by Ruth Axtell
Jessamine quieted at last, knowing tears would do no good. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “I must go. I’ve collected my things. If I’ve overlooked anything, Megan can bring it to me when next she comes to Alston Green.” As she spoke she drew away from Céline and rose from the chair.
“At least finish your croissant.”
Jessamine touched her stomach. “I really couldn’t eat anything.”
With one last searching look, Céline gave a brief nod. “Very well. Let me instruct the footman to call for the coach.”
“I can take a hackney.”
“Nonsense. It will only take a few more minutes. Sit there.” She went to the bellpull once again. Jessamine sat staring into the fire, whose flames had died down to blue flickers and red, glowing coals. She felt too spent to do anything but stare.
When Céline had spoken softly to the maid, she closed the door once more and approached Jessamine.
“If you don’t mind, my dear girl, I should like to pray for you before you leave.”
Jessamine looked up, startled. “I’m too ashamed to pray.”
“That’s all right. I shall pray for you. Believe me, when I found myself at the lowest point in my life, I turned to the Lord and He delivered me out of all my distresses.” She quoted the psalm with a tender smile.
Jessamine stared at her. How could this beautiful, self-possessed lady have any distresses comparable to her foolishness?
As if guessing her thoughts, Céline’s smile deepened. “I thought I had lost everything—and all through my own reckless and carelessly made decisions. I, too, fled London . . . for France.” Her features sobered, and she seemed to be looking into the past. “At a time of war when the city was being cut off from the rest of the world. I didn’t know what I would find, where I would go . . . and most of all, I was filled with the hopelessness of having lost the only man whom I could truly trust and honor. My heart had been deadened to love for so long. I had no right to this man . . . he belonged to another, and our two countries—our loyalties—kept us apart.”
Jessamine knew from the moment Céline began speaking that she would hear of Rees. Her breath caught and she listened spellbound, hearing how it had been from this woman’s perspective—Jessamine’s rival, the one who had succeeded in stealing the man she’d loved and waited for for so long.
“But this man had given me an invaluable gift.” Céline’s smile returned as her gaze met Jessamine’s once more. “He gave me the gift of his faith. I know you have that same faith, which is one of the reasons Rees had pledged himself to you. You were the only young woman he found honorable and pure and worthy of his love. He would never dishonor you or break his pledge to you, and that was one of the reasons I loved him.”
Jessamine caught her breath. Céline had known it was she.
The next moment Jessamine shook her head. “He had never pledged himself to me. There was no betrothal, no understanding.”
“Perhaps not spoken, but he honored his commitment just the same.”
Jessamine hesitated, but Céline’s confession spurred her own. “I wanted to hate you.”
Céline pushed a lock of hair away from Jessamine’s forehead with a fingertip. “I’m sorry for any hurt I caused you.”
“I didn’t want your pity. You treated me—and continue to treat me—so nicely. More than I deserve.”
Céline smiled. “If I do, it’s because I can understand how you feel. Did I not want to hate you, too, at one time?”
They stared at one another a few seconds longer as Jessamine felt the icy shards imbedded in her heart begin to melt. But with the thaw came deeper pain.
“Now, with your permission I will say a prayer for you. The Lord brought me out of my grief, he turned my mourning into dancing, put off my sackcloth and girded me with gladness.” Again she quoted a psalm, astonishing Jessamine, who as a girl brought up in a vicarage prided herself on her knowledge of Scripture. She would have thought Céline as a worldly Frenchwoman knew little of the Scriptures.
Céline bowed her head, and Jessamine followed suit.
“Dear heavenly Father, I come before You by the precious blood of Your dear Son, Jesus. He is our justification, our righteousness, and the only plea we have before You. I thank You for protecting my dear sister from evil. Thank You for sending Mr. Marfleet and Captain Forrester to her rescue. Thank You for leading them to where she was and saving her in time. Thank You for Your angels who guarded her during her ordeal.
