Patricia Gaffney - [Wyckerley 02]

by To Haveand To Hold

  Chaos erupted. Vanstone called for order, but no one could hear him. The spectators were on their feet, talking at once. In the confusion, Sebastian saw Sully edging toward the side of the room. On impulse, he made a dash for the door and cut him off.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Sully smiled his turned-down smile. “Looks as if the fun’s over for now, and I’ve got better things to do. Stand aside, there’s a good lad.”

  “Oh, not likely.” Alert, spoiling for a fight, he moved in closer. “Where’s your knife today, Claude? In your boot? Pocket?”

  “Don’t be an ass. Get out of the way or I’ll—”

  A woman’s scream from behind Sully made him twist around. Over his shoulder, Sebastian saw Lydia Wade lift her arm in the air and slash it down. Christy Morrell jerked back in the nick of time, out of range, but his coat sleeve was torn and dangling. His wife screamed again.

  But the minister wasn’t Lydia’s target. Sebastian watched in frozen, disbelieving horror while she scuttled around Christy, sharp, silver scissors high again in her fisted hand, and darted across the empty aisle to the prisoner’s bar.

  Nightmare. Sully wouldn’t move—he was frozen, too. Sebastian half shoved, half tackled him, pushed him violently aside, and finally the way was clear. But only for a second; immediately bodies came between him and Rachel again. He saw her face change from confusion to terror just before the way was blocked again. He flung himself against a man’s back, pushed someone sideways, stiff-armed somebody else. Over the bobbing heads and shoulders of more people, he saw the scissors rise and fall, rise and fall. Shouting, “No! No!” he lurched and twisted, throwing his body against the stubborn press, cursing flesh that wouldn’t move, wouldn’t move—

  A break opened, big enough to punch through. He saw Lydia from the back, bent over Rachel across the magistrates’ table, grappling, struggling to bring the scissors down in her face. Rachel’s frantic grip on Lydia’s wrist faltered, slipped. Sebastian’s heart stopped beating. He couldn’t get to her in time.

  Behind the table, Vanstone and Carnock were shouting, feinting, a blur of panicked, ineffectual fumbling. From nowhere, a huge body hurtled, heavy as a cannonball, through scarce empty space and smacked into Lydia’s shoulder. The scissors soared in the air and stuck in the ceiling. With a grunt, she flew sideways and crashed against the wall. William Holyoake landed on top of her.

  Rachel struggled up and tried to stand. Her knees buckled; Sebastian caught her as she was sliding to the floor.

  They sat beside each other, halfway under the table, oblivious to the turmoil all around. “Are you hurt?” He couldn’t see any blood; her eyes were still glazed and staring, but her hands clenching at his shoulders were strong. “Rachel, answer me, are you hurt?”

  The question finally registered. She shook her head. “Are you?”

  He gathered her up and held tight. His heart slowed its staccato pounding as the truth slowly sank in that she was all right. “No, I’m fine,” he answered automatically, even thought it wasn’t true. Setting her away from him, he fixed her with a baleful stare. “Why the hell won’t you marry me?”

  XXI

  Dear Reverend Morrell,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I pray that God will forgive me for not having the courage to tell you this story while I’m alive, but it’s too painful—I can hardly bear to write it. And I console myself that a few days or weeks longer won’t make any difference. The terrible damage has already been done.

  I’m not strong, and I must write quickly—but where shall I begin? The truth came to me so gradually, I didn’t understand the full horror until a few months ago. My awakening coincided with Mrs. Wade’s prison release, because that was when my niece’s shaky hold on reality began to slip away completely, with no more brief but blessed periods of normalcy to disguise what was happening. At first I refused to believe it; she was raving, I told myself, the horrible things she said must be the work of a hysterical imagination. But the disjointed rumblings would not stop, and they were chillingly consistent. Then I read her journal—I admit it; I couldn’t help myself, I had to know the worst—and finally I believed it.

  Dear God, I can’t bear to write this! But I have to. I haven’t said the words in my own mind, and now I must set them down for strangers to read. It’s this: Lydia and her father, my brother, Randolph Wade, were intimate. Physically intimate, I mean. I am saying they were lovers.

