“Stupid winter wind.” She swiped the moisture away with numb fingers. She hated the cold, and she hated winter. Pulling her hood over her head, she stomped through the melting snow, courtesy of the sparkling sunshine and rising temperatures. In spite of the clear, calm weather, only Bea noticed the chilling cold. Only she hunched her shoulders against the biting wind.
****
“Madame wants to see you,” Amy whispered, helping Bea remove her cloak and boots. “What happened to you? You look awful.”
She wrapped her arms about her middle to warm herself, the morning’s revelations having formed an icy ball behind her chest. “Is Luka awake? Perhaps Madame can wait until I’ve seen him.”
“You will not put me off with your tricks any longer. We will speak now.”
Something was dreadfully wrong. Bea had noticed the unnatural quiet and oppressive tension the moment Amy opened the door. The girl had been subdued and refused to meet her gaze. As soon as Cosette had stormed from the kitchen to the foyer, Amy had rushed away, her head bowed. Cosette was incensed. Energy sizzled from her friend like lightning before a violent storm. Bea tensed and located the nearest exits.
“You’ve managed to push away everyone who has ever loved you. You were making progress, confronting your fears and putting some of them to rest. I see you fooled even Cosette with your deception.” The Frenchwoman’s serene complexion became ruddy as anger twisted her gentle features into a horrible mask of rage. “How could you hurt Luka? Hasn’t he suffered enough?”
Bea stepped back, plastering her back to the foyer wall. “What do you mean? How have I hurt Luka? I did what you suggested. I stopped running, and I gave myself to him with no reservations. What did I do wrong?”
“Luka is gone,” she spat.
“Gone? But why? I wrote him and said I was coming right back. I left the note for him to read.”
Her friend’s anger faded, though concern bracketed her mouth. “What else did this letter say?”
Bea scooted away from the wall and paced the tiny foyer. “I-I said Thomas had found Michelson, and I needed to go to him. I said I loved Luka with all my heart, but I would also never stop loving Thomas as a sister would a brother, and it wasn’t right to abandon him after all he did for me.”
“No, oh, no. How could this be?” Cosette scurried to the small escritoire which stood by the staircase and snatched a small piece of parchment. “Here is what he read.” Cosette showed her a charred piece of paper with the words, “I will always love Thomas. I cannot abandon him, so I must go to him.”
Bea’s chest squeezed. “Where’s the rest? This isn’t the entire letter. Oh, God! This isn’t what I wrote!”
“He came down the stairs and told me you must be off laughing with Thomas, your revenge against him complete. Luka left soon after. He’s going to travel to Russia. Before leaving he asked me to relay a message. He said loving you cost him too much. He was done.”
“No! I promised to be with him forever. Michelson…I had to go. I had to know if our child lived. I was coming back to tell him I loved him. I didn’t push him away.” She was babbling now, unable to stop.
Ruined! Everything was ruined. After a decade of running and years of guilt, she had found her happily ever after. Even if Michelson had played her false, she had Luka and the glimmer of hope. Her future had appeared before her, rosy and shining with love. Now it mocked her, this endless gaping void of nothingness.
Slumping to the floor, she wrapped her arms about her knees and rocked. “I was coming back. I love him,” she said, repeating it over and over again.
“Ah, chérie, I’m so sorry I doubted you.” Cosette sank to the floor beside her. Wrapping her small arms around Bea’s shoulders, she pulled Bea to her breast.
Tears made speech difficult, and her words when they came were garbled, but her guilt was palpable. “He didn’t trust me, not enough to love me. I was a fool to believe he’d love me again. I’ve ruined everything.”
“Beatrice, you are a strong woman who has been placed in impossible situations. You have done your best to survive, but it has been recently you have allowed yourself to live. Push aside your shame and guilt. Live your life. Go, and find your man. He can’t have gone far.”
“He’s gone, Cosette. Even if I tracked him and explained, I am not at liberty to pursue him. My son, he’s alive. I was coming home to tell him. It was going to be a perfect Christmas.”
Cosette hugged her and squealed. “But this is fantastique! Your boy is alive. How did this happen?”
Bea rubbed her temples, wiping the remnants of her tears from her cheeks. “My head aches, Cosette, and I’m tired. Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Mais oui. It has been a most difficult day for you. Tomorrow, we shall have a nice long chat and figure everything out. You’ll see. Things will not look so gloomy in the morning.”
Kissing her friend on the cheek, Bea stood and said, “Thank you, Cosette, for being my friend. I’ll never forget you.”
“Bah, who could forget moi when I am so fabulous? Go. Rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Yawning, Bea trudged up the stairs and slipped into her room, sitting on the unmade bed. The sheets held the faint scent of their joining, and the icy ball in her chest clenched. Ripping the linens from the bed, she threw them into a corner, desperate to be rid of any memories she shared with Luka. Her shoulders shook, and her hands trembled despite the fire burning low in the hearth. Luka’s absence chilled the room and stripped it of all color.
There was nothing left for her here. Luka was gone, and her son was alive thousands of miles away. The decision to leave took only a matter of seconds, while packing her bags used less than ten minutes. She sat on the bare bed, her bag at her feet, and waited. Hours later, when the house quieted for the night, she left Madame Cosette’s and joined the shadows. She was going home.
Chapter 32
York, England, February 1811
York in summer was lush and green, with verdant hills, sparkling lakes, and ancient forests. Bea had spent a happy childhood roaming the fragrant valleys and woods, climbing rocky hills, and swimming in cool waters. She loved York, and had missed it with a keen ache in the years since her marriage.
Bea descended from the public coach and clutched her small carpetbag, the long road leading to her childhood home a winding, icy path. Her shoulders slumped. York in winter was depressing. Skeletal trees, boughs denuded of their leaves, stood as stark, aged sentinels across the countryside. Snow covered the lush landscape, blanketing the earth in endless white fields. Low clouds hung heavy on the horizon, and the scent of snow lingered in the air. She hated York in winter.
But York was where her son was, and so Bea squared her shoulders and trudged up the winding entrance, nervous flutters taking flight in her stomach. The journey from France had provided plenty of opportunity to plan her first meeting with her son. She would remain warm and affectionate but with a cool detachment. Embracing and other maternal gestures, she had decided, would wait until such time as they became better acquainted. There also would be no crying, lest she embarrass or frighten off the child with any effusive emotions. Should Gabriel rebuff her maternal advances, her partial disengagement would serve as an effective barrier against further hurt. Or so she hoped.
The path to the front door was shorter than she had remembered, and she arrived at the entranceway and the grand stairs leading to the massive double oak doors in less time than she’d expected. Grasping the solid brass knocker, she raised the heavy ring and let it fall, the loud thud an echo of her frantic heartbeat. The door opened, and the butler peered at her, shock and delight registering when he recognized who was at his door.
“My lady!” he said, his gentle blue eyes filled with a suspicious moisture. “You’ve come home.” He took her bags and offered his arm. She entered the large, marbled reception hall, and squeezed the man’s arm.
“Grant. You haven’t aged a day,” she said.
“My lady, you are a
terrible fibber. I’m much grayer, and my old bones don’t move as fast as they used to. My face also has a few more wrinkles than last I saw you, and my memory is slow at times, but even as old as I am, I’d never forget you. If I may be so bold as to say so, you have matured and are a handsome woman. You were a pretty girl, but now you possess a quiet strength. I see it about your eyes and the way you carry yourself. Maturity suits you.”
“Your charm, sir, has not altered with age.”
“We were all so sad to hear about your husband.”
“His passing was unfortunate.” When she’d made the decision to return home, she’d prepared herself to talk about George. There were few people who knew the real story behind her marriage. The rest were given the lie Thomas created when he’d taken her—her husband and maid had been killed in a home invasion. Grant’s condolences would not be the first she’d have to sidestep, though time would ease the staff’s curiosity and lessen their sympathies.
