by Jane Feather
Miles obediently read the betrothal contract. Then he looked over at his brother-in-law, a question in his eye.
"I should have information soon about Maude's whereabouts," Gareth said tiredly. "As soon as I do, I'll go after her. But there's little to be gained in charging all over the countryside before I know her direction."
"No, of course not," Miles said. "But… but what of Miranda?"
"She has chosen her own way," Gareth replied, his tone curt. "She was always free to leave when she chose. Now is as good a time as any."
"Oh, yes, most certainly," Imogen agreed fervently. "The girl would be in the way now. She did her part and she's been paid for it. Everything is just as it should be."
"Excuse me." Gareth moved past her to the door. "I have business in town. I'll not be joining you for dinner."
He took his horse, rode over London Bridge, and into the Southwark stews. He had but one intention, to get thoroughly besotted and to lose himself in the arms of a whore… or several whores. The drink he found, but the deeper he drank the more unpleasing he found the whores. Drink frequently dulled performance but he couldn't remember it ever before dulling desire.
He rode back across the bridge just before daylight and bribed the watchmen to open the wicket gate for him although it was not yet sunup. He swayed drunkenly in his saddle, vaguely aware that he must present a choice target for street thieves, drunk and exhausted, riding alone, too far gone even to have his hand on his sword hilt.
He had ridden like this before, many a time-back to his house as the cocks began to crow, his spirit dead, his head fogged with mead and wine, his limbs almost too heavy to move, every muscle and joint aching with a fatigue too deep, too central to his whole being, for mere sleep to repair. Thus had he ridden back so many times before to his empty bed, wondering whose sheets his wife was sharing. Wondering if she was rolling in straw in some kennel, or was lying in the gutter with a beggar.
Charlotte. His wife… his love. Oh, he had loved Charlotte with his heart and soul. It seemed he had a propensity for vulgarity. Gareth laughed to himself as he half fell off his horse in the mews. A propensity for vulgarity. He rather liked that. Mary would certainly agree. He stumbled toward the house, still laughing to himself, unaware of the groom's sleepy stare, following him as he weaved his way out of the mews.
He staggered up the stairs, not noticing how much noise he made in the still-silent house, and lurched into his bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him with a loud slam. He didn't bother to undress, merely yanked off his boots against the bootjack, and then fell onto the bed. The thick feather mattress seemed to envelop him and he sank down and down, as the dark wave of sleep rolled over him and Charlotte beckoned from the abyss.
Imogen sat up in bed at the slam of Gareth's door. She stared into the darkness, listening, but all was now silent. She'd heard her brother stumbling and lurching down the corridor and all the old bad memories had resurfaced. How many nights had she sat up waiting through the hours of darkness for Gareth to return? How many times had she listened to his staggering step, her heart pounding, her entire being straining toward him in his pain even as her soul was filled with hatred for the woman who was destroying him?
But why now? Why would he now be revisiting that time of horror? Now, when everything was working out so perfectly for them all? Her brother had returned to himself since he'd come back from France. He was once more strong, directed, determined, and Imogen had allowed herself to believe that he was no longer plagued by demons.
But that step in the corridor outside her door, the crash of his own door, filled her with the remembered terror of her helplessness. She cast aside the bedclothes and stepped down onto the footstool beside the bed. Her night-robe lay over the rail and she put it on, automatically reaching up to straighten her nightcap that kept her careful curls from becoming too tangled overnight. Softly she opened her door. The lamp in the wall sconce in the corridor flickered in the breeze from her window and guttered, plunging the long passage into darkness.
But her eyes were accustomed to the dark by now and she moved stealthily down the corridor. At Gareth's door she stopped. She pressed her ear to the crack and listened. At first she could hear nothing and she began to hope… but then she heard it. The tangled mutter of words, the harsh breathing.
She opened his door as she had done so many times before and slipped inside, closing it behind her. Gareth's nightmares were known only to her, they were one of the many secrets they shared.