  It began, I think, when Lydia was eleven, although perhaps, poor girl, she was even younger. I know now, because I have heard, she has told me, some of the details of this wicked liaison, but I can’t write them. And I swear before God that I knew nothing, nothing of it when it was occurring. Should I have known? We lived in separate houses; my brother and I weren’t close; Lydia was strange, standoffish, never a warm or confiding child. These are my excuses, but you must know that my conscience will torment me until I die.

  It’s clear to me now that the perversions Lydia engaged in with her father began to affect her mind even before his death. She’s grown worse over the years, but the real disintegration began when she learned of Mrs. Wade’s release from prison. Before that, the only thing standing in the way of a total breakdown was her satisfaction in knowing that Rachel, whom she blamed for all her unhappiness, and whom she hated with an intense, fanatical bitterness, was suffering. But after Mrs. Wade’s release, Lydia lost all restraint and all natural discretion. In her ravings, she told me something else, and it was worse, even more horrible. Ten years ago, driven mad by jealousy and grief, she killed her own father.

  She has repeated to me the details of the ghastly scene again and again, details I can’t bring myself to write, and the particulars never vary. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she is telling the truth.

  So. It’s over. I had expected to feel relief now, some measure of consolation after the burden of this dreadful knowledge was no longer mine to bear alone, but my sadness hasn’t lightened. I think I will go to my grave as weighted down from the horror as always. Pray for me, Reverend.

  Have I done wrong in waiting so long to tell the secret? I thought the worst was over, that nothing could bring back all the years Mrs. Wade spent in prison for a crime she didn’t commit. But now I’m filled with doubts and second thoughts.

  Even more, I worry for Lydia. And I beg you, Christy, don’t let them abuse her. She’ll have to be shut away someplace, I know that, but surely she deserves compassion, not punishment, because she is not in her right mind. Evil has been done here, but not by that poor girl. My brother is burning in hell for his sins, and I cannot pray for him! God forgive me, but I cannot!

  I’m weak and ill; I must stop. Dr. Hesselius is coming in a few minutes. I’ll give him this letter—that way it can’t fall into Lydia’s hands—and ask him to give it to you after I’m gone. Where I failed, I know that you will have the courage to do what’s right.

  God bless and keep you, Christy. And God help us all.

  Margaret Armstrong

  For a long time after she read the letter, Rachel sat quietly, staring out the window of the Morrells’ second-floor guest bedchamber at the quiet village green, soggy and deserted because of the rain. A light hand on her shoulder brought her out of her reverie. Anne asked, “Are you all right? How do you feel, Rachel?”

  Sebastian had asked her that, too, an hour ago when he’d brought her here. She hadn’t been able to answer with any certainty. She was glad, relieved, of course, because she had been exonerated, but it hadn’t really begun to sink in yet. It was too big, still too much like a dream; she couldn’t quite trust it.

  “I’m all right,’ she answered. But she felt a nagging melancholy, and next to it, an absurd hopefulness. Too much had happened; her emotions were too tattered to react sensibly and correctly to events that kept coming and would not stop. The last thing Sebastian had said to her before Anne took her upstairs for a bath and clean clothes was that he wanted an explanation for why she�
�d refused his marriage proposal. “You must know,” she’d whispered at the bottom of the staircase, and he’d all but snapped back, “No, I haven’t a clue, and you will tell me.”

  “Are you hungry? Let me tell Mrs. Ludd to bring you some soup. Tea, then. Rachel, you really should eat something.”

  She roused herself to smile. “Anne, I’m not hungry. They did feed me in gaol, you know.”

  She made a face. “How horrible that must’ve been. God, if we’d known, if we’d had any idea—”

  “You couldn’t have done anything. Anyway, it’s over now, and I’m fine.” Her friend looked dubious. “Truly I am. You’ve taken such good care of me, I feel as good as new.”

  “William will be relieved to know that. He’s downstairs, waiting to hear how you are.”