“I wasn’t speaking of his passing, my lady. The man deserved what was coming to him. My condolences were for you and all the suffering you endured.”
“You know about my marriage? Those eighteen months of our marriage are a guarded secret few souls possess. How do you possess this information?”
“When Agatha came to work here, your father told me and the steward about your situation. He wished to protect you, should you ever seek shelter from your husband. Had we not known what you were fleeing, we might have given away your location had your husband come looking for you.”
“Who is Agatha?”
“She’s the cook your father hired when she arrived with your child.”
She licked her lips, her mouth having dried to dust at the mention of her son. “My child. He’s here, isn’t he?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I’d like to see Agatha, please, and talk to her before I meet my son.” She wrung her hands, twisting her flesh in an effort to ease the enormous pressure which built and lodged in her throat. Grant placed his hands atop hers to calm the frantic motion, soothing the part of her which had been whirling out of control since arriving home.
He squeezed her hands. “Of course, my lady. May I escort you to the kitchen?” He offered his arm, and Bea slipped her arm through his, grateful for the support.
“Please. I seem to be lightheaded after my journey. Rough seas, cold quarters, and cramped carriages have left me fatigued.” They traversed the main hallway and entered a smaller hall at the back of the house, taking the servants’ stairs down to the kitchen.
“Travel, especially a journey as lengthy as yours, can be tiring.”
“A month is hardly a lengthy journey.”
“But ten years is.” The aroma of fresh baked bread and roasted duck wrapped her in familiar warmth, prompting her to forget Grant’s cryptic comment about the actual length of her journey.
She entered the kitchen, the bright, sunny walls alight from late afternoon sunlight. “Mama used to love roast duck. We’d have it every Tuesday for dinner.” The cozy kitchen looked as she remembered. High windows let in plenty of natural light, while a grand fireplace provided enough heat to warm the kitchen and the stairwell on the coldest of days. A large worktable sat in the middle, cluttered with various herbs and vegetables in preparation for the night’s meal. Next to the stairs she had moments ago descended was a narrow, planked door leading to the root cellar. It was a picture perfect scene, save for the missing cook.
“Today is Thursday, but Agatha, well, some say she has the sight. This morning she prepared a duck for tonight’s meal, certain someone was coming to call.”
“Incredible,” she said. “Did she know it would be me?”
“I didn’t, my lady,” Agatha said as she ascended from the root cellar to the main kitchen. “Though it warms my heart to see you alive and well after all these years.”
“Agatha,” she whispered, rushing across the stone floor to embrace the older woman.
“There, there, my lady. Had I known it was you, I’d have prepared blancmange for dessert.”
“My favorite. You remembered.”
“There isn’t much I don’t remember about you, my lady.” The mysterious comment, much like Grant’s, left her puzzled, but Agatha offered her a chair and poured some tea.
“Grant? Will you join us?” she asked, turning to find the butler where she’d left him by the stairs, but he was gone.
“He’s already had his tea. Besides, tears make him uncomfortable.”
She opened her mouth to protest Agatha’s assumption she’d cry when a plop of moisture landed on her hand. “Oh. I shall apologize later for causing him discomfort.”
Agatha waved her hand and snorted. “He left because he was afraid he’d join in. You’d embarrass him if you mentioned it. Best to let it go.”
She sipped her tea and fiddled with the porcelain handle. “Is my boy—is Gabriel here?”
“My lady, I’m a blunt creature by nature and nosey by habit, so I’m going to come out and say it. Where have you been for all these years?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your father left me with your boy years ago. When your husband was alive, visiting wasn’t a possibility, but once he died, you never wrote or visited. Why are you here now?”
Bea’s face crumpled, so she ducked her head, the truth she had believed for so long pouring forth in a pained rush. “He was dead.”
“You’d better explain.” Agatha sat back in her chair, teacup in hand, and listened while Bea told her tale from the day after Gabriel’s birth to a month ago when she’d discovered he lived. The tea had grown cold by the time she finished, and Agatha had mopped her eyes with a handkerchief so many times the cloth was a mangled, wet mess.
“Your father never told you? Any of it?” Agatha asked when she’d regained possession of her voice.
She shook her head. “Father was a weak man, and his actions were less altruistic and more self-serving. He was governed by cowardice. He’s gone, at any rate. His reasons for keeping this from me will remain a mystery.”
“For someone who was betrayed by her own father, you are more serene than I would have been.”
“He saved Gabriel and provided for him when I could not. For those reasons alone, I can forgive him.”
“Do you want me to tell you about your son?”
“Please,” she whispered.
“He’s such a sweet, sunny-natured lad. I could talk about him for hours.”
“You love him,” she said, saddened to have missed so much time from his young life.
“I do. We all do. He calls me Grandma, did you know? Grant is Pop, and Mr. Jackson, the steward, is Uncle Jack.” Bea smiled. In the absence of his own flesh and blood, her son had found himself a family, a loving, nurturing one, from the sound of it.
“Mornings he has lessons with the local minister and his children. Uncle Jack walks him to the parish house and walks him home when lessons are done. He’s real smart, knows his letters and numbers, and can already beat Grant at chess. Afternoons, he can be found out at the stables helping the groomsmen care and feed the horses. Most evenings I have to drag him from the stalls so he can eat his dinner. He’d sleep in a stall, if I let him.”
“He’s like me. I used to sneak to the stables whenever our governess turned her back.”
“Aye, he does love his horses, though to be honest, his favorite time of day is when the supper dishes are cleared, he’s been washed and tucked into bed, and we take turns telling him stories.”
“What stories does he love?” She pictured herself taking over the role of storyteller at Gabriel’s nightly stories, and longed to learn what interested him.
“We tell him about you. Grant and Mr. Jackson have years of stories about you and your sisters. Though our acquaintance was short, I told him of your bravery and your determination to protect him. I told him of your interests and your kind heart. We’ve kept him entertained with your exploits, your bravery, and tales of your cunn
ing since he was old enough to hold a spoon.”
“Does he hate me?” she asked, staring at her fingers, which were bloodless tangles of knotted flesh.
Agatha stretched her arms across the table and covered her hands with her weathered, work-roughened ones. “He loves you. Sometimes he’s sad because you are apart, but we told him you were doing important work which required you to be away. Each year, he loses some of his hope for your return, but no, he will not hate you.”
A door in the hallway slammed open, and a gust of cold air swept through the main kitchen. Agatha stood, waddled over to where Bea sat, and hugged her in a tight embrace. “That’ll be him now. He’ll be hungry. There’s some gingerbread and milk on the counter. I’ll be upstairs when you two have finished talking.” With a final encouraging squeeze, Agatha left the room as a young boy ran in the room.
Rosy cheeks flushed from the cold sat under sparkling brown eyes that surveyed the kitchen as the boy stood with his hands on his hips. “Grandma, I’m starving. Is there any shortbread left?” He stuttered to a halt when he saw her, his brows crinkling as he puzzled out who she was.
Bea’s chest tightened and her throat burned. Tears welled and splashed on her cheeks. Rising, she took an unsteady step toward him, all her careful plans forgotten after one glance at her child. “You look like your father,” she said before reaching out a trembling hand to caress his black hair. “But you have my curls.” Falling to her knees, she grasped his shoulders and pulled him to her embrace. “Gabriel, I’ve found you at last.”
Thin and trembling, he stood in her embrace, motionless save for the frantic pounding of his heart. When his small arms wrapped around her shoulders and a little head buried itself against her neck, her heart squeezed, ready to burst from her chest.
“Hello, Mother.”
Silver-Tongued Temptress Page 21