“She’s not dead,” he said, his hand raking through his tousled hair. “I know it.”
“How do you know it?” Aunt Patti questioned, her faded blue eyes searching his face.
“I just know.” He saw her arched brow and drew a deep breath, but rejected the chance to explain himself.
“So, you still refuse to confess your feelings aloud. Had you dropped that arrogant facade of yours and told her that you loved her, I doubt she would have dashed off as she did. Eugenia believes Aidan may have become incensed over something and that she’s off somewhere collecting her thoughts in order to face you again.”
“Well, I hope to God she’s gotten them together by now, for if she hasn’t, she’ll be facing me in hell!”
“It’s always much simpler to blame someone else for your own failings,” Aunt Patti said on a weary sigh. “You’ve too much pride, Westover. And it has led you to the threshold of your destruction.” He didn’t answer. “I shall keep searching. And you shall keep praying. I’ll see you on the morrow.” She rose from the chair, then walked to the door and thumped it with her cane; quickly the guard opened it. “I’ve an audience with Her Majesty late tomorrow,” she said to Justin. “I’ll come here directly afterward.”
“Till tomorrow,” he said without emotion. When the door closed, the key bolting it anew, he sank to his cot. Troubled gray eyes searched his bleak surroundings. Unless his wife returned, he would have no future. But even if by some miracle of miracles he were saved and she still did not return, he knew he’d still have no future. Without her he was dead.
“Aidan, I love you,” he whispered fervently to the stone walls, the pain of her loss tearing through him. “Come back to me. Come back, love.”
16
The late-afternoon sun flowed over Aidan as she traipsed down the craggy lane toward the small village which lay nearly a mile from the convent. But the golden rays of sunshine did little to lighten her spirits, for a dark emptiness remained deep inside her. Justin, she thought, wanting to be near him again, desiring to see him beyond anyone else in the world. Impetuously, she’d run off, not allowing him the opportunity to explain the meaning of their Queen’s letter. Yet she feared, if she were to return now, he’d only shun her, for his pride was as lofty as her own. In truth, neither one was willing to admit his or her mistakes and beg the other’s forgiveness.
Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall. The words rolled through her mind, and Aidan could not deny their meaning. If she could only learn to be less hasty in her actions and more thoughtful of mind, she’d be far better off than she was now. Perhaps, in time, the good sisters would be able to teach her prudence in all she did. But she feared their tutelage might take a very long time.
Her feet finally hit the main road leading into the village, and within moments Aidan ducked inside the small posting station. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness within, she noted several men milled about, one near the counter, so she stood aside to wait her turn.
“… He’s to be hanged—let’s see—the day after tomorrow at sunrise,” the posting agent commented to the man nearest him, pointing to the newspaper in his hand; Aidan felt a cold shiver run through her at hearing such depressing talk. “That’s if Her Majesty don’t stop it. Nope, never remember a duke being gibbeted afore. Probably will draw a crowd from all round London.”
“Well, if he was cuckolded, like the papers hinted he mighta been,” the man commented, “I cain’t say I blame him for doin’ away with the little slattern. O’ course, they ain’t found her body. And he keeps insistin’ she’s alive. But I guess that there viscount’s testimony was what sealed his doom. Cavortin’ in broad daylight in the middle of Hyde Park for everyone to see. Had I found my missus sprawled under some man, like he was to have found her, I wouldn’t have been so nice about it all—bustin’ her lover’s jaw! I’d have killed them both, then and there!”
“I know what ye mean,” the posting agent replied, refolding the tattered newspaper. “That Westover bloke sure bagged himself a passel of bad luck, he did.”
Aidan shakily pulled herself away from the wall that she’d fallen against. Activating her legs, she dashed to the counter and grabbed the paper from the startled man’s hands.
“Hey, missy,” the man said, trying to snatch it back. “What do ye think ye’r doin’?”