  “Is he?” She traced the pattern of the upholstered chair arm with one finger. “He’s been a good friend. He saved my life.”

  “He saved mine once,” Anne said unexpectedly. “Not quite so literally, but almost.”

  “I’ll go down and thank him.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll stay here by the fire and rest.”

  Rachel smiled, thinking how lovely it was to be spoiled. “You’re not a mother yet, you know.” Her smile faded when she remembered how Lydia had attacked Reverend Morrell first, then Anne when she’d tried to help him. “Thank God you weren’t hurt,” she whispered. “Or your baby!”

  Anne reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Thank God Christy wasn’t,” she returned with the same fervor.

  “What do you think will happen to Lydia?” Rachel wondered after a pause.

  “They’ll put her someplace where she can’t hurt herself. Do you feel sorry for her?” Anne asked curiously.

  “Yes.”

  “Even though she ruined your life?”

  “Yes.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well, I suppose I must believe you, but I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be so forgiving if I were in your place. I leave all that sort of thing to Christy.”

  A knock at the door made them turn. It opened after the briefest second, and Sebastian strode in. His clothes weren’t wet any longer, only damp and extremely wrinkled. He looked exhausted. But his eyes lit up when they met Rachel’s, and in spite of herself she felt warmed clear through to her bones.

  Anne jumped to her feet; Rachel started to rise, then stayed where she was. “Well,” Anne said brightly. “I think I’ll go down and see how Christy’s doing.”

  “Don’t leave on my account.”

  Sebastian’s insincerity was so obvious, Rachel blushed. She stood up and said, “We’ll go down with you. I’m perfectly fine now, there’s no reason—”

  “No, we’ll stay put,” Sebastian said firmly, and she frowned at him. Already he sounded like an earl.

  Anne was smiling and trying not to. “Well, you two fight it out between yourselves. I’m going down. And,” she added with a pointed look at Rachel, “I’m sending Bess up with a tray. Yes, I am, and I expect you to eat every bite.” She put her hand on her bulging tummy. “How could you not be hungry? I’m starving.”

  After she was gone, Sebastian regarded Rachel in silence for a long moment. “Pretty dress,” he murmured. “Pretty hair. You look . . . new.”

  An odd word choice, but she understood what he meant. She ran a hand down the skirt of the lavender muslin day dress self-consciously. “Anne lent it to me.”

  “It suits you.” He started to say something else, then seemed to change his mind. He walked toward her; she took a step back. He went past her to the fireplace. “The fire feels good,” he said distractedly.

  It seemed decadent to her, a fire in September, but Anne had insisted. “You must be tired from your trip,” she said, determined to keep up her end of this ridiculous conversation.

  He ignored that. “Sully’s gone, raced off to London, no doubt. Not that it’ll do him any good. He forged the letter from the Home Secretary, Rachel.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Violet Cocker told me—told Vanstone and Carnock, rather, in my presence. At my insistence,” he added meaningfully. “She denies sending you the Broad Arrows, and I believe her. That had to be Lydia. I’ve apologized to the mayor, by the way. He’s a bit of an ass, but I must admit he took it in good part. Christy was right about him—he had nothing to do with Sully’s plot.”

  Rachel put her hand on her forehead. “But—how did Violet know Sully sent the letter?”

  “She’s the one who stole it from you. Sully put her up to it—bribed her, gave her trinkets, probably seduced her. It was all just an elaborate prank, designed to make trouble for you. His way of getting back at me, you see.”

  He came closer, spoke more softly. “And it worked perfectly. When I couldn’t help you today, couldn’t make them listen to me, I wanted to smash things, kill somebody. I’ve never felt so precarious. So . . . imperiled. It was as if my life hung in the balance, too.”

  How tempting he was, half smiling, his blue-green eyes tender and intent at the same time. “As soon as you came, I knew I could stand it,” she heard herself say. “Even if you couldn’t save me, I knew it would be all right in the end. You can’t know how that felt. Thank you.”

  “It’s not really your gratitude I’m interested in.”

  She looked down. “Sorry.”

