“We can talk in here.” She sounded brisk, but Johnny saw her hands shake as she struggled to light the candle.
“I told you I loved you,” Johnny repeated. “You seem determined to pretend that you did not hear me.”
Lydia turned to face him. She looked pale and pinched, folding her arms across her chest as though to hold in her feelings or protect herself.
“I heard you,” she said, with constraint. “But—”
“You don’t believe me,” Johnny said. “I wait years and years to tell a woman of my feelings and now, when finally I do, she does not believe me sincere.” He wanted to take her in his arms and prove how much he loved her. He ached to hold her. But he knew that was not the way. He kept his fists clenched at his side.
“Four years ago I proposed to you,” he said slowly. “You thought that was out of kindness. You were wrong.”
Lydia’s gaze fell. She looked so young, the nape of her neck a vulnerable curve beneath the fine strands of chestnut hair that curled from her chignon. She looked up to meet his eyes, and Johnny’s heart clenched at the expression in her eyes. “I cannot marry you,” she said in a rush. “Surely you can see that, Johnny? I am not a fit wife for a viscount.”
Johnny felt so violent a rush of fury that it shocked him. If any man had spoken of Lydia so disparagingly he would have knocked him down. He grabbed her shoulders.
“Don’t say that!” he bit out. “Don’t ever say that. You are lovely; loving and generous and strong and brave.” She had been so courageous, he thought. She had taken a life that had been in ruins and she had rebuilt it and turned it into something special. He released her, sliding his hands down her arms gently now in a caress that made her catch her breath.
“You care about people,” he said slowly, “and they love you for it. You have carved out a life here for yourself and for Eliza, and nothing could be more admirable.”
Lydia was watching him. A small smile curved her lips, but Johnny thought he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Why, Johnny,” she said, “I do believe you may love me after all.”
His heart bounded and he reached for her, but already she was withdrawing from him. Her smile had fled now, and in the rose glow of the fire her face was very grave.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I am honored that you think of me in such a way, but it changes nothing.” She put up a hand to quell the urgent words that jostled on his lips. “No, Johnny,” she said. “You cannot marry me. Surely you can see that. My parents were disgraced, and I am ruined twice over.”
Johnny was unimpressed. “Can you be ruined twice?” he queried. “I thought once was enough.”
He was glad when Lydia was surprised into a giggle. “Stop it,” she said. “How can I feel tragically sorry for myself if you make fun of me?”
“I’m not making fun,” Johnny said. He took both her hands in his. “Darling Lydia, if you apply the same rules to me, then I am ruined more times than I care to remember.”
“It’s different for me,” Lydia said.
Johnny shook his head. “Only in the minds of others. You made one mistake.” His tone was fierce. “You were little more than a child. Are you to be punished for it forever?”
She tangled her fingers with his. Her eyes begged for his understanding. “You know that, rightly or wrongly, the rules are different for women,” she said gently. “I transgressed society’s code. I bore a child out of wedlock. That will never be forgotten. If we marry, my past conduct will tarnish your good name and your honor. People would forever be whispering about your wife and her scandalous past.”
“You must think me a poor creature if you believe I would care for one moment what other people thought,” Johnny said. “Lydia—”
“I’m doing this for the future,” Lydia said. Johnny saw her swallow hard. “In the here and now it would be easy to be swept away by how much I love you.” She warded him off when he would have taken her in his arms. “You need an heir, Johnny. You would want children from our marriage, and how would they feel to have an illegitimate half sister and to hear of their mother’s disgrace? They could not escape the taint of the past. None of us could.” She turned away so that he could no longer see her face. “I have to think of Eliza,” she said. “If her real identity becomes known she will be the butt of gossip and scandal forever.”
“So you hide away here,” Johnny said, “and hope that no one will recognize you or discover your past.”
He felt angry and frustrated, not just for himself but for Lydia and Eliza. He wanted to give them more of life and love and joy. He wanted to give them everything he had to give.
He saw Lydia’s shoulders hunch. She looked so frail and so unprotected. Fury shook him again at the cruelty of fate that forced her to live a lie and an even greater fury possessed him that Tom Fortune had callously ruined the trusting girl Lydia Cole had once been; seduced her and abandoned her, and that she was the one paying the price.
“It’s the only way,” Lydia said. “For as long as people believe I am a respectable widow, Eliza is protected. Were I to wed you, I could no longer keep the secret.”
“You can’t live forever in fear of discovery,” Johnny argued. “Lydia, you are both strong and brave. Surely it is better to be honest and tell the scandal-mongers to go to hell.”
Lydia smiled ruefully. “There speaks a man who can afford to do such a thing,” she said. “But I cannot.”
Johnny could feel the situation slipping away from him, like water running through his fingers. “I’d protect you both,” he said. “I would treat Eliza as my own, love her as my own. I swear it.”
Once again he saw the sheen of tears in Lydia’s eyes. She touched his cheek in a fleeting gesture.
“I believe you mean that, Johnny,” she said, “but I can’t ask it of you.”
Johnny’s patience snapped. “For God’s sake, don’t be so bloody noble, Lydia!” he said. “That is my decision, not yours. Are you to throw away any future chance of love because you are afraid of scandal?”
He caught her to him and kissed her hard, with all the need and longing that was within him. She yielded to him instantly, her body softening in his arms, her lips opening beneath his. For one endless, blissful moment she gave him back kisses that were passionate, sweet and hot enough to scald him to within an inch of control. But when he let her go he knew nothing had changed. He could feel it.
“Trust me,” he said, pressing his lips to her hair, inhaling her scent and feeling his heart aching with the fierceness of his love. “Let me care for you both. You don’t need to do this on your own anymore, Lydia.”
He could see the conflict in her eyes. For a moment he thought she was going to agree and his heart surged with joy, but already she was drawing back. She shook her head, pressed her fingers briefly to his lips in a gesture of farewell and slipped from the room, leaving him alone with the dying embers of the fire.
Lydia lay in her bed watching the shadows shifting over the plasterwork of the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the Silent Wench settling for the night. She felt cold and alone, racked with misery. She knew she had been right to refuse Johnny, but it had been so painful. Yet she felt she had no choice. She could not expose Eliza to the scandal and scorn that would inevitably follow once the truth of her birth was revealed, nor could she bear to put Johnny’s love for her to the test by asking him to spend the rest of his life defying convention for her sake. It was not fair to him or to any children they might have together. Nevertheless there was a hollow, aching feeling beneath her heart, and her future felt like a loveless void. She told herself it was the price of keeping Eliza safe, that nothing was more important than her child, yet a tiny voice in her mind whispered that she was a coward, hiding behind excuses because she was not brave enough to trust Johnny completely and risk everything for a life with him.
She rolled over and punched her pillows. Tomorrow, she thought, Johnny would leave for Newport Castle. He would not stay now
that she had rejected him for a second time. She pressed her face into the coolness of the pillow and willed herself to sleep.
It seemed as though she had been asleep for no more than a few moments when she jolted awake again, all her senses alert to a feeling of danger. For a moment she lay quite still, straining to work out what it was that had disturbed her. Then she heard it again, the crack and hiss of dry tinder splitting apart, the unmistakeable sounds of fire. She sat bolt upright in the bed and saw the leap of flame against the wall. Already there was the acrid taste of smoke on her tongue, and when she hurried from the bed the wooden boards of the floor were hot beneath her bare feet. She grabbed a robe and forced her stockingless feet into her shoes. The smoke filled her lungs now, stealing under the door, stinging her eyes, making them smart.
“Eliza!” Lydia flung open the chamber door and ran out onto the landing. Terror filled her heart. If only Johnny had kept her room and she had continued to share with her daughter. She could have snatched Eliza up by now; she would have her safe. As it was she could barely see her way to Eliza’s door. Thick smothering smoke coiled about her. The floorboards cracked beneath her feet. The Silent Wench was an old, old inn and it was being consumed already, folding in on itself, the fire ripping through the ancient timbers, crumbling them to ash. A beam fell in a shower of sparks. Lydia screamed until her lungs hurt. She fought the people who surrounded her now and who tried to pull her back.
“Eliza!”
“We can’t reach her.” Tydfil was holding her tightly, tears streaking the soot of her face. “We’ve tried and tried. The floor has gone.”
“No!” Lydia wrenched herself from Tydfil’s grip and ran, down the smouldering staircase, along the flagstone passage, out into the courtyard where the wind was laced with snow and ashes. If she could reach the outside stair and climb up to the gallery, then she might approach Eliza’s room from the outside. But the outside stair was shattered and the gallery was in flames; the whole of the Silent Wench was alight, the blaze a livid blur against the black winter sky.
She felt despair then as deep as the pit and as dark as the sky. She who had sworn to protect her daughter had failed her now.
“Lydia!”
The shout came to her above the crackle of fire and the howl of the wind. She looked up. Johnny was running along the gallery, his figure no more than a black silhouette against the flames.
“Catch her!” The fire was at his back, snatching at him. Eliza was in his arms.
“Mama!” Lydia could hear her daughter calling; there was nothing wrong with Eliza’s lungs. She ran forward. There was no time to think. It was ten feet from the gallery to the ground. Johnny leaned over the balustrade and held Eliza out as far as he could, and then the child was dropping like a stone straight into Lydia’s waiting arms, burrowing close, filthy, her hair smelling of smoke, but blissfully, blessedly alive. Lydia gave a sob and clutched her daughter so tightly that Eliza gave a squeak of reproach.
Johnny was climbing down the shattered stair, agile and sure-footed. He was not even out of breath. “I remembered how well you could catch,” he said, his arms enfolding them both in a brief, hard hug. “You always won when we played cricket as children. I was going to rescue you too,” he added, “but you didn’t need me.”
“Johnny—” Lydia said. She could not find the words. She felt as though her heart was going to burst.
Johnny smiled at her, his teeth a white slash in his filthy face, his eyes bright. “Later,” he promised. He touched her cheek. “I have work to do.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Let Miss Evans keep you warm and safe until I come back.”
He raised a hand in salute and was away, across the yard to where the ostlers were leading out the frightened horses and the men were putting together a bucket chain with water from the well in a vain attempt to douse the flames. It had started to snow again, fat flakes hissing as they met the sparks of the fire. Lydia watched Johnny take control. This was a different Johnny from the indolent nobleman she remembered; direct, authoritative. She had underestimated him. She could see now how well he would take control of the Newport estate and bring it to order. He would do it because he had all the strength and determination that his predecessor had lacked. He would do it because he cared.
She pressed her lips to Eliza’s silky black hair, and her daughter shifted in her arms, pressing her face against the curve of Lydia’s neck. She was already half asleep again. Tydfil came over and wrapped a thick woollen blanket about them.
“Take this,” the maid said. “Why don’t you come back to the cottage with me? You need hot milk and a warm bed. You and Eliza will catch your death of cold out here.”
“It’s all gone,” Lydia said, racked with shivers. “The Silent Wench, everything we worked for.”
“We’ll rebuild it.” Tydfil squeezed her arm. She followed Lydia’s gaze across the yard to where Johnny was directing the men to put out the last of the smouldering embers.
“There’s a man who would walk into a burning building to save your daughter’s life,” Tydfil said slowly. “You should keep hold of him.”
“I know,” Lydia said. “I know. But it’s too late.”
Tydfil laughed. “I always thought you knew nothing of men. If you believe that you know even less than I had thought.”
“I can’t marry him,” Lydia said in a rush. “Tydfil, I’m not a widow. I never was married.”
“Bless you,” the maid said. “Do you think we don’t know that? Why should we care? Why does it matter?”
Lydia stared at her. “Because he’s a viscount,” she said faintly.