“Leave it, sir!” she commanded abruptly as her eyes scanned the article, which was dated nearly a week ago. “My God!” she cried as her trembling hands lowered the paper. “They think he’s murdered me!” Aidan’s legs buckled; luckily the man beside her caught hold of her before she hit the floor. Drawing her up, he steadied her until she was able to stand on her own. “Please, I have to get back to London. Is there a public coach coming this way soon?”
The posting agent frowned. “Sorry, miss, but there ain’t no coach that comes here. Ye should know that. Ye’ll have to go over to the Boar’s Inn to catch one.”
Aidan didn’t know that, for she’d hired a private coach to carry her to the remote village which lay in the English countryside well north of London. Having instructed the driver to drop her at the lane leading up to the convent, she’d paid him his fee, then set off alone to ask for shelter from the Anglican nuns.
“Where’s the Boar’s Inn?” she asked, although she doubted, if she were somehow to reach the inn, the few coins hidden in her pocket would pay her fare back to London. “How do the mails get from here to there?”
“The inn is ’bout twelve miles east of here. And old John Taylor takes what’s to be posted over to the inn every Friday.” He eyed the plain rough-linen gown the abbess had given her, his gaze settling on her work-roughened hands. “Ye ain’t really that duchess they’re talkin’ ’bout in the papers, is ye?” he asked skeptically, a dubious brow arching. “Ye sure don’t look like no duchess to me.”
Aidan bit back an angry retort. “I am that duchess, sir, and I have to get back to London! Please, can someone help me?” No one answered, and her annoyance grew. “Where’s this John Taylor you spoke of?”
“He’s gone off to visit his wife’s folks. Won’t be back till the mails have to run again. Ain’t no one goin’ that way for a couple of days, miss, so maybe you’d best set off walkin’.”
Several of the men chuckled; instantly Aidan was filled with both fear and fury. “Sirs, my name is Aidan Elizabeth Prescott Warfield, and I am the Duchess of Westover. My husband is about to be executed for a crime he did not commit,” she said in a low, barely controlled voice, “and not one of you seems willing to help me. Should my husband be put to death because of your lack of compassion, I shall see that all of you are brought to ruin.” Hard violet eyes pinpointed each man there. “Now, I repeat, will someone help me?”
After a lengthy silence, Aidan glared her malcontent at the men, then turned and fled the building. Hiking her skirts, she ran up the road to the rutted lane; frantic feet pulled her up the hill toward the convent. As she reached the heavy wooden gates, Aidan fell against them, gasping for air; then her fist pounded the aged timber.
“Let me in!” she sobbed as her emotions spun wildly inside her. After what seemed an eternity, an old nun released the bolt and opened the panel; Aidan rushed inside. “Wh-where’s the abbess?” she asked, her breath still coming unsteadily.
“She’s in the chapel.”
Aidan didn’t tarry. Traversing the small courtyard at a full run, she bolted toward the chapel. She stopped short several steps inside the holy sanctuary where the abbess knelt before the altar repeating her prayers. Knowing the silent litany might take forever, Aidan asked God’s forgiveness and rushed the short distance to the altar. “Abbess, I must speak to you.”
As though she’d not heard Aidan, the woman continued with her prayer, head bowed, eyes closed.
“Please, Abbess,” Aidan cried, violet eyes spilling forth their tears. “It’s a matter of life and death!”
After a few moments the woman ope
ned her eyes, then stood. “What is so urgent, my child?”
“I must get back to London. They’re going to hang him for something he didn’t do!”
“Calm yourself. Of whom do you speak, child?”
“My husband, the Duke of Westover—they think that he’s murdered me! I must get back to London to stop his execution! It’s all my fault,” she lamented, a sob jerking from her chest. “I should never have run off.”
“Was it your pride that carried you to our door?” the abbess asked, gentle eyes searching Aidan’s.
“Yes,” Aidan confessed. “And it’s going to lead to Justin’s destruction. I can’t let it happen.”
“Come, we shall see what can be done.”
Aidan quickly followed the abbess to her quarters.
“Do you have any money?” the nun asked.
“Very little—only a few shillings.”