"Charlotte!!" It was almost a scream. Gareth sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide open, staring. Imogen knew he was still asleep. She rushed to the bed. His face ran with sweat as if he were in the grip of a fever, his shirt was transparent.
"Gareth… Gareth… wake up!" She took his hand, patted it, cradled it against her bosom. "Wake up! You're dreaming!"
Gareth's eyes focused slowly but the dream hell took a long time to fade. "God's mercy!" he murmured, turning his head to look at his sister, still holding his hand, her eyes fixed upon him with the fanatical devotion that had followed his every footstep from the first moment he'd found his feet.
"God's mercy, Imogen," he repeated, falling back against the pillows, gently pulling his hand free. He wiped the palm of his hand down his sweat-drenched face and lay staring upward, gathering himself together. He thought he was probably still drunk, but his head was now as clear as a bell.
He had a propensity for vulgarity. He began to laugh again. Maybe he was still drunk, but this glorious laughter was an utterly sober reaction to the truth.
"Gareth, stop!" Imogen bent over him, her face haggard, her eyes filled with anxiety. This strange merriment was something she didn't know how to deal with. "Why are you laughing?"
"Fetch me the brandy, Imogen." He sat up again. "There's no cause for alarm, sister. I'm quite in my senses. In fact," he added with another little chuckle, "I'm probably in my senses for the first time in years."
"I don't know what you mean." Imogen brought him the flagon of brandy. "You were having the nightmare about Charlotte again."
"Yes," Gareth said softly, sliding to the floor. "But I truly believe it was for the last time, Imogen." He set down the brandy flagon untouched.
Imogen regarded him with deep disquiet. She didn't believe him, and the terrifying thought occurred to her that he might have become truly unhinged. She began to speak urgently, trying to force him to acknowledge the facts that would bring him back to reality. "I have always looked after you, always taken care of your interests, Gareth. I knew that something had to be done about Charlotte-"
"Imogen, that's enough!" Gareth's voice cracked like a whip. But his sister didn't hear him.
"It had to be done. I did it for you, brother." Her words tumbled forth heedlessly and Gareth let them come. He had avoided this truth for too long, and now it was time to hear it, to accept it, and to accept his own guilt. Until he did so, he would never be able to rebuild his life.
"She was no good for you. She was always drunk, always opening her legs for anyone who took her fancy. She was laughing at you and that poor young de Vere. She had just destroyed him as she was destroying you. Standing in the window, drunk, swaying. A little push… that was all… just a little push." She gazed up at him, her eyes flaring wildly. "She was no good for you. I did it for you, Gareth."
"I know," he said quietly. "I have always known."
"Everything," she said with a sob. "Everything has always been for you, Gareth."
"I know," he repeated, taking his sister in his arms. "And I love you for it, Imogen. But it has to stop now."
Gareth held his sister until the deep well of her tears had dried, then he took her back to her chamber and helped her to bed. She would suffer for that great outburst of emotion with one of her vicious headaches, but it would relieve her as it always did. He knew his sister rather better than she knew him, he reflected, returning to his own room.
He had no desire to sleep now. No desire for
brandy. He felt only the sweetest sense of release. For the first time in a very long time, he knew what was vital for his happiness and he knew that any sacrifice was worth achieving it.
I loved you.
Could the past tense be repealed? Had he injured that open, loving soul beyond reparation? Beyond the willingness to believe that he too loved.”.
Chapter Twenty-four
"Do you remember anything of that night?" Maude leaned back against the tree trunk on the riverbank, taking a large bite out of the very crisp green apple that went by the name of breakfast.
"No." Miranda tossed her apple core into the stream, watching the circle of ripples expand on the brown surface as the core sank. "Do you?"
Maude shook her head. "No. I don't remember anything about France at all. My first memories are all of Imogen and Berthe." She wrinkled her small nose. "Not very auspicious, really."
Miranda chuckled. It was a rare sound these days and Maude sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. She knew that somewhere in the middle of the astounding story Miranda had told her there was something buried that her twin was not confiding. Something that was making her unhappy.
"Are you certain you want to go back with the troupe?"