“Now I ask You, dear Father, that You would continue to guide her. Lift the sadness from her. Fill her with Your joy—the joy of her salvation. Bring peace to her heart. Help her to understand how much You love her, how much You understand her distress.
“Go before her now as she returns to her family. Make the way straight for her and prepare them for her homecoming. Guide her heart so that she may understand the path You have for her. You know the desires of her heart. I pray that You make those desires conform to Your desires for her.
“Now may You bless Jessamine, and keep her, protect her on the road. Silence the voices of gossip and scandal. Give her the right words to explain her homecoming to her mother and father. In the name of Your Son, Jesus, we pray. Amen.”
Stillness reverberated in the room. Jessamine slowly opened her eyes and looked up at the other woman. “Thank you. I . . . I feel better.” It was the truth, she realized as she uttered the words.
While she was still feeling the warm effects of the heartfelt prayer, she smiled tentatively. “I’m glad Rees found you.” Perhaps she wouldn’t feel the same tomorrow, but for now, her heart was filled with the love she felt Céline’s prayer had imparted to her.
Céline returned her smile. “Thank you. I thank the good Lord every day for him.” Her smile disappeared. “I pray for him more than ever now and try to keep my faith. I received a message that Napoleon is heading to the Belgian front.”
Jessamine drew in her breath.
“There is bound to be a battle. No one knows how or when, but it will be any day . . . if it has not already occurred. Pray for him.”
Jessamine nodded her head. “Of course.” Her own situation paled.
“Come, the carriage should be ready.”
As Jessamine stood and bent to pick up her valise, Céline spoke again. “I will pray that the Lord send you the right young man, one who is worthy of your love.”
Jessamine straightened, her lips twisting. “I am afraid I have dishonored myself beyond repair and am no longer worthy of any honorable man’s love.”
“Then I shall pray that you feel the Lord’s forgiveness and cleansing love. And that you will recognize that young man’s love when he appears before you.”
Disbelieving her words, Jessamine said nothing but followed her out the door.
Lancelot woke with a start, his hands clutching his covers. He’d been throttling a man’s neck. St. Leger, his eyes bulging, pleaded with them for his life.
Reality returned like a wave of bracing seawater, making the sweat on his brow feel clammy. He lay back against the pillow, remembering all that had transpired the evening before: his growing worry and desperation when he realized Miss Barry had left with St. Leger, and then the reality that had hit his eyes when Captain Forrester had opened the door of the room at the inn.
Even now his gut heaved with revulsion at the sight of St. Leger’s body covering hers, Miss Barry struggling futilely. If they hadn’t arrived then—
He put a hand up to his face, covering his eyes, wishing he could wipe the image away.
He remembered what the new day would bring. He would see her. Captain Forrester said he’d stop by in the early afternoon so they could go together to Mrs. Phillips’s town house.
He dreaded seeing Miss Barry in the sobering light of day. Of course he wanted to assure himself that she was all right. She’d been drugged last night. He wanted to ascertain that St. Leger had indeed not harmed her more than what they’d witnessed. Would she remember
any more? He’d heard of some drugs—belladonna, for one—which caused memory loss.
Dear God, he prayed, let there not have been more harm than what we saw. If St. Leger stole her virtue, make him pay, Lord.
Lancelot ground his teeth, burying his face in his hands, pleading with God.
He remembered the verse: “Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
His own wrath last night and this morning in his dream came back to him like a flood.
Forgive me, Lord, for my wrath. I give it over to You and trust You to right the wrongs that have been done to Miss Barry. I don’t want to let go of my anger. I want satisfaction—as any honorable man would in these circumstances, even though I have no right to demand satisfaction. I am nothing to Miss Barry. She will probably despise me even more now since I have witnessed her degradation.
His prayer turned to her, and he asked for God’s healing and mercy for her.
Then he sat up and picked up his Bible and spectacles and began to read his daily portion of Scripture.
By the time he rose to dress, he felt stronger in his spirit. The anger was not completely gone, but he felt master of it by God’s grace.
When Captain Forrester called for him, Lancelot was impatiently pacing the front hallway. The house was silent; both his parents had returned to their country estate. He hadn’t heard a word from Harold in weeks and assumed he must be doing well at the races.
He said a quick prayer for his brother before his thoughts returned to Miss Barry. He’d have gone around to Mrs. Phillips earlier to inquire after her, but Captain Forrester had reminded him last evening that the two young ladies, as well as Mrs. Phillips, would doubtless be exhausted today.
So, it was nearing three o’clock when their carriage finally pulled into the square.
They were obliged to stop behind a couple of other curricles and phaetons which were already stationed directly in front of the large house.
His lips turned down at the thought of having to jostle his way between all the other gentlemen callers who were paying their respects the day after a ball.
The ball seemed an age ago. What was Mrs. Phillips’s butler telling these callers? Surely Miss Barry would not be up to receiving anyone?
They made their way to the door just as it opened and a young gentleman emerged, placing his high-crowned hat on his head, his walking stick and gloves still in the other hand. “Good day,” he said with a smile as they stood aside to let him come down the steps.
He and Captain Forrester presented their cards to the starchy butler. “Are the ladies receiving today?” the captain asked.
“One moment, sirs, and I will ascertain.”
He left them in a small side parlor.
Captain Forrester raised his eyebrows to Lancelot, and Lancelot shrugged. “We shall soon see,” he murmured.
The butler returned shortly and indicated they might ascend to the drawing room.
They heard voices through the half-opened doors. When they entered, Lancelot’s gaze quickly scanned the room, looking for Miss Barry.
Only Mrs. Phillips graced a settee. The rest of the company were a few gentlemen. She was smiling and responding to what one had said. She appeared as if she had not a care in the world.
She greeted them across the room as soon as they entered. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am sure you are both here to call upon my sister, Miss Phillips, and her dear friend Miss Barry.” Her smile disappeared, replaced immediately by a sad look. “Alas, the two young damsels are indisposed this morning, both too fatigued to leave their rooms this day.”
She turned to the other gentlemen. “I fear Miss Barry has contracted an influenza, so I have told her in no certain terms to stay abed. We’ve had maids running up and downstairs with hot toddies and broth.” She smiled at Lancelot and Captain Forrester again. “It’s a wonder any young lady survives the season without falling ill. Going out till the wee hours then shopping, teas, and rides in the park the next day.” She clucked her tongue. “I must avow I am glad that I am long past that.”
Lancelot was torn between worry for Miss Barry and the suspicion that Mrs. Phillips was fabricating her illness. But how to find out what was the true situation?
There was nothing for it but to wait. Thankfully, Captain Forrester was more adept than he at making idle conversation. Lancelot found it difficult just to sit and pretend interest in all the latest society on-dits.
After some minutes, the other gentlemen rose. Mrs. Phillips rang for the butler. As the men bid their farewells to the captain and him, she signaled the butler and whispered a few words to him.
When the door had closed behind the men, she turned her attention to them with a smile. “I told him not to admit anyone else.” She clasped her hands on her knees and leaned forward, her manner all businesslike. “Now, I know you are anxious to hear how Miss Barry fares. She is fine—physically.”
Her amber-hued eyes focused on Lancelot. “She is understandably quite broken up emotionally—and spiritually. She has given me only a cursory summary of how much she remembers, which is precious little, thank goodness.”
She held up her hand, stalling any questions. “But before I go any further, I must tell you that she is gone.”
Lancelot’s jaw dropped open.
“What?” Captain Forrester demanded.
Mrs. Phillips nodded. “She was up at dawn. As was I, thank goodness, or she should have sneaked out before any of us was aware.” She smoothed down the silk of her gown. “She felt so badly that she wanted nothing more than to return to her home.” Again, her gaze went to Lancelot before including the captain. “Her home in Alston Green.”