  “I told Christy to call the banns on Sunday,” he said abruptly. “We can be married in three weeks.”

  “You what?” Her heart began to pound. “Sebastian, that was a mistake.”

  “You said that before. Explain yourself.”

  “I—I would like to explain myself somewhere other than in this bedroom.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust yourself?”

  “It’s not I who . . . oh.” She couldn’t get used to being teased; she loved it, but most of his jokes on her still went over her head until he laughed at them. Oh, but he was dangerous! He knew a hundred ways to get around her strongest convictions. She girded herself for a fight.

  He ambushed her by putting his hands on the sides of her face and holding her still in the soft trap of his fingers. His eyes were more stirring than a caress, and his wicked smile coaxed a helpless one from her. “I could tie you to the bed,” he whispered. It took her a moment to hear that. She gasped, and he took a kiss from her lips, his hands on her face still the lightest of prisons.

  She touched his chest, felt the warm, steady throb of his heart. “You can kiss me . . .” she breathed against his mouth. “You can kiss me,” she tried again, “but it won’t make any difference. I’m telling you . . .” One of his hands slid to her throat; she stopped its insidious downward glide by capturing his wrist. “Sebastian.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Your ability to seduce me has never been in question.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “And it’s not the issue now. I thought we were discussing marriage.”

  He rested his forehead against hers. “That’s what I’m trying to discuss. I didn’t do it very well before. Let me try again. Will you marry me? I love you completely. You’ll be happy with me because I’ll see to it.”

  She drew away, dismayed, elated. “I think you must be—the most arrogant man in the entire world.”

  “Well, I am an earl now, you know,” he said deprecatingly.

  “Exactly. Exactly. You needn’t think those hasty words in the courtroom today, which you said out of kindness and—and duty, bind you to me in any way.”

  He looked amused. “I’ve never been accused of being kind and dutiful before. I have to plead not guilty.” He trailed his fingers down the length of her arm, shoulder to wrist. “I’m a selfish man, Rachel. I want you because I love you. You’re ascribing your own gentle motives to me, which is very sweet; but you’re in error.”

  Her cheeks warmed. She turned her back on him. “You don’t love me.”

  “Excuse me, I do.”

  “No, you don’t. You proclaimed our imminent
marriage in front of witnesses because you thought it would save me. It was an impulse, anyone could see that. Under any other circumstances, you would not have done it. Can you deny that?”

  “Certainly.”

  She turned on him. “Really? You can’t deny that a week ago, when Christy Morrell suggested you might marry me, you laughed in his face!” She felt like a fool when hot tears stung her eyes. Sebastian reached for her hand; she pulled away, but he held on and made her face him.

  “Rachel, don’t. Sweetheart, if I could take one thing back in my whole miserable, misspent—”

  She yanked out of his grasp and backed up. His pained expression looked too much like pity, and she couldn’t stand it. “Please don’t do that,” she commanded. “I do not need your sympathy or your apology. I’m sorry I brought that up again—I don’t know why I did. It’s ancient history. I don’t think about it.”

  Before he could call her a liar, she rushed on. “I’m setting you free, here and now. To safeguard your honor, we’ll say that you did your duty and asked for my hand, and I declined. I’m sure people will call me a fool, but that will be comparatively easy, since before now I’ve been called much worse.”

  She felt pleased with the cadence of that, if not the sentiment; she thought it sounded rather dignified. But Sebastian didn’t look impressed. “I see,” he said, nodding, smiling facetiously. “And what will you do with yourself? How will you make a living?”

  “I’ll find work.”

  “Housekeeper? You’ve experience there. Or a governess, perhaps?”

  “Yes, perhaps. I can keep books.”

  “That sounds fascinating.” His smile grew gradually less amused as he said, “You’ve gone through fire for ten years so that you can keep someone else’s house, or books, or wipe the noses of their bratty children. That’s brilliant, Rachel. So much more interesting and involving than being a countess and raising children of your own with the man you love.” He closed in, backed her toward the window. “Deny that. Deny that you love me. Come, say it.”