Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Anne Meredith

  His dispassionate remark distanced her, perhaps his intention. “I should also warn you that if you stay, many will assume the worst of your presence here. You will have a comfortable home for as long as you like, as will your friend, and you will have the love of my daughter. But make no mistake—you’ll have few friends outside Rosalie.” He paused, then continued in a rush. “Will you agree? I cannot afford for you to grow dearer still to her, then leave.”

  “Why did you marry if you didn’t love her?”

  “It’s of no interest to you.”

  She smiled bitterly; how little he knew of her heart. “Nevertheless, I want your answer before I give mine.”

  He tossed the rose on the desk. “My grandmother arranged the match. In exchange, I was named her heir—the earl of Windmere.”

  He hadn’t mentioned the wealth of the Huntington family. “All this—for a title?”

  “You speak as if they were smiles passed out by a flirtatious woman.”

  She studied him, trying to understand. He was a man for whom others’ opinions were insignificant. Yet he’d married a woman he didn’t love for a meaningless stamp of approval. An approval refused by Lord Windmere, who had heartlessly turned his back on Grey’s mother—all because his daughter had dared to love a man without proper pedigree.

  Understanding struck her. With it came reluctant compassion. True, Grey cared little for the opinions of any man—except one: the man who’d not been quite good enough for the Huntingtons. His motive in marrying had been no more than to torment Thomas Trelawney.

  But the fact was, why he’d married Letitia made no difference in Rachel’s decision; she had no choice. She believed what Camisha had said: that there were untold mysteries in her memories that might be revealed, but only in this time.

  And only with this man.

  She thought of Emily. He was beyond reforming, but his daughter’s mind was young and pliable and yet not wholly spoiled by the indifference that would give birth to a legacy of mutual hatred and discord.

  And what about Grey—this enigmatic man she loved? She could no more leave him than she could leave Camisha.

  “Let me understand this. If I agree, Emily will … be my daughter, so to speak.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “We’ll spend all our time together.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll raise no protest if she spends time with Camisha?”

  He gazed at her blankly. “Of course not. The woman is your friend. You’d not let harm come to Emily.”

  She was given pause at his matter-of-fact faith. Perhaps for the first time, the significance of his entrusting Emily to her care sank in.

  He waited, his expression still carefully guarded. But when she looked at his hands, crossed over his lap, she saw the whitened knuckles of one hand, unconsciously fisted.

  “I don’t have any children,” she said, and her next words—the truth—chilled her. “And I—don’t expect to ever have any. But if I were to have a daughter, I would want her to be just like Emily.”

  His eyes were clouded, and he remained silent.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll stay.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Grey adjusted his silk stock, studying the trio in the gardens. He admired Camisha Carlyle, though her contempt for him equaled Rachel’s. All things considered, he couldn’t fault her. She had healed well in the past fortnight and now, dressed in Rachel’s clothes, she bore little evidence of the brutal abuse she’d endured. While Rachel spent the time nursing Camisha, he scrutinized Manning’s every move. And Manning knew it.

  Rachel held Emily’s hands as they danced, and his heart swelled unexpectedly at the sight. A woman who loved his daughter, playing with her. Until now, Emily had never known the tender touch of a woman. Rachel’s generous affection reminded him of the memories of her touch on him, and his blood suddenly ran hot.

  He hated the arrangement they’d struck; now, he wanted her more than he had before. But she’d spared him little notice, and he feared her affections were beyond reviving. Fear? The realization startled him. When he’d watched his mother’s health fail, he’d known fear; when death freed her from pain, he was freed as well. Never again had he allowed anyone—except Emily—to grow dear enough to him to provoke the helplessness that had eaten at him the year he watched his mother die. He’d guarded Emily so closely that there was no room for fear.

  But now, he knew fear.

  Rachel had stolen into his heart without his own knowledge, until now his every thought dwelled on her. He was lost, unutterably lost. His days were made up of excuses to be near her; lingering at home when he should be tending his estate, dawdling over breakfast when he had no appetite, secretly watching her in the gardens, as he did now.

  Emily’s laughter captured his attention, and he smiled. Oddly, Letitia crossed his mind. The child looked nothing like her mother; she was the graven image of her aristocratic father. But her joy was exclusively her own. He was suddenly captured by the memory of the tiny, squalling infant he’d first met at Letitia’s London townhouse, when he visited her home to view the infant who was to be his heir. A girl, he learned upon arriving.

  “Donovan Stuart is the father,” Letitia had told him that night, with blasé indifference. “He sired her in our box at the opera, while the hall emptied.”

  That would have been a tamer sort of dalliance for Letitia.

  The confession he’d demanded of her had bemused Grey. Not that she would betray him; by then he knew her lascivious spirit. But—Dunraven hated the opera.

  As he left her chambers on that long-ago day, the babe’s wrenching cries pierced his fog of apathy. He hesitated at the nursery, with no intention to enter; the nurse paced the room, jostling the child over her shoulder, and the sight fascinated him.

  Her howling took on a pathetic plea, as if she were crying out to him alone. The sound reached deep within him, finding a place he hadn’t known existed.

  “Let me hold her,” he’d said.

  The nurse cast him an inscrutable glance, no doubt fearing he might do the babe harm. But she passed the fragile bundle into his waiting arms. The surprising lightness of her, the frustrated wiggling of the creature, had captivated him. He stroked her tightly balled abdomen, marveling as she strained from the tips of her tiny toes to the crown of her head, dusted with soft fuzz.

  He was overcome with the mysteries of life as he cradled the babe against his shoulder, humming tunelessly, murmuring reassurances as best he knew how. Though time would soften his bitterness, his first—and strangest—impulse had been to chase down Dunraven and throttle him. What was it that made a man lie with a woman and then desert her the next morning without thought for the child left behind?

  His second thought had been much like the beggar finding a diamond unwittingly cast into the gutter. Mentally, he looked around to see if anyone noticed the moment.

  This beautiful little girl was his own daughter.

  “What’s her name?” he had asked the nurse.

  “She’s not got one, my lord.”

  That pricked him. And as he held her and she quietened, listening for the sound of his voice, a magical thing happened. One end of a nebulous cord was sewn deep within his heart; the other end sprang from the heart of the babe he held, the child she became. His daughter.

  “Oh, Papa!”

  Emily’s cry startled him from his reverie, and a surge of warmth rushed over him. “It’s time to leave for Westover.”

  As his eyes met Rachel’s, he had an unexpected glimpse of someone he’d seen little of late: a woman who enjoyed the sight of him. Then it was gone, shuttered by blank unconcern.

  “Why can’t Camisha go, Papa?”

  The negro woman raised her chin as a smile lifted just one corner of her mouth in clearly amused curiosity.

  “Miss Carlyle was invited, and Miss Sheppard declined on her behalf.”

  “As I told Mr. Hastings, I have little need of someone
to wait on me at a party.”

  “Lord Windmere, more than anyone I can appreciate your gesture. But as it happens, I have plans.”

  Rachel giggled indelicately at the lady’s gracious rejection.

  Camisha looked from Rachel to him, wagging a finger at him. “Now I’m not sure who that giggle was intended for, but I’d say you’re the odds-on favorite.”

  Grey laughed. The affront he might’ve felt was lost in his amusement—and amazement. Her English equaled that of any well-born gentlewoman and her wit exceeded it. He’d avoided her, for she was a reminder of all that stood between him and Rachel. Now, fashionably dressed, she was a comely woman of surprising refinement, education, and confidence. Yet he refused to accept her barb without returning to her an equal measure of her own sharp tongue.

  “I humbly accept your regrets, Miss Carlyle. And I hope you’ll include us in your social calendar in the future.”

  Her mouth tightened at the corners, but she remained silent.

  “Emily, darling, go with your father,” Rachel said. “I’ll be along soon.”

