by Liz Carlyle
Kate was worth forethought. And afterthought. Actually, Kate was becoming bloody near an obsession.
It should not be so, Edward reminded himself. She was not glamorous or even classically beautiful. She was quiet, almost demure at times. But he no longer believed her plain. No, not remotely.
Still, however lovely she was to him, a woman he’d just met simply could not constitute the whole of his life. It was not wise—especially for her. Sooner or later, reality would return to him whether he wished it to or not. And then, yes, he would have to leave her.
And what then? For either of them? What would be left save the ashes of a fire that had burned so fierce but so fleetingly?
But there was, of course, one thing far worse than ashes he might leave behind. He could leave Kate with child.
In the light of day, it chilled him to realize how cavalier he’d been about that. Kate might pay a terrible price for his recklessness; the price of bearing a child to a man she didn’t know.
If Kate could not see the horror in that, then he must see it for her.
“Edward, more tea?”
He looked up to see Miss Wentworth at the sideboard, the pot held aloft.
“Oh.” He smiled absently. “Thank you, no.”
She returned to the table and set her own cup back down with a clatter. “What can have got into Kate this morning?” she murmured. “My sister is never late for anything.”
“Strictly speaking, she’s not yet late,” he said, extracting his pocket watch. “She told me we would leave at eight.”
He had already given Miss Wentworth the good news about his ability to grasp numerals again. Now she spared her attention only for his watch, which was, admittedly, exquisite.
“Yes,” said Miss Wentworth absently, “but Kate never misses breakfast. Edward, may I see your watch?”
He lifted a curious gaze to hers. “But of course.”
He unfastened the chain and passed it to her. Miss Wentworth stared at the inscription, turning it this way and that in her hand.
“What is this mark?” she asked after a moment had passed.
“What, that little design?”
“Yes.” She turned the watch and tapped on the small engraving below the inscription.
He took out his eyeglasses and leaned nearer. “I believe it is properly called a lozenge,” he said. “It is a heraldic mark used by ladies in lieu of a full coat of arms.”
“I thought as much,” said Miss Wentworth. She turned it back around and stared at it. “This is the style used by a widow or a spinster, isn’t it?”
Edward considered it. “I have no idea,” he said. “Why?”
Miss Wentworth caught his gaze meaningfully across the table. “It must belong to your aunt who gave you this watch,” she said, turning around in her chair. “I suppose Kate and Peppie were so busy reading the inscription, they never studied the design. Jasper?”
The young man darted in from the corridor with a bow. “Yes, miss?”
“Fetch Fendershot for me, will you?”
A moment later, Bellecombe’s butler, a tall, stately man of at least sixty years, came in. “Mr. Edward, Miss Nancy,” he said, bowing. “How may I be of service?”
“You know a little something about heraldry, Fendershot, don’t you?” she said.
“My father was a clerk with the College of Arms,” he said. “I know a little. And his late Lordship kept a good collection of heraldic materials in the library.”
Miss Wentworth passed him the watch. “What do you make of this?”
He gave it the briefest of glances. “Those are the arms of a noble widow,” he replied. “The shape and the little ribbon tell us that.”
“And the symbols?”
“A combination of the lady’s father’s arms and her late husband’s arms,” he said, “or it should be, if done properly.”
Miss Wentworth’s gaze caught Edward’s again. “I think your Aunt Isabel is likely your mother’s sister,” she mused. “Were she your father’s sister, she would have used the family’s full coat of arms, wouldn’t she? But perhaps she wanted your grandfather’s arms on the watch?”
“I don’t know,” said Edward. “The etiquette of heraldry is beyond me.”
“It is beyond most people,” Fendershot murmured, still studying the lozenge.
Miss Wentworth returned her attention to the butler. “What are the chances, Fendershot, you could identify who this Isabel is?”
The old man shook his head. “Very difficult, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I would enjoy nothing so much as a morning spent perusing your grandfather’s old books. May I keep the watch today, Mr. Edward?”
Edward waved his hand dismissively “Oh, by all means,” he said, “but please do not put yourself out on my account.”
Indeed, a little part of him wished to snatch back the watch, and circumvent the inevitable. But the butler had already vanished from the room, his morning’s work in hand. A moment later, Kate dashed in, already attired in a carriage dress of dark blue, a cloak over her arm.
“Heavens, I overslept!” Her gray eyes flared with heat as they lit upon him. “Quick, Nan, pour my tea whilst I grab a piece of toast. I’ve sent Jasper for the carriage.”
Ten minutes later, Edward was helping Kate on with her cloak.
“I’ll fetch my wrap and my reticule,” said Miss Wentworth, rushing from the room.
Edward followed Kate to the open door. Then, at the last instant, his patience slipped. He caught her by the arm, and spun her around, setting her back to the wall. Kate’s eyes widened with shock.
Heedless, he kissed her until she was breathless, kissed her deeply and possessively, with his lips and his tongue and his hands, until his breath came rough and her arms were entwined about his neck.
Kate. Kate. Kate. It was as if her name coursed through his blood, driven by the very beat of his heart.
She maddened him. He needed her. Desperately, he feared.