"Yes, of course." There was the hint of a snap in the rapid response. "They're my family." Miranda picked a daisy from the bank and tossed it into the stream, watching it swirl away on the current's eddy.
"But-"
"But nothing, Maude." Miranda jumped up. "Come on, the sun's high and we want to reach Ashford tonight."
She whistled for Chip, whose small face appeared above them as he pushed aside the leaves of the tree.
Maude scrambled to her feet, holding up a hand to the monkey, who leaned down to take it, then swung with a gleeful gibber to the ground.
"How are we going to get to Ashford?" Maude hurried after Miranda. She was still unaccustomed to the freedom of skirts without farthingales and couldn't keep up with Miranda's long, loping stride even after two days of practice.
"We're not going to walk all the way, are we?" She caught up with her sister, who had stopped at the edge of the field to wait for her.
Miranda seemed to consider the question. She glanced up at the cloudless blue sky. "It's a lovely day for walking."
"But Ashford is miles away. We're only just outside Maidstone!" Maude wailed, then caught the glint in Miranda's eye. "It's not fair to tease me," she grumbled.
"You only think that because you're not used to it," Miranda pointed out, clambering over the stile into the lane. "You can tease me as much as you like, I won't mind."
"But I don't have anything to tease you about," Maude stated, joining her in the lane. "I don't know anything about this traveling life and you know everything."
"We'll wait here and get a ride from the next carter's wagon," Miranda said.
"Why can't we go to an inn and hire a gig or something? It would be so much quicker and surer than begging rides from passersby. It isn't as if we don't have money."
Miranda frowned. How to explain to Maude that she was in no hurry to reach Folkestone? She had enough difficulty admitting it to herself. "I like traveling slowly," she temporized. "It's part of the fun not knowing where the next ride is coming from, or who you might meet on the way."
Maude made no reply, but she cast her sister a quick, appraising glance. "After you've met up with your family and explained things to them, you could always come back to London with me."
"I'm not suited for that kind of life," Miranda replied, stepping into the road to wave vigorously at an approaching hay wagon. "It was all very well for a short time, just as a game. But now you're prepared to marry Henry…" She broke off to hail the driver of the wagon. "Can you take us as far as you're going on the Ashford road, sir?"
"Aye, above five miles," the man said amiably, jerking a thumb toward the back. "'Op in."
"My thanks, sir." Miranda jumped agilely into the back of the wagon and leaned down to give Maude a hand. Chip bounded up beside them. The driver stared at the monkey, then shrugged, shook the reins, and set the horse in motion.
"I didn't say I was prepared to marry the king," Maude declared, when they were comfortably ensconced among the hay. "There's still this question of religion, in case you've forgotten."
"It's all the same God," Miranda pointed out. "It seems a lot of nonsense to me."
This was such astounding heresy, even from Miranda, that Maude was silenced. She sank into the cushion of hay, knowing from experience now that she had to let her body roll with the wagon's uneven motion over the rutted lane if she wasn't to end the day aching and bruised in every limb.
"People died for that nonsense," she said soberly. "Our mother died for it." She drew from her pocket the serpentine bracelet where she kept it for safekeeping. It would draw too much unwelcome attention on her wrist while they were traveling in this haphazard fashion. She held it up to catch the sun's rays. "It's so beautiful, yet it's so sinister. Maybe it's because of all the blood and evil it's seen. Do you think that's fanciful?"
"Yes," Miranda said, holding out her hand for the bracelet. Maude dropped it into her open palm. It was fanciful, but she couldn't deny that the bracelet gave her the shivers. She traced the shape of the emerald-studded swan with the tip of her finger, thinking of her mother… of her mother's violent death and all that had resulted from that murder.
Tears pricked behind her eyes and she blinked them away. If that dreadful night had never happened, she wouldn't now be so completely adrift. She belonged nowhere anymore. She was no longer suited for the life she had always known, and she couldn't enter the one that was her birthright because…
Because she had been betrayed by the man she loved. She had offered her heart and her soul and the gift had been swept aside like so much dust by a man who didn't know the meaning of love.