  Though her words were soft, her hazel eyes glinted with fire as she looked at him. Concealing his surprise, he took his daughter’s hand. If the woman felt confident enough to taunt him, certainly she could rise to her own sport. In his own way, he thought it quite obvious he was treating her as his equal, sparring with her.

  Rachel saw the puzzlement as they left. Had he really thought such a gibe necessary?

  “Yassuh,” Camisha murmured with a flip salute. “I’s gwine make sho you get a invite t’ the nex’ corn-shuckin’.”

  “If you don’t want to go, I won’t go.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. That poor child would be left to her own devices. And the truth is, he was just teasing—just a battle of wits—which would be fine, you know, if not for that whole slave-trader thing … And besides, it’s true. I do have plans tonight.”

  “What?”

  “There’s going to be dancing, down at the cabins. And there’s a Yankee boy I have my eye on.”

  “You are hopeless.”

  “He is fine.” Camisha threw her a challenging glance.

  “Yeah. Much hotter than Dulé Hill.”

  Camisha’s slow, hearty laughter soothed her. In the past few days, she had watched the woman she loved more than a sister be restored to her, as her spirit slowly returned and her beauty emerged. She’d seen Grey’s admiring glance on Camisha, and were he a different man, Rachel might’ve worried for her. He wasn’t the kind of man to force himself on any woman.

  “So you just go and have yourself a good time, Cinderella. The fairy godmother’ll stay behind and tend to the cottage.”

  The Trelawney carriage arrived at Westover just before sundown. Splashes of color brightened the green lawn, the silken gowns of ladies arriving on the arms of men dressed with equal elegance. As the footman handed Rachel down from the carriage, she heard a lively violin and cello concerto flowing through the august plantation house. Vivaldi, perhaps; after all, Mozart had yet to be born.

  A sporadic burst of laughter peppered the conversation of guests in the banquet hall. The essence of freshly slain flowers blended with that of powdered wigs and wood oil and Virginia ham and Chesapeake oysters to create a feast for the senses.

  She sat in a chair, watching the handsomely dressed couples go through the gay motions of the dance. Emily stood beside her, silent. The gregarious child knew that in the Byrd home, with countless guests fluttering, chattering, and minueting about her, she was to be seen but unheard.

  “That’s a lovely gown, isn’t it, darling?” Rachel said.

  “Oh, yes. The color of a robin’s breast.” She leaned close. “Rachel, I’m very thirsty.”

  She glanced about for Grey, but he was immersed in conversation with another man. “Well, we’ll just help ourselves.”

  She led her to the heavily laden table in the next room, and Emily accepted cider. “May I go say hello to Lord Dunraven?”

  “Certainly. Remember your manners.”

  As Emily passed the immense, tiered crystal dessert centerpiece on the groaning board, her eyes lit up. With some effort, she moved on toward Donovan.

  “Miss Sheppard. How good to see you again.”

  Bright, sherry-colored eyes that matched his waistcoat were alert on her. A hint of a smile hovered over his dimpled chin. “Mr. Byrd, what a wonderful party! Thank you for inviting me.”

  “It’s my pleasure, dear.” He smiled at her, then: “Thomas mentioned yesterday that you had brought Emily to visit him. ’Tis a good beginning.”

  “Do you know of the rift between Grey and his father?”

  “Few who know either man don’t.”

  “I can’t understand what makes a man behave this way.”

  “Strange,” he mused. “Men spend many a sleepless night concerned with things that are of no consequence—a pointless ambition, a perceived slight by someone unaware of their actions—yet pay little heed to matters that will haunt them in their old age.”

  She watched him silently.

  He went on. “All my life, my heart was set on one task. To improve myself. Now, as president of the Council, my authority in the colony is second only to that of the governor. And yet, I can think of naught else but…”

  His gaze played over Emily. “How she reminds me of my daughter Evelyn. She entertained the noblemen at court just as Emily now charms Dunraven. King George told me, ‘I am not surprised why our young men are going to Virginia if there are so many pretty Byrds there.’”