When at last sanity returned, he set his forehead to hers, searching for the words he needed. “Damn it, Kate,” he finally said, “I don’t know where this is going, but—”
“Shh,” she murmured. “Don’t talk, Edward. Don’t ruin it.”
“We have to talk about it,” he said. “This is not … This is not nothing, Kate. I don’t know what it is, but it is something. Something … vast and near incomprehensible to me.”
“Not now,” she said, brushing her lips over his cheek. “Jasper is coming.”
Edward forced his mind back to the present, and heard rapid footsteps approaching from the castle’s great hall.
He came reluctantly away from the wall, turned with a muted smile, and offered Kate his arm.
THE DRIVE TO Taunton was not overly long. Kate had ordered her landau, which was driven by a coachman who looked to have been born a century earlier. The day was frosty, but the ladies wanted the top folded down. Edward was glad to oblige them, praying that a brisk drive might clear his head—or at least cool his ardor.
After a long drive through the Somerset countryside and half a dozen picturesque villages, they reached the outskirts of Taunton.
Edward could not have said precisely when it dawned on him that the passing shops and houses looked familiar; it was more of a slow, uneasy realization. When he saw a squat, stone bell tower in the distance, he was certain.
“What is that place?” he asked abruptly.
“Staplegrove,” said Miss Wentworth, pointing over the trees. “Richard’s cousin is vicar there.”
But Kate, more perceptive, had caught the unease in his voice. “Have you been here before, Edward?”
Slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I am very nearly certain of it.”
“Could you be from here?” Miss Wentworth’s pretty brow furrowed. “I really think not. Richard would have recognized you. Likely we would have recognized you.”
Since Richard Burnham had come twice to offer his prayers for Edward’s swift recove
ry, Edward expected she was right.
Burnham was an astute gentleman with a piercing gaze who had almost certainly come not to minster to Edward’s spiritual needs, but rather to reassure himself of his beloved’s well-being.
Edward had done his best to put the young man at ease, and to appear as unthreatening as a man of his height and bearing could do. The rector had gone away satisfied that at least his intended bride—if not Edward’s soul—was entirely safe. But Burham certainly had not recognized him.
“What about that inn, Edward?” Miss Wentworth pointed in the opposite direction. “Does it look familiar?”
“Nancy, let be,” Kate warned, settling back against the banquette. “Eventually Edward will remember, and until then, pressing him won’t help. Now, have you your shopping list to hand?”
Edward did indeed try to put it from his mind but he could not escape the uncomfortable sense of familiarity. He told himself that it was a good thing. But it didn’t feel like a happy thing. No, the familiarity carried a haunting sort of sadness, and brought with it that weighty sense of obligation that had been troubling him the last few days.
His mood notwithstanding, the visit was a commercial success for the shopkeepers of Taunton. It was a town of some size, and as Kate had predicted, there was no difficulty in finding haberdashers, hatters, and bootmakers sufficient for the average gentleman’s needs.
After graciously loaning him a generous sum of money—and teasing him that she meant to keep his pocket watch as collateral—Kate left him to his own devices, agreeing they would meet for luncheon at the hostelry where the carriage had been left. The ladies set off in the opposite direction along the high street, Kate casting him one last, heated glance over her shoulder as she went.
After recovering from the memories that engendered, Edward went from shop to shop ordering—and in some cases outright purchasing—those basic bits of kit that a country house visit might require, and giving Bellecombe Castle as the delivery address for those things requiring tailoring. But all the while he remained on edge, searching every face he saw, waiting for that inevitable moment when someone would recognize him and shout out his name.
It did not come.
He had been so very certain it would. That today would be the day. Why? Because of some squat church tower that looked vaguely familiar?
But there was no denying the familiarity of that scene, and no denying the heavy weight it left in the pit of his stomach.
Nonetheless, no one spoke to him save to thank him for his custom and to press receipts into his hand. Having deliberately left his stick in the carriage to keep both hands free, Edward went about his business, trying to take comfort in how little pain he felt in his leg. And that free hand came in handy; by one o’clock, he was carrying enough packages to put a simpering London dandy to the blush.
After they had dined on a luncheon of cold chicken and late vegetables, Kate sent for her carriage and the three of them returned in the direction from whence they’d come, Miss Wentworth teasing him unmercifully about his outrageous collection of boxes.
Having taken the rearward seat, Edward was watching Taunton vanish in their wake when the carriage went clattering over the railroad track. Just then, he caught sight of a gray-haired woman in brown descending from an open carriage near the station.
It was as if he’d been struck in the head by a lightning bolt. He realized at once that she was known to him.
Well known to him.
Indeed, he was already groping desperately in his head for her name when she turned around to stare at him, her posture stiff as a statue, her hand held up to a girl of perhaps twelve years who remained in the carriage, waiting to clamber down after her.
Still seated, the girl, too, turned, as if to discover what had caught the woman’s attention. Her gaze caught Edward’s. Then, with an expression that was perplexed—almost injured—she lifted her hand in greeting, and gave a tenuous little wave.
It was as if he froze inside.
It was Annabelle.
Dear God.
Annie and her grandmother, Mrs. Granger. They were still staring after him as if he were a ghost. Which of course they might do, since he was supposed to be … be where? Where the hell was he supposed to be?
Where had he gone after leaving Mrs. Granger’s cottage?
The house. The damned house he’d taken from Reggie. What was the bloody thing called?
Heatherfields.
Had he arrived there?
No. No, he had taken a wrong turn. Seen a magnificent castle down in a vale. Not Reggie’s little manor. Irritated, he had turned around and given Aragon his head …
Bits and pieces of his memory began to go click, click, click, sliding back into their logical places like beads on an abacus, making for a horrific sum total.
He had taken Aragon from his happy retirement in Mrs. Granger’s stable. He had been on his way to Heatherfields, to see what might be made of the estate he’d taken from Reggie.
Lord Reginald Hoke.
Lord Reginald Hoke of Heatherfields.
He could hear Anstruther’s disgust in his head.
Left that dunderheid the hoose and three tenant farms to piss away, he had said. Not my place to say, mind, but I niver thought him a good influence …
He could see the picture being laid out before his very eyes. Knew his face must look white as a sheet. He could feel the hope and the joy draining out of him, and he knew without a doubt what that hard black knot inside him was. It was his heart.
The ladies were arguing over a certain pair of shoes they should or should not have bought. They were not looking at him. Could not see him for the liar he was.
And suddenly a flood of thoughts came roaring like a swollen river through his head. Rising in waves, like white, frothy peaks in his brain. A crashing, rushing reality. And a history. He looked about, and recognized the milliner’s shop on his left.
He could see the yellow bonnet that had hung in the window the summer before Colombo and Trincomalee. Maria had wanted it. He hadn’t the money. But that was before the fire. Before the army. He could see the encampment again; they had been out shooting. Someone … someone had drowned. A terrible tragedy.
Maria?
No. Maria died in England.
The drowning—that was Ceylon. Edward shook his head, attempting to reorder his thoughts. To sort what mattered from what did not. Ceylon didn’t matter; it was over. But Maria mattered. Annie mattered.
“Edward?”
Miss Wentworth was looking at him strangely across the carriage.
Recalled to the present, he swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” she gently prodded. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Even then, he was not perfectly sure why he hesitated. Perhaps because the thoughts—the memories—were still so jumbled in his head.
“No,” he rasped. “No, I’m fine.”
Miss Wentworth smiled, and returned her attention to Kate and the shoes. She was quite sure they had been more green than blue. And the heels either too high or too low.
Faced with no alternative, Edward did what he made it a strict policy never to do. He took the coward’s way out.
He was not proud of it. But he pretended to go to sleep anyway, tipping his tall hat down over his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Look,” said Miss Wentworth after the business with the shoes was settled. “Edward has drifted off, Kate! Indeed, I’m a little worried. He didn’t look at all well this morning.”
“Did he not?” said Kate vaguely. “Perhaps he didn’t sleep well.”
“Obviously, he didn’t,” she said tartly. “Something must have kept him awake last night. Perhaps we should call Dr. Fitch?”
“There was a barn owl, I think,” Kate lied. “Up on the parapet. I didn’t sleep well myself.”
“A barn owl?” Miss Wentworth said incredulously. “Why would a barn owl be on a parapet?”
“Perhaps you have owls in your belfry,” said her sister.
They squabbled good-naturedly all the way home.
Edward passed the time attempting to breathe beneath his hat brim, and trying to think of heroic ways in which a gentleman might kill himself—then, on his next feeble breath, reassuring himself that things could not possibly get worse.
The rest of the day was to prove him wrong.
Over and over and over again.
UPON THEIR RETURN, the trio was met in the great hall by Fendershot and Jasper. The latter was soon staggering under bandboxes and cloaks, while the former was motioning them into the library.
“The most amazing thing, Your Ladyship,” he was saying to Kate. “Do just come this way.”
All three of them followed the butler into the library to see a stack of books on one of the long oak tables, and Edward’s watch laid open on a velvet pillow, a magnifying glass beside it.
Fendershot cast an expectant gaze over them, then drew a deep breath. “The more I studied the lozenge—it was, you see, that unusual griffin segreant that caught my eye—and my great-uncle, you see, was once in service to the Earl of Oakley, and I remember he had a—a sort of silver tray that the earl gave him in honor of his many years of—”
“It’s all right, Fendershot.” Kate laid a hand on his arm. “You needn’t fully explain. It is clear you’ve seen something familiar?”
Fendershot drew a deep breath. “Just so, my lady,” he said, pointing to the watch. “This part of the lozenge is taken from the Earl of Oakley’s coat of arms.”
“I do not know Lord Oakley,” said Kate. “But then, I know scarcely anyone. Who is he?”
“I don’t know who he is now,” said Fendershot. “A cousin of the sixth earl, I believe, for the sixth earl had only daughters, two of them. And his title, unlike your own, could descend only patrilineally.”
Kate was nodding. “Only from father to son.”
“Just so,” said the butler. “Moreover, if we refer to your grandfather’s old peerage, we will see that Oakley’s eldest daughter was named Isabel and his youngest was named Caroline.”