie, you have no choice,” he replied patiently, as if he was chastising a small child, “You are forgetting that I still hold your brother’s confession. And, before your intrepid rescuers arrive, I must inform you that my lawyer is under strict instructions to make the contents of that document public should our marriage not take place on the scheduled date.” He smiled cheerfully, “I think all that remains now is for us to await the arrival of the so dashing Lord St Anton and Drury, that tame bear of yours.”
“I don’t think they will come,” Rosie said quietly, “After all, they will not know I am here.”
“They will not come immediately, that’s true,” he agreed, “They will be too preoccupied with a little … ah, diversion … I put in their way. Although they are both quite monumentally stupid, they will probably consider the option that we may be here. I expect they will arrive forthwith. They are both so very fond of you, my darling. But please don’t worry your pretty head that they will come between us again … Poulter, my groom, and his hired thug have strict instructions to finish them off … once and for all this time.”
“Clive, please, let me fetch help for your aunt.”
Lady Harpenden’s face was grey and her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. Her breathing was coming in shallow, ragged pants and she appeared to be unaware of her surroundings. R
osie was becoming increasingly concerned for her.
“Mrs Dawson will be able to bring her a hot drink for the shock and, if we can ease the discomfort of her wounds … “
Sir Clive sighed, “Mr and Mrs Dawson are both somewhat indisposed,” he said apologetically, “They made the mistake of taking my aunt’s side and … well, I could not have that, could I? Servants sometimes need a reminder of their place, my dear Rosie.”
Rosie shuddered at the thought of what Sir Clive might have done to the aging, harmless couple who had served his family devotedly for so many years. She wasn’t sure Jack would get here in time to save Lady Harpenden … and she knew it was only a matter of time before Sir Clive’s brutal attentions were turned in her own direction. She may not be so lucky this time.
At that moment the door opened and Poulter entered, his face troubled. He nodded deferentially in Rosie’s direction which struck her as faintly ridiculous. The man had clubbed her about the head a few days ago and had now abducted her, for heaven’s sake! In the circumstances, his courtesy was somewhat misplaced.
“Sire,” he kept his voice low, “The old man is in a bad way. I don’t think he’ll live if we don’t get him some help.”
“’Tis the same situation with Lady Harpenden, here,” Rosie said coolly, “You would appear to have assisted your master in a double murder …”
The groom’s face paled further and Sir Clive interrupted shrilly. “Be quiet! Quiet, I say! I will decide what happens … I will not be crossed!”
“And I’ll not assist you in murder, sire” Poulter faced him bravely, much to Rosie’s surprise, “I won’t swing for your actions and nor will Gem.”
Sir Clive, his face contorted with madness, struggled to get his pistol out of his coat pocket with his ruined right hand. Poulter bowed again to Rosie and came over to examine Lady Harpenden who had slumped forward in her chair. Rosie, leaning in close, could not detect any sign that she was breathing.
Jack chose that moment to burst into the room. Taking in the scene at a glance, including the pistol which was now levelled in Rosie’s direction, he launched himself at Sir Clive, grappling with him for possession of the weapon.
“You have lost, my lord,” Sir Clive’s feral breath touched his face as he whispered triumphantly, “My lawyer has instructions to publish Harry’s signed confession should I die an untimely death. She will hang for her love of you …”
Poulter’s quiet voice interrupted him.
“Sire, her ladyship is dead. You have killed your aunt.” Knowing that the rational man deep inside him loved and respected Lady Harpenden, Rosie hoped the words would – on some level, at least– touch him.
“No!” It was an impassioned wail and, for the first time in a long, long time, there was no trace of madness on his face. The only emotions left were pain and remorse. As he broke free of Jack, Sir Clive lifted the pistol shakily with his left hand and Lady Harpenden, defying the odds, drew in an endless breath. A single shot echoed round the room and Sir Clive pitched forward onto the carpet, his torment finally brought to an end by his own hand. Grimacing, Jack stepped forward and threw his coat over all that remained of Sir Clive Sheridan.
Jack was subdued on his return to Delacourt Grange after the funeral. He bowed low over Lady Harpenden’s outstretched hand. “It is done, my lady,” he said simply.
Her face, still a patchwork of different coloured bruises, relaxed a little. “Was there any talk?” In spite of everything, the family name remained her prime concern.