She couldn't go back to London because she couldn't live in the same world as the earl of Harcourt. Her hand closed tightly over the bracelet as she fought back the threatening tears, the great wall of misery that threatened to fall and suffocate her.
Maude laid her hand over Miranda's. It was all she could think of to do until her sister chose to share her pain.
"Good Lord above!" Mama Gertrude flung up her arms in astonishment. A few gull feathers had settled into her piled coiffure, looking strangely at home with the grubby lace cap she wore. Without the gold plumes, she appeared somewhat diminished.
Chip leaped onto her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her neck, and she patted him absently. "Now, just where in the name of tarnation did you two… three… spring from? That Lord 'Arcourt said as 'ow you'd be stoppin' wi' 'im."
" 'Tis to be 'oped 'is lordship's not goin' to want them fifty rose nobles back."
"Oh, hush yer mouth, Jebediah," Gertrude said, her ruddy complexion darkening. "Don't ye be takin' no notice of Jebediah, m'dear. Lord 'Arcourt said as 'ow it was right fer ye… seein' as 'ow…" She stopped, nonplussed.
"Seeing as how what?" Maude prompted. She hitched herself onto the seawall of Folkestone quay as if she'd been doing it all her life, and flicked at a burr clinging to her skirt. The last carter's wagon they'd taken from Ashford to Folkestone had previously carried sheep's wool to market and the bales had been full of prickly burrs.
"Seein' as 'ow you an' Miranda are sisters," Luke stated.
"Oh," Maude said. "That." She raised her face to the sun, closing her eyes, letting the warmth beat gently onto her lids, listening to Robbie's excited treble as he hurled himself into Miranda's embrace.
Miranda laughed and Maude instantly opened her eyes. Her sister had been very quiet since the previous day. There had been no more tears, but she hadn't smiled much, either, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. But now she was smiling with genuine pleasure at the grubby child in her arms as she kissed his thin cheek.
"Y'are not goin' away again, M'randa?" Robbie pulled at her hair, curling his legs around her hips. "Y'are not!"
"No, Ro
bbie," she said softly. These were her family. For better or worse, this was where she belonged.
"Well, what about them fifty rose nobles?" Jebediah muttered.
"God's bones, d'ye never sing another tune?" Raoul said disgustedly. "Let's 'ear what the lassies 'ave to say."
"It's quite simple," Miranda began.
"Less than you think." A voice spoke from behind her.
All eyes slowly swiveled toward the earl of Harcourt, who stood holding his horse a few feet away.
“Told ye the man'd want 'is money back," Jebediah said with an air of righteous satisfaction.
"As it happens, money is the last thing on my mind," Gareth said. "I've come to reclaim my wards, before they become too accustomed to the delights of traipsing around the country like a pair of itinerant peddlers."
"My lord?"
"Yes, Maude?" He smiled at the girl, sitting on the wall like a veritable urchin. He noticed the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the sun-kissed pink of her cheeks. The hem of her petticoat was grubby, and she appeared to have a cluster of burrs clinging to her dimity gown. "Have you enjoyed your journey?"
"Yes, my lord," Maude said. "And… and I think-"
"No," he interrupted with a wry chuckle. "Please don't say I've come too late and you're already lost to the wandering life."
"I seem to have more in common with my sister, sir, than you might think." Maude reached for Miranda's hand, drawing her closer to the wall.
"On the contrary, Maude, I've long recognized that fact," Gareth said. "But my business lies with Miranda. Lord Dufort should be arriving at the Red Cockerel on Horn Street within the hour. If Luke would escort you to await him there, I would be much in his debt."
Maude looked at Miranda, whose fingers were tightly clenched around hers. Miranda was very pale, very still. Robbie unhooked his legs from her hips and stood up, and for once she didn't seem to notice his actions.
"I don't believe we have any further business, milord," Miranda said, gently extricating her hand from Maude's and taking a step forward. "I believe I fulfilled my obligations as far as it was possible and the money you paid to my family is only what you promised. I believe it is owed."