Lancelot swallowed, hardly believing what he was hearing. “You can’t mean you allowed her to make the trip today alone?”
She nodded sadly. “Believe me, I tried to persuade her otherwise, but she was adamant. I insisted she take my coach first to Lady Beasinger and tell her she was feeling overtired and homesick. I shall pay her a visit later and explain things more fully . . . though we both agreed that the less Lady Beasinger knows, the better.”
They nodded.
“I lent her my traveling chaise although, again, she insisted she could take the stage. But never fear,” she reassured them with a smile, “I prevailed. She promised to write to me as soon as she arrived.”
The door startled them both, and they turned to see Miss Phillips entering. She smiled at them, though her smile lingered at Captain Forrester, and Lancelot felt a pang that the two of them seemed to have formed an immediate attachment. Why was it so difficult for him to have found the same?
He’d thought . . . but now . . . He brushed aside these futile longings in order to hear what Miss Phillips said.
“Thank you for alerting me that they were here,” she said to her sister-in-law, then she turned to them with an irrepressible smile. “I’ve had to cool my heels up in my room, pretending indisposition.” Her mouth turned downward. “But Céline and I decided it best to pretend both Jessamine and I are too fatigued after the rigors of the ball.”
Her sobered look fixed on Lancelot. “Céline has told you that Jessamine left?”
He nodded, unsmiling, still finding it difficult to absorb. “I wish you had notified me—us.” He felt himself color to the roots of his hair. “I mean, perhaps one of us could have persuaded her to remain. I fear this will be worse if we hope to stem the gossip.”
“That is what I told her,” Mrs. Phillips said. “I would have sent word to you immediately, of course, but it was so early—barely after dawn—and believe me, she would have been gone before you had time to arrive. She was resolute. She’d already packed her things and would have a hailed a hack.”
“What shall we put out in society, ma’am?” Captain Forrester asked, bringing their attention to the most pressing problem.
“I think since I have been telling all her callers t
oday that she caught the grippe, that we must maintain the fiction that she is with me. After a fortnight, I can inform visitors that she has been transported back to her home to recuperate. If word is out that someone in this household has the grippe, believe me, I shall have few visitors.”
“What about the servants?”
Her lips firmed into a serious line. “I shall ask for their secrecy. I trust most of them, though some are new.” She sighed. “It is almost impossible to assure oneself of total confidentiality from the servants.” She looked down at her hands. “The truth is, Miss Barry told me she doesn’t care what conclusions society draws about her.” Her gaze rose once more. “She realizes that if not St. Leger, then one of his companions may let something slip—when they’re in their cups or over the gaming tables.
“She says she is through with London and will retire to her village.” She spread her hands. “She was determined, and I could see that nothing would convince her at this point. Perhaps it is best for her to be at home with her parents for a time. By next year, there will have been plenty of larger scandals, and she can come back if she wishes for another season.”
Lancelot curled his fingers into fists, angry at the unfairness of it. Miss Barry had had a lapse in judgment in allowing her head to be turned by St. Leger, but she had certainly committed no crime. She had behaved as many innocent, naïve young ladies did their first time in London. She should not have been prevented from enjoying what any young lady dreamed of enjoying.
“What a pity,” Captain Forrester murmured. Miss Phillips had taken a seat next to him, and she addressed something to him. Mrs. Phillips turned to Lancelot as if to give the couple time to visit with each other.
“Please tell me what transpired last night. I didn’t want to press Miss Barry too much, and she remembers little at any rate.”
Lancelot nodded, though he didn’t want to relive the episode either. But he quickly and as dispassionately as he could related all that had happened after they had left the ball.
“So you are sure St. Leger did nothing worse than kiss her?”
He nodded. “Yes. She was fully clothed though disheveled.” He drew in a breath. “If we’d been a few minutes later . . . I shudder to think.” His hands clenched and unclenched as he recalled his dream. “Believe me, ma’am, if I thought he had done anything else, he would not be alive this morning.”