“And you’re the daughter of a duke,” Tydfil said. “But we still like you. Did you want to live in London, with all those snobs judging you?”
“No,” Lydia said, realizing that it was true. “I want to live here in Newport. But—”
“You worry too much,” Tydfil said comfortably. “See, here he comes.” She smiled as Johnny started purposefully across the yard toward them. “Make sure you get it right this time,” she added.
“I can’t talk to him.” Panic trapped inside Lydia’s chest. “Tydfil—”
The maid took the sleeping Eliza from Lydia’s arms and wrapped her close. “I’ll take her home with me while you speak to him. She’ll be quite safe. No—” She fended Lydia off as she made a grab for Eliza. “You can’t use your child as a shield forever, madam. He wants both of you. Be brave. The hypocrites can go hang.”
“Lydia.” Johnny had reached her side now and taken both her hands in a strong grip. “You and Eliza are coming back to Newport Castle with me,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “At once. Dr. Griffiths has sent the horse and trap. And you’re going to marry me and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I thought that you said the castle was uninhabitable,” Lydia said.
“I lied,” Johnny said. “How else was I to persuade you to let me stay at the Silent Wench?”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Lydia said, sliding her arms about his waist. She breathed in the scent of his skin mingled with the bitter smell of smoke. “Yes,” she said, against his soot-streaked shirtfront. “Yes, we will come back with you. We have no roof over our heads now, and Eliza will enjoy Christmas at the castle.”
Johnny put a hand under her chin and raised her face to his. He looked stern, his eyes blazing. “I want you for more than just Christmas, Lydia.” He gave her a little shake. “Marry me.”
“All right,” Lydia said, smiling radiantly as Johnny’s expression dissolved into relief. “I would like that very much, thank you.” She rubbed her cheek against his chest. “I was a coward before,” she admitted. “I could not take the risk until I saw what I stood to lose.”
She felt Johnny’s arms tighten about her. “You are the bravest person I know,” he said softly. He kissed her, a long, slow kiss full of sweet promise that Lydia returned in full measure. “Thank you for entrusting yourself and your daughter to me,” he
whispered against her lips.
They broke apart as a ragged ripple of applause echoed around the courtyard. The Newport villagers, filthy and exhausted, had broken off from damping down the remains of the fire to salute their lord and lady’s betrothal.
“Witnesses,” Johnny said comfortably. “No going back now.” He tucked her hand through his arm. “I hear that Miss Evans’s brothers apprehended Mr. Roberts on the road. He was running away, having set the inn alight in revenge for his sacking.”
Lydia gasped. “The blackguard!”
“I think he was hoping I would go up in flames along with the Silent Wench,” Johnny said. “They have taken him to the magistrate.”
“I thought Tydfil could run the Silent Wench for us once it is rebuilt,” Lydia said as Johnny handed her up into the waiting trap.
“We had better rename it the Wanton Wench, then,” Johnny said, swinging up to sit beside her and tucking the blanket around them.
Lydia poked him in the ribs. “The Joyful Wench.”
And then Johnny was kissing her again, and it was the last either of them spoke for a very long time as the horse and trap rattled through the snow down the road to Newport.
WEATHERING THE STORM
Cara Elliott
Lamplight pooled over the rough-planked tavern table, the tiny flicker of oily flame stirring a fresh wave of briny smells. Dead mackerel, decaying seaweed . . . along with several pungent odors that Sophie Thirkell did not care to identify.
Breathing shallowly through her mouth, she leaned into the glow and flashed a sweet smile. “Please, sir. It’s a matter of utmost importance that I reach London by Christmas.”
The grizzled figure seated across from her scratched at his salt-streaked beard, dislodging a shower of silvery fish scales. “Oiy, I wud of course like te help a damsel in distress. But . . .” His gaze strayed to the plump leather purse lying tantalizing close to his mug of ale. “But yer gentlemun friend makes an awfully compelling case fer his own needs.”
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 21