Jack shook his head, “The story that he died in a tragic riding accident is holding up. Your ladyship’s generosity to the Dawson’s – together with the fact that Poulter and his bovine accomplice are facing the noose if they breathe a word – have ensured that there is no tongue wagging. Fortunately, the neighbourhood was unaware of his worst excesses and the recent deterioration in his mood.”
“And Mr Dawson?” The dressing applied by the doctor to Lady Harpenden’s damaged nose only managed to accentuate her hawk-like expression.
“He will make a full recovery. The injuries were less serious than they first seemed and he, and Mrs Dawson, were very understanding. Their loyalty to your family is quite remarkable, my lady.”
“As it should be,” Something of the weariness she felt showed on her face, and Jack offered her his arm so that he could escort her into the morning room, where a light luncheon had been set out. He knew that she felt an inordinate amount of guilt over Sir Clive’s death and the events leading up to it. She wondered if things might have been different had she not projected her high expectations onto her nephew when he was a boy. Should she have recognised his fragility and done something about it? In her fierce determination to protect the family name, had she been responsible for destroying its most prominent member? Or was the damage already done when her brother, detecting something of his wife’s wildness in their son, had attempted to beat it out of him? These were the questions which would forever haunt her and Jack – knowing there were no straightforward answers to them – felt sincerely sorry for her.
Rosie was waiting for them in the morning room and she smiled shyly at Jack as he entered, but he appeared not to notice. Now that there were no secrets between them and all of the barriers to them being together had been removed, she wondered where their relationship would go next. He had been distant and preoccupied since the horror of Clive’s suicide, but that was natural. His time had been taken up with the aftermath and arrangements for the funeral.
Lunch was a quiet affair, during which Lady Harpenden announced her intention of returning to London the following day.
“So soon, my lady?” Rosie asked, “Are you sure you are quite recovered?”
Her ladyship nodded decisively, “I must go to London and make sure that no trace of scandal gets out,” Her mouth trembled in a brief moment of weakness.“I need to be busy, my dear. What about you? What will you do next?” She glanced from Rosie to Jack, her gaze significant, and Rosie felt her ready blush begin to rise.
“I cannot remain here,” Jack’s quiet voice halted her pleasant daydream, “There is something I must do, and, in order to accomplish it, I must go to London. Lady Harpenden, I would be most honoured if you would permit me to accompany you?”
Rosie’s heart sank at the words. Her suspicions had clearly been correct, after all. The greater draw of Lady Cavendish was pulling him back to London. He had stayed out of pity, not love. She maintained a dignified distance from Jack until he left the following day. She wished she could say that her coolness of manner affected him but, so lost in his own thoughts was he, that he clearly did not notice. His farewell was brief and absent-minded and Rosie wondered, as she watched Lady Harpenden’s carriage rumble down the drive, if she would ever see him again.
It was almost a week later when Jack dismounted and gazed up again at the beautiful, golden house, the mullioned windows of which reflected the sunlight back at him in a hundred bright points of light. The honeysuckle around the door had blossomed and its sweet scent welcomed him home as he stepped through the open door.
The smell of beeswax and fresh baked bread made his nostrils twitch with delight and, through the open door of the parlour, he glimpsed sunlight streaming into the cosy parlour he remembered so fondly. Mrs Glover bustled through, carrying a pile of freshly laundered linen and caught herself up short at the sight of him. Bobbing a quick curtsey, she nodded towards the garden, “Miss Rosie,” she grinned delightedly, “Is outside, my lord.” The broad smile stretched her features even further, “Oh,’tis mighty glad she’ll be to see you, Mister Jack!”
Jack made his way to the wide patio which ran the length of the rear of the house and stepped out onto it, viewing the garden below him. A rug had been laid on the grass under the shade of a broad oak and Rosie was seated on it, leaning back against the broad trunk of an aging oak. The bruising on her face was gone now, but her arm still rested in a sling. A golden retriever puppy was frenziedly tugging at the ed
ge of the rug with sharp teeth, its plumy tail waving joyfully. Jack paused, content to watch her before making his presence known but, as he stepped down onto the grass, some sixth sense made Rosie turn her head in his direction. The smile he loved so dearly blossomed and, without hesitation, she rose and ran into his open arms.
Mrs Glover and Tom, unashamedly watching through the dining room window, later swore that the kiss which followed could never have been matched for intensity or duration. When Jack eventually raised his head, it was only to gaze in wonder at Rosie’s glowing features. He lifted a hand to stroke her hair and Rosie caught hold of it, pressing her cheek against his palm. Mrs Glover sobbed uncontrollably as Jack released Rosie and went down on one knee before her.