“Then you shall need some for the coach to London. Take this,” the abbess said, having withdrawn a small pouch from the drawer of the writing table, placing it in Aidan’s hand. “It’s not much, but it should see you through.”
Aidan eyed the small leather bag. “But this is all you have. How will you survive? You and the others need food.”
“Our Lord will give us what we need,” the abbess said. “Come, now we must find a way to get you to the Boar’s Inn.”
Aidan followed the abbess to the gates. “I’d almost forgotten what it was like outside our walls,” the older woman said as they stepped through. She smiled, breathing in the sweet air. Then the two set off down the lane to the road.
As they reached the narrow thoroughfare, a young man, a few seasons lesser in age than Aidan, guided a small cart along the roadway, a swaybacked gelding harnessed at its front.
“You, there!” the abbess called. “Come here!”
Thinking the nun was speaking to someone else, the lad looked around him. Not seeing anyone on the road, he routed the cart over to the woman. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I need for you to take this young woman to the Boar’s Inn.”
“Ain’t goin’ that far, ma’am.”
Taking the pouch from Aidan, the abbess withdrew several coins. “That may not have been your intent, young man, but you’ll do so now.”
The lad eyed the money in his hand; a crooked grin spread across his unwhiskered face. “If ye say so, ma’am.”
“Let me know what happens,” the abbess said as she turned toward Aidan. She hugged the young woman, known to her as Elizabeth, then urged Aidan into the back of the cart. “Godspeed, my child.”
“Thank you, Abbess. Pray for me. And above all, pray for my husband.” As the cart was set into motion, Aidan remembered the letter. “I shall post your letter in London!” she called, waving at the older woman, the abbess waving in return. The small conveyance rounded the bend and the abbess disappeared from sight.
Seated in the back of the rickety cart, Aidan realized that she had less than thirty-six hours to get to London and stop Justin’s execution. Under the best of conditions, a good day’s travel lay ahead of her, she knew. Suddenly she grew anxious. Should something go wrong …Palpable anxiety leapt through her, and she became annoyed with the slow pace of the old gelding. “Please! Can’t you make him go faster?” she asked impatiently.
Instantly the young man set the ancient steed into a notably quicker gait, which shook the wobbly cart and jarred Aidan’s spine. Certain the conveyance was about to fall apart at its seams, she prayed most fervently it would hold together. Dear God, please, please let me get there in time!
Dark slowly descended upon the open fields and the tall forests framing the roadway. Along the blackened path, the ancient gelding kept to his lumbering pace. Miraculously the cart held together, and nearly four hours later it pulled to a stop at the Boar’s Inn. Aidan didn’t wait for the young man, whose name she’d learned was Stephen, to help her alight. She jumped from the vehicle and rushed through the door into the dimly lit inn. “I need to get to London!” she said to the sleepy man at the desk. “When’s the next public coach out?”
He yawned. “Tomorrow at two in the afternoon, miss.”
“There’s nothing sooner? Please, it’s imperative I get there without delay!”
“No. That’s the only coach we got. But it don’t go direct to London. It sorta weaves around—”
“If I should book passage, what time will I get into London?”
The man scratched his head. “Well, if there ain’t no delays, you should be there by three o’clock.”
Aidan breathed a sigh of relief, for she had been certain the trip would take far longer. “Thirteen hours isn’t so bad,” she said, smiling, knowing she’d be in London with time to spare.
“Thirteen hours?” the man repeated. “You misunderstood, miss. It won’t get to London until three the next afternoon.”
Suddenly feeling light-headed, Aidan steadied herself against the counter. “Wh-where can I catch a coach that will get me to London without delay? I must be there before sunup, a day hence.”
“Probably Lincoln.”
“How far is Lincoln?”
“’Bout fifteen miles.”
Aidan turned and rushed back through the door to find Stephen and explain the situation to him. The young man agreed to take her on to Lincoln. Would this night ever end? she wondered as the ungainly gelding hauled the shaky cart toward her next destination. Oh, Justin! her heart cried. Forgive me, love. I’m coming! And again she prayed for her husband’s safety.
At nearly four in the morning, the pair entered the town of Lincoln. Finding the coaching inn, Stephen helped Aidan from the cart, then accompanied her through the doorway into the inn. Aidan was assured that the next coach to London would have her there in plenty of time, so she purchased her ticket, then bade farewell to the young man who’d assisted her.
“In a few weeks, Stephen, you shall have yourself a fine new cart and a grand horse to pull it,” she said, smiling her gratitude while fighting the urge to rub her aching back and sore bottom.
“Whatever ye say, ma’am,” he replied, a doubtful frown marking his brow. “Good luck to ye.” He walked from the inn, then pulled himself up into the rickety conveyance and set the gelding back onto the road, heading off toward the little village whence they’d come.
With the few coins she had left, Aidan had herself a light meal, then waited for the public stage, pledging to repay the abbess a thousand times more than what the woman had given her. As promised, the stage arrived at ten o’clock, and within moments Aidan was finally on her way back to London.
Aunt Patti entered the small cell to look at her nephew’s bedeviled face. “Her Majesty sends her regrets,” she said. “She truly grieves over what has happened to you—what will happen to you—but she cannot reverse the sentence of the court. The most she will do is keep the deed private. There are to be no crowds. Except for a few who have been granted special concessions, only those close to you will be allowed to share your final moments.”
“So I am to be hanged, is it?” he asked tonelessly. “And for a crime I did not commit. What a travesty of justice.”
“Her Majesty felt your trial was fair and quite expeditious. She—”
“Expeditious!” Justin shouted. “In the history of all Britain, nothing has taken place with such speed as did my trial. No doubt Atwood’s influence played a large part in its swift end, as well as in my conviction. In the loss of my appeals too! Damn the man and damn his daughter!”
Aunt Patti’s harsh gaze affixed itself to Justin’s. “Were she to step through that door now, would you still wish to send her to perdition?” She watched as her nephew’s troubled gaze fell from hers. “Instead of damning your wife, I suggest you pray for her immediate return. Perhaps your Maker will hear your pleas and send her to you, posthaste.”
“It’s useless, Aunt. I’ve been praying for her return since the moment I found her missing. Obviously she does not want to come back to me. The ques
tion is, why?” Had it been his brutality? he wondered, thinking of how he’d punished her with his body, knowing she had good reason to leave him, never to return. God, why had he shown such anger, such cruelty?
“Perhaps she is unable to come back. She could be dead—not by your hand, but by another’s. A thief may have—”
“No!” he cried, discounting the theory. “I’d know if she no longer lived! I’d feel it in my soul if she were gone from me forever. The gallows would be a welcome end to the torture I would feel over my loss. No, Aunt, she lives. I know it!”
Pattina reserved a knowing smile. He loves her, she thought. But his admission may have come too late. A pity for them both. “I shall wait with you, nephew. We shall not give up hope. There’s still a chance—”
Justin’s dark laughter erupted. “Always hopeful, eh? Earlier, Aunt, a bell was rung outside my door. It’s the custom—the Execution Toll, as it is called—for those who are to die on the morrow.”
“You seem to have become even more jaded than you already were, Westover. Forget the bell,” she snapped, already knowing of the custom. In her numerous investigations, she’d learned of the secret tunnel which connected the condemned hold at Newgate to the old St. Sepulchre’s Church. A hand bell was carried through the passageway and rung outside a prisoner’s cell on the eve of his execution. If it was done to remind the one who was to die to seek penitence, she could not say. But since there was a way into the prison, there was also a way out. “Perhaps a two-handed game of whist will perk you up,” she said, withdrawing a deck of cards from her reticule. “Put the table over there so we might gain some comfort.”
The wooden legs scraped against the stone floor as Justin moved it toward his cot; the chair followed. “And what are the stakes, Aunt?” he asked, seating her.
“I shall wager you will live to be an old, old man, sir.”
“Then I shall allow you to win each hand, Aunt. For my own bet would be, in less than twelve hours, I’d be swinging from the end of a rope. A gruesome thought, if you ask me.”
A Heart So Innocent Page 31