Blackthorne's Bride

by Joan Johnston

  “Are we really going to visit Aunt Miranda?” Griffin asked.

  Hetty’s heart was in her eyes as she asked, “Karl? Can we go?”

  Karl loved his wife for salving his pride by asking, but the truth was she had a fortune of her own to cover the cost, if she wanted to make the trip. The logging business Karl had come to the valley to start had faltered, and he and Andy had been making plans to buy a herd of cattle and drive it north, to provide beef for the valley’s growing population.

  “I wouldn’t miss a chance to see the infamous Josephine Wentworth in person,” he said, pulling Hetty into his arms and hugging her tight. “Besides, a trip to Texas will give me and Andy the perfect opportunity to get our cattle business started.”

  “Then we’re all going?” Grace asked, glancing at her husband over her shoulder.

  “Why not?” Andy replied.

  Grace threw herself into his arms. “I can’t wait to meet Mom’s family and see where you grew up.”

  Griffin hooted and said, “We’re going to Texas!”

  Caroline banged her spoon on the table and said, “Tex-as!”

  Charlene mimicked her twin, and the two ended up chanting, “Tex-as! Tex-as! Tex-as!”

  Karl laughed and said, “I guess it’s unanimous. How soon can everyone be packed?”

  JOSIE’S HEART SANK to her toes when she got her first look at Blackthorne Abbey. She had the example of Tearlach Castle to show her how run-down a medieval dwelling could get. And Blackthorne’s estimate of “months” to repair the crumbling walls and bring the overgrown landscape back under control seemed optimistic.

  Although it was called the Abbey, for the monks who’d once lived there, Blackthorne’s ancestral home was, in fact, a gray stone castle. It had turrets—towers raised above the castle wall to give a view of the valley below, and crenels—the gaps between the stonework at the top of the castle wall, through which defenders would have fought. It even possessed a foul-smelling moat.

  Josie fought a welling of despair as the carriage that had brought them from the railway station passed over the drawbridge and under the portcullis—a strong oak grille that had once protected the gate against attack—and then through another gateway to the middle bailey. Beyond this unkempt courtyard stood the stone keep itself, a building several stories high with majestic, arched mullioned windows that must have been added sometime over the past few centuries.

  “When Henry II created the first Duke of Blackthorne, the Abbey housed twenty knights and their retainers,” Blackthorne said. “The bed the king slept in when he visited is still here. It’s a massive thing, with a carved footboard depicting some knight decapitating his enemy in battle.”

  Josie shuddered. “I wouldn’t think that would encourage a peaceful night’s sleep.” Her gaze slid from the broken-down castle to Blackthorne’s face and remained there, caught by the glow of excitement in his eyes. He was apparently seeing the castle as it used to be, in valiant days gone by, not as it was.

  He turned his head to speak directly to her, and she flushed at being caught staring. Josie lowered her gaze to her hands, which were tightly knotted in her lap. She couldn’t imagine why she felt so edgy. Except, if the exterior condition of the Abbey was any guide, the necessary repairs inside might take far longer than Blackthorne was willing to wait to return to her bed—or she was willing to wait to bring Spencer and Clay to live with them.

  It had occurred to her that she might bargain away one thing—the duke in her bed—for the other—his nephews safe at the Abbey.

  “The Abbey is full of ancient armor, including shields and swords and pikes, and a dank dungeon full of grisly torture devices,” he continued. “Once upon a time, the dungeon even boasted a skeleton. It finally got decently buried a couple of generations ago.”

  Josie found the duke’s enthusiasm infectious and realized he was reliving a happier time in his youth, when he might have imagined himself as a heroic knight fighting with all those medieval weapons and then putting his enemy to the sword.

  “The monks created a myriad of secret passages in the walls leading to almost every room in the castle, including the dungeon,” Blackthorne continued. “My brother and I…”

  He paused and stared out the window. She watched him swallow hard before he continued, “Monty and I got locked in the dungeon once. We were there for three days before our father found us. He whipped me, because I was the elder. I was. By a year. He said I should have known better.

  “He didn’t take into account the fact that I’d gone looking for Monty because he’d disappeared, and his governess was going to suffer for it. Monty shut the door to the dungeon and locked us in because he didn’t want to spend the morning studying. He said he’d rather die first. We very nearly did.”

  When Blackthorne turned back to her, he had a bittersweet smile on his face. “Monty was charming and funny. Somehow, he never ended up getting punished.” His voice hardened as he added, “It was a mistake I don’t intend to make with my own children.”

  Josie thought she was glimpsing that “other” Blackthorne again, the one who could abandon his nephews. “You intend to punish your children regularly?”

  “I intend to discipline them,” he corrected. “My brother was never held accountable for anything he did wrong, so he felt no sense of responsibility for his actions. He left a great deal of hurt and harm in his wake, and he died an unnecessary death that left his sons without a father to guide them.”

  Or an uncle willing to pick up that burden, Josie thought.

  “Your brother left children behind? Where are they now?”

  “My nephews—Spencer is eight and Clay is six—are living in the country, where they have plenty of fresh air and room to play.”

  That was a bucolic description that bore scant resemblance to the truth, Josie thought. Did the duke truly not realize the nerve-wracking circumstances in which his nephews were living? Or was he painting a rose-colored picture for her benefit?

  Josie had a sudden shocking thought. “If your brother’s children are six and eight, and he was a year younger than you, he must have been no more than a boy when he was wed.”

  Blackthorne’s lips twisted wryly. “Monty was eighteen. His wife was a girl of sixteen. She was nearly six months gone when the girl’s widowed father discovered she was with child and came to see my father. He allowed the marriage because she was from a noble family, and because Monty swore he loved her.

  “Unfortunately, my brother’s infatuation with his child bride didn’t last much past the birth of his heir. His wife died of influenza shortly after his second son was born—with the cord wrapped around his neck. As a result, Clay will likely always need someone to care for him. By the time Monty died, his wife’s father had passed away, which left me in charge of my brother’s children.”

  Josie wondered if Blackthorne knew how much Spencer loved—and leapt to the rescue of—his less able brother. “Why don’t they live with you?”

  A shadow crossed his face, and Josie wondered what had caused it. Guilt? She hoped so, for his sake. That might mean he had a heart. That might mean he had tender feelings, even if they hadn’t been much in evidence. He should be ashamed of abandoning the girl he’d rescued, of not caring enough to make certain she’d been returned to her family in America. He should be ashamed of forgetting his nephews, of leaving them to fend for themselves in the care of a resentful governess and a bitter housekeeper.

  He shot her a puzzled look. “I wouldn’t know what to do with two young boys, other than what I’m doing now.”

  You could love them and care for them! Josie bit back the words, because they would reveal far too much. “You could as easily hire a governess to take care of them in London as anywhere else. At least then you’d know they were safe and secure. And they’d know you love them and care for them.”

  The duke frowned at her. “I don’t appreciate your insinuation that I don’t love them or care for them. I’m doing everything my
father ever did for me and Monty.”

  “And you believe that’s enough? When was the last time you saw them?” Josie challenged.

  “I—”

  Josie figured he’d cut himself off because, as she well knew, he hadn’t seen them for more than two years.

  He continued, “There were good reasons why I couldn’t visit them recently. Or have them visit me. Besides, I get regular reports on their condition.”

  “From whom?”

  “My solicitor.”

  “From whom does he get his reports?” Josie persisted.

  “How should I know? Someone reliable, I’m sure.”

  “How sure are you? For all you know, your own flesh and blood could be wearing rags, stealing scraps from the table, and sleeping in the attic.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I?” Josie could feel the blood rushing through her veins, sending a flush into her cheeks. Spencer and Clay’s situation wasn’t that bad, but it could have been, for all Blackthorne knew. “How long since you’ve seen your nephews in person? How long since you’ve spoken to them? How long since you’ve played with them or read to them or hugged them or—” Josie cut herself off when she saw the look of shock and incredulity in the duke’s eyes but then decided to finish what she’d started. “Or told them you loved them?”

  “Where is all this coming from?”

  “I just think…”

  He made a sound in his throat. “I believe I understand. You’re concerned for my nephews because you know what it’s like to be without parents. I assure you, Josie, Spencer and Clay have not been abandoned.”

  “But—”

  “I can see I’ll have to prove it to you. I’ll arrange for them to visit us, once we’ve restored the Abbey.”

  It dawned on Josie that Blackthorne might have given her the perfect opportunity to retrieve the boys from Tearlach Castle sooner than she’d hoped. “Why not have them brought here now?” she suggested. “That way, you’ll be able to ask them yourself about their living conditions—whatever they are,” she hurried to add, since she could see the objection forming on his lips.

  The carriage stopped before an oversized wooden double door hung on huge brass hinges that appeared to be the entrance to the Abbey.

  “Why don’t we take a look inside before we make that decision?”

  Josie was ready to argue further, but the footman had already opened the carriage door. Blackthorne stepped out, then held out his hand to help Josie down. As she set her foot on the stone flags, she made up her mind that, unless Blackthorne Abbey was a total ruin, she was going to plead for Spencer and Clay to be allowed to come live with them as soon as they could be safely transported from Northumberland.

  She expected the duke to let go of her hand when she reached the bottom stone step, but he held on and headed up the half dozen steps to the door. It was hard to imagine the duke was nervous, but after all, it must be difficult to see his boyhood home in such a terrible state.

  The footman raced ahead of them to open the door, but it was stuck. Blackthorne let go of her hand and lent his muscle to the effort, and the right-hand door creaked open enough to allow them inside, scraping on stone as the top hinge sagged.

  Blackthorne shook his head in apparent disgust, then reached out a hand to her. Josie realized he must be dreading what he might see inside and needed her support to face whatever he found. She clasped his hand and followed him into the Abbey.

  No stream of servants came running. In fact, the place looked empty, unless someone was hiding in the standing suits of armor on either side of the entrance. Cobwebs draped the chandelier in the central hallway. A grand stone staircase covered by a tattered rug spread upward before them, while streaks of sunlight fought their way through windows overgrown with ivy.

  Blackthorne stood inside without moving. Josie had never seen such a ravaged look on a person’s face. Something terrible must have happened to him here. He’d mentioned his father several times, but not his mother. What had happened to her? Or to his father, for that matter? How had they died? Had this home been the site of some family tragedy? Was that why he’d spent so little time at the Abbey as a boy?

  Their footsteps on the stone floor echoed off the tall ceilings as he drew her down the hall to a library, with its three walls of shelves crammed with musty books. He hesitated only a moment before he led her past two separate drawing rooms filled with furniture with clawed legs (which was all she could see, since they were covered with dusty sheets), a dining room with a table that seated sixteen, and a gallery containing portraits of what she presumed were past Dukes and Duchesses of Blackthorne.

  He didn’t pause long enough for her to pose the question. His eyes roamed each room as though he were looking for something. Or someone. He apparently didn’t find whatever it was he sought, because he kept moving.

  Josie got only a glimpse of a chapel with six pews made colorful by the light from stained-glass windows, before they arrived at a kitchen that looked as if nothing had been cooked there for a hundred years.

  “I thought you said you lived here as a child,” Josie said.

  “I did.”

  She shook her head in disbelief that anyone could have used such an antiquated stove and brick oven. “Where are the servants?”

  “I had to let most of the household staff go a year past.”

  Josie’s heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. “All of them? You don’t have a housekeeper? Or a cook?”

  “A number of candidates for each position will be here this afternoon. I thought you might want to choose the staff yourself.”

  Josie was pleased that she would have an opportunity to select the household help she would be supervising, but she was also surprised. “I expected to find a flock of servants who’d been here all their lives.”

  “The housekeeper passed away three months ago, and I didn’t have the heart to replace her. The butler is around here somewhere. I thought we’d see him before this. I consider Harkness to be family. Six generations of Harkness men have worked at Blackthorne Abbey, and Harkness has been overseer here for the past year.”

  At that moment, a stooped gentleman with pure white hair came down a set of back stairs to the kitchen, bracing himself against the stone wall all the way. When he reached the floor, he straightened as much as he could and said, “Your Grace, it’s good to see you.”

  “And you, Harkness. You haven’t aged a day since you took me over your knee for stealing tarts from Cook.”

  The duke was grinning, and Josie realized the ancient retainer must be even older than she’d imagined.

  “I apologize for not being here to greet you, Your Grace,” Harkness said, “but the mice have—”

  “You have mice?” Josie croaked past a fear-constricted throat. “Upstairs? In the bedrooms?” She was terrified of the flesh-eating rodents. Mice and rats had been the bane of her existence at the orphanage. It had been her job every morning to empty the sickening traps that contained the vermin, bound there by their squashed limbs or snapped necks.

  “They should all be gone now,” Harkness reassured her. “I found a tabby who’s turned out to be quite a mouser. Fitch, I call her. I wanted to make sure your rooms were salubrious before bedtime, so I set Fitch to work.”

  Josie wished she could be certain they were all gone. She was glad she wouldn’t be subjected to mice in traps, but she wasn’t sure she would be any happier finding one in Fitch’s mouth.

  “Are you all right?” Blackthorne asked.

  She shuddered. “I hate vermin!”

  “I’m not crazy about them, either,” he said with an indulgent smile.

  She wanted to say more but bit her lip to keep from speaking. She was supposedly an heiress. Where would an heiress learn so much about rats and mice? So she held her tongue. But she made up her mind to get herself a cat and keep it in the bedroom at night. Cats hadn’t been allowed at the orphanage in Chicago any more than Mrs. Pettibone had allow
ed them inside Tearlach Castle. Josie had always wondered what it would be like to have a kitten to pet and to pamper. Maybe, at long last, she would have that experience, now that she would be the one making those sorts of decisions.

  It dawned on her that she was going to have a lot of opportunities to do things she’d never done and to have things she’d never had. Josie couldn’t quite imagine what that sort of freedom might be like.

  “Shall we take a look upstairs?” Blackthorne said, gesturing back down the hall toward the main stairs.

  “I can’t wait.” He shot a look at her, and Josie realized she hadn’t done a very good job of keeping the cynicism out of her voice. But what she expected to see upstairs was more rot in the linens, thicker dust on the furniture, and heavier mold on the dank stone walls.

  She preceded Blackthorne up two flights of stairs but stopped once she reached the top, so he could direct her one way or the other down halls that led in opposite directions.

  He gestured her down the hall on the right and led her to the corner room. Inside, she found tall windows draped with rotted red velvet curtains trimmed in gold braid and a fabulous rug, with images of the Crusades, on the stone floor. What little of the glass windowpanes were visible through ivy revealed rolling hills that ended in a brook that ran across the valley, which then rose to forests as far as the eye could see.

  Most of the room was taken up with the huge mahogany bed King Henry II had supposedly slept in, which was covered with a moth-eaten, gold brocade counterpane. Josie couldn’t resist the urge to see the scene Blackthorne had described in the carriage. She edged around to the side of the bed to take a look at the carving, which was only visible when one was lying in bed.

  A chill ran down her spine as she studied the brutal images. She hadn’t expected the medieval battle to look quite so lifelike. Or the death of the knight to seem quite so ruthless.