  Rachel laughed. “I’d love to meet her.”

  After a long moment, he said, “Evelyn passed from this world some years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “She loved a young Catholic man. I … thought him to be unsuitable, and I forbade her from marrying him. Her spirit left her, and in the end she perished of a broken heart. At times I still imagine her heels tapping in the hall, but it’s only my own broken heart.”

  Empathy filled her for this man, questioning the decisions of his past. Camisha’s revelation returned with surprising sadness; how different he must have once been, a younger man impatiently passionate for his wife.

  He nodded toward Grey, in the adjacent room. “Now, I see that young man, and I know he feels a grievous pain for his father’s error. And I wonder whether too much time has passed to mend it.”

  “I believe some things are beyond time.”

  “’Tis true. But the paradox is, timelessness and time ever collide.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My feeble motions have been made by men before, and will be made by men in other times. The same halting steps of improvement, the same foolish mistakes. Here, time collides with timelessness. Each breath you take, each tear you shed, will be breathed and shed by women long after you’re gone. And yet, never will they be duplicated. Upon each hand you touch is left a tender impression that will never be rubbed out.”

  His words rang with familiarity; it was almost exactly what Mary van Kirk had said, that first day. Rachel didn’t like the reminder of the world that was hers, a time she’d toiled in blind futility over affairs as shifting and immaterial as shadows.

  “Rachel, in this world that will never make sense, one thing matters. We are all different, you and I and each soul yet to be born—but we are ever intertwined. And we share an urgent need to remain mindful of this: our time here is not long.”

  From surveying the lively party before him, he turned to look at her. “Would that it were in my power to place forgiveness in Grey Trelawney’s wounded heart. But perhaps that task is better left to someone he holds dear.” His smile was gently knowing. “Now, much as I prefer your company, I’ve other guests whose enjoyment I must see to.”

  With that, he was gone. Grey and Emily arrived from different directions, and she showed her father an elaborate pastry. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  “What have you there, poppet?”


  “Why, I don’t know. Lord Dunraven fetched it for me. May I eat it?”

  He laughed. “Certainly.”

  She perched herself on a chair nearby, nibbling the treat.

  He stood beside Rachel, and his gaze was grim. “Have you yet forgiven me for my misdeeds?”

  She fought the slow fire he kindled within her, despite her resentment. “Have you yet repented?”

  He gave a surprised chuckle. “What am I to do with you?”

  He introduced her to a passing gentleman with a stunning beauty on his arm. As they moved on, Grey’s mouth curved. “An acquaintance of mine had a passion for Mrs. Derham in his youth. She little resembles a professor’s wife, do you not think?”

  His idle gossip was meant to distract her, and it did—but not as he’d intended. The words raised an odd suspicion in her.

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Neddy said he’d gladly trade all he had to have been of an age to court her.”

  The jest worsened it; she’d heard that people who were prone to seizures grew to recognize their onset. For her, these moments of disorienting awareness had become a harbinger of her lost memories.

  Sheppard’s an annoying pain in the ass, a distraction to the class.

  Oh, Rob, Jack’s but a lovesick lad.

  I swear, I’ll have him expelled if he writes you again.

  “Darling?”

  She gasped at her numbing grip on Grey’s arm. She released him, shaking her head.

  “What is it? What did you remember?” His words were urgent.

  As she told him, she tried to make sense of it.

  “Jack Sheppard? Is he a kinsman of yours?”

  “The name is familiar, but … I don’t know why. Max doesn’t have any family at all. That I know of, anyway.”

  She hung onto the memories of the voices. Her father’s. And the laughing, crisp diction of her mother. No wonder Grey’s British tongue raised so many memories in her; her mother was English. Even the half-dozen words she’d spoken held archaic grace. And they’d spoken as a loving couple; her father seemed jealous, but her mother gently chided him, dismissing his suspicion. What could it mean? Who was Jack Sheppard?