My Darling Caroline
Page 7
And then he was gone.
It was the dream that awakened her. No, not a dream…
A wail.
Caroline abruptly sat up, her heart pounding, fear enveloping her. She heard it again. A noise. A whimper, now faint, coming from her husband’s bedchamber.
Quickly she got out of bed and with cautious silence walked softly to the door dividing their rooms. She waited next to it, listening, her bare feet cold against the floor, moonglow giving her only a trace of light. But all was quiet on the other side.
After a minute or two, her body shivering, the only sound in the room coming from the faint crackling of the slowly dying fire, Caroline decided her imagination had truly caught up with her.
Then she heard it again. No mistake. A sharp wail came from the other side of the wall, then silence, then her husband’s deep voice shouting, “No!”
Caroline didn’t know what to do. It was possible he needed her. Yet surely he was alone inside and not in any real danger. A dream, perhaps?
She was on the verge of entering, her palm on the knob, when the silence fell once again. She waited at the door until she was so unbearably cold she could stand it no longer, then finally returned to her bed.
Probably just a bad dream, and for that she could do nothing.
She snuggled down into the recesses of her blankets and after several long minutes drifted off to sleep. When she woke again at dawn, her husband had already left Miramont.
Chapter 6
He would simply have to seduce her.
After six long days of vividly remembering the fullness of her pale, creamy breasts sitting ripe and aroused in the palms of his hands, Brent was sure there was no other way. It was only this morning, as he hitched his horses to his phaeton for the journey home, that he realized how the seduction of a woman with as much determination and intelligence as Caroline could be accomplished. Wine and charm didn’t work, and he had never been very charming anyway. Instead, he would do it the same way he’d made her succumb to him the night before he’d left, the same way he’d made her moan for him, melt in his hands, become powerless to him, and truthfully the only way he could think of to do it.
He would do it with words.
Brent steered his horses along the muddy path, the going slow for the final two miles to Miramont. He had the cover raised so the light rain wasn’t actually hitting him, but the dampness still managed to seep through his clothing. He was cold, hungry, and wanted nothing more than to be home for a hot meal and a hot bath.
His little travel adventure had been well worth the trouble. He’d needed only three days to take care of estate matters, hire the rest of the essential help including two decorators who would begin refurnishing the property next week, and speak with his banker regarding his financial situation. Considering how long he’d been gone, his books were quite sound, more sound than he’d thought possible with Reggie ignoring the property and selling almost all of his possessions.
It was really quite the mystery. Why did Reggie sell everything movable and yet leave so much money in his accounts? How was he able to sell everything so quickly? And most important, where was the man?
But the part of his stay in London that troubled him most was his visit to the War Department, his first since returning from France. He talked for hours with his associates and their superiors, and the information he’d learned from that tiring day both confused and worried him.
As of yet, there was no conclusive evidence coming from their contacts on the Continent that Philip Rouselle, France’s most evil son, the killer who haunted Brent’s nights with striking memories of sickness and death, of lingering pain and horrifying destruction, was dead or exiled. And if he wasn’t dead, Brent knew as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow that the man would come for him. Philip despised England, but his feelings for the Raven, the name given Brent by the French who knew him well, went far deeper, wounding not only his pride, but even his soul. Brent was hopeful that following Waterloo Philip had acknowledged his death, but he could never be sure. That disturbed him, and until there was word of the Frenchman’s whereabouts, he would need to take precautions at home.
He just didn’t know how much, if anything, he should tell Caroline. In his experience, it was preferable to know one’s adversary and to understand the thinking process of one’s opponent, so that in the end one could strike weak spots with some degree of efficiency. Sometimes, though, ignorance not only made you blind but saved your life, and it was just better to be kept in the dark. After two days of considerable thought, he was fairly certain that with regard to Philip and Caroline, the latter idea was better than the former. If she knew who and what he was and their paths crossed, Caroline would be dead before she knew what hit her. She was safer in the dark.
So, resolved not to share the information, he set out for Miramont with the understanding that if Philip was indeed alive and was likewise aware that he still lived, it would be up to him to protect them all.
Slowly the estate came into view. He always relished in the knowledge that all of this belonged to him. His father had been dead for twenty-five years, and since that time and until her death five years ago, his mother had ruled Miramont like a queen on her throne. Sometimes he missed her presence, but then he would stop and remember the way she had ruled not only her own little subjects of servants and employees, but how she had ruled her family as well. The Lady Maude had, within the course of thirty years, pushed everyone who loved her out of her life.
But she’d left him Miramont, and it was only at times like this, when he rounded the last bend in the road, watching as tall lilac bushes gave way to the view of his home, that he thought about her—about his arrogant, self-centered mother who loved nobody but herself and managed to estrange her entire family irreversibly. Sometimes, especially on chilly, rainy days like this, the memories made him feel tired and old.
Quickly he steered his horses toward the stables. It was then that he saw Caroline running through the small meadow in the direction he was heading, wet hair flying behind her in wild disarray, her soaking dress clinging to her small form.
That’s when he knew trouble had begun.
He had only been gone from Miramont for two days when she began to take count of the strange occurrences.
Caroline hardly noticed her personal things missing at first, assuming instead that she’d misplaced them—a hairbrush here, a shoe there, even some of her plants pulled from the ground for no reason. But after learning from her new lady’s maid, Miss Gwendolyn Smith-Mayers, that one of the new servants had a child running loose on Miramont’s property and had been seen less than an hour before carrying books as she headed in the direction of the stables, Caroline’s mild curiosity turned to apprehension, and she had to check her things.
What she discovered enraged her. Although her comprehensive notes for breeding her lavender roses remained in place, among her trunks yet to be unpacked she found two items missing—a small book describing the first French botanical gardens established at the University of Montpellier, and her most cherished possession—her notes from Albert Markham’s classroom lectures, which she’d collected with great care over several years and had bound into book form only last May to take with her to America. Someone had stolen them, toying with her for a reason she couldn’t imagine, and Caroline was furious. Without second thought, she found herself racing to the stables.
By the time she reached the restored structure, her chiffon gown was nearly ruined, soaked through with splattered water and mud, but she couldn’t have cared any less. She threw the door open and stomped inside. All was quiet except the pattering of steady rainfall on the roof and one or two rustling horses. Apparently those who cared for the animals had taken shelter elsewhere to await the storm’s end. She’d never been inside Miramont’s stables and she allowed herself a second or two for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.
It was then that she saw the girl.
Curled up in a corner lay the figure of a sleeping chi
ld on a bed of hay. She was a filthy little thing no more than four years of age, dressed in a worn, wrinkled cotton dress. Matted, light-brown hair surrounded what appeared to be a pale but dirty face, and long, dark lashes shaped like half-crescents shadowed the tops of her cheeks.
Beneath the grime, the face of an angel, Caroline thought, until she noticed the paper surrounding the tiny body.
Her books…torn to shreds.
Her breath quickened, and her heart began to pound from pure, focused rage.
Suddenly, as if sensing danger, the girl’s eyes opened, and she scrambled to her feet.
“You little—”
Caroline lunged for her but missed as the slip of a child darted past her with the speed and agility of a fox, racing through the door to freedom.
She righted herself, turning toward the entrance with the determination of a bloodhound on the hunt. But before she put her palm to the wood, it opened wide and in walked her husband with the girl, wiggling fiercely, tucked under his arm like a sack of grain.
Caroline was so shocked to see him that she stopped dead in her tracks, and were it not for the fact that the child clawed at his stomach, she might have forgotten all about her.
They stared at each other, his face drawn and hard, his body wet from rain, his eyes locked with hers in silent communication. She was breathing heavily and definitely looked a sight, but she didn’t care. All the work she had so meticulously compiled during the last five years into her personal book of study was destroyed.
She slumped her shoulders and started to cry.
“What did she do?” he softly asked, lowering the girl to the ground, holding her little arm as she continued to fight him.
Caroline put her face in her hands. “She—she ruined my books, destroyed my notes…” Abruptly she looked up to him in rage. “Get rid of her!”
He took a deep breath. “I can’t do that.”
She just stared at him, incredulous.
“She’s my daughter, Caroline.”
It took several seconds for the words to sink in. Then she was sure she was going to faint for the first time in her life.
“Wh…what?” She grabbed a thick wooden post to keep from falling.
He took another long breath and hugged the girl against his thigh as she slowly calmed beside him. “Her name is Rosalyn. She’s my daughter.”
Caroline sank down on a pile of loose hay, gaping at him, astonished to the core. “I don’t believe you,” she choked in whisper.
“Just look at her, Caroline,” he beseeched.
Slowly she dropped her gaze to the girl. Big, dark-lashed hazel eyes stared straight at her, watching her curiously. She was slightly darker in coloring and her face more oval than square, softer in line. But maybe, in the right lighting…
Then she smiled, and with it came the stunning image of her husband. No two smiles were ever so alike.
Suddenly the child was gone, sprinting through the door like a rabbit on the run.
Caroline felt lost. Her head fell back against the stall behind her as she stared blankly ahead.
For several minutes neither spoke. Even the rain had quieted so that the silence between them was deafening.
Brent knew he needed to say something. She looked so forlorn, so bewildered. Calmly he crouched down beside her.
“She’s not normal, Caroline.”
She turned her head sharply to glare at him, eyes big and shiny black against wet lashes. Her dark, damp hair fell loosely and clung against the pinkness of her cheeks and the creaminess of her neck. Amazingly, with her gown sticking to her body, she looked sexy. Enticing. He’d never known a woman to look enticing when she cried.
“What’s wrong with her?” she finally asked in a thick, broken voice.
He sat on the hay beside her, drawing his legs up to rest his elbows on his knees, lacing a piece of straw through his fingers in front of him.
“She’s…wild. Uncontrollable.”
Caroline scoffed and turned her head. “And illegitimate, I suppose.”
He expelled a long sigh, forgiving her rudeness because he understood exactly what she was feeling. “Her mother is a French courtesan—”
“You’re joking,” she interjected with unbelieving cynicism.
“No, I’m not joking, Caroline,” he returned quietly. “Her name is Christine Dumont, a beautiful, exotic woman from Lyons who made her way through the wealthy inner circles of Napoleon’s court.”
From the corner of his eye he saw her turn to look at him pathetically.
“She first appeared on my doorstep a little over four years ago, by courier if you can believe that, with a note from her mother attached to her blanket. When she arrived in England she was burning with fever, and were it not for Nedda, she surely would have died.”
Caroline lowered her head. “I can’t talk about this now…”
He shifted slightly and turned to her. She stared at the ground again, eyes unblinking, unnaturally still. He knew this would be difficult, and it probably wasn’t the time to delve so deeply into his past, but she had to understand the child and what she was like.
Brent threw the little piece of hay to his side, leaned back, and stared straight ahead. Gravely he whispered, “Rosalyn is sick in the mind, Caroline. She cannot learn and stays with Nedda most of the time. She’s wild, unmanageable, and nothing can ever be done about it.”
Caroline said nothing. She couldn’t find her voice or clear her mind, and truthfully she didn’t care about the girl right now, or her husband’s tainted past. The only image clearly distinguishable through the fog in her head was that of the dream that had almost been hers, now torn to shreds on the floor of the stables by the horribly undisciplined, dirty child who was now her daughter by marriage.
Tears streamed freely down her cheeks once again, and she started to shiver from coldness and shock. He apparently noticed, for he quickly removed his overcoat and placed it around her shoulders.
“Why?” she asked, tormented.
“It’s…complicated—”
“I’m not talking about you!” she shouted, turning to face him. “I’m talking about every man on earth making it so incredibly difficult for a woman to succeed!”
He looked at her as if she were insane. She stood quickly, throwing off his coat. He stood just as fast and grabbed her arm.
“Don’t touch me,” she said with deadly calmness.
He dropped his hand from the sleeve of her gown, his jaw tightening with building anger.
“My life was perfect until I met you, Lord Weymerth. Now everything I’ve ever wanted is gone.”
Sternly he replied, “I think you’re overreacting—”
“Overreacting?” She took a step back, staring at him as if he were diseased. “Do you know what it’s like for a woman who wants to learn? We can’t enroll in classes for an education like a man. The only thing we’re allowed to do, if we come from a decent background, is study grammar and music from governesses so that when we become ladies, we can entertain the men in our lives by writing ridiculous poetry or sitting at the pianoforte for hours at a time.”
She took a step toward him, pointing a finger at her chest. “Well, I was born with a gift, except I also had the little problem of being female. And do you know how women with gifts for unspeakable things like science and mathematics are allowed to learn? We have to sneak the information. Did you know that? We have to sneak it.”
He just looked at her, so she straightened, placed her hands on her hips, and continued in a very subdued voice. “Several years ago, I began attending classes at Oxford University.”
He was noticeably shocked, and that made her laugh.
“That’s right, my darling husband,” she expounded sarcastically. “I began attending classes with the few other daring women who wanted to learn, and do you know where we sat?” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his reply.
After a moment, he softly admitted, “I’ve no idea.”
She stopped her tirade and wiped her cheeks with her fingers. But the motion was futile, for at that moment she glanced back to the shredded paper, and her eyes filled with water again. Within seconds she was sobbing.
“And it’s all right there,” she choked out, pointing to what was left of her work. “Five years of notes I took crouching in the hallways at Oxford University while I tried to learn from the greatest botanist in the world. All right there. All destroyed by a filthy, ill-bred little girl.”
“Caroline—”
“No!” He reached for her, and she backed away, moving to the door. When she opened it she turned to him.
He looked stricken.
“Your sick daughter has destroyed the only thing that has ever mattered to me.” Her voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. “And you have ruined my life.”
“Caroline….”
He reached out in comfort, but she ignored him, running furiously to the safety of the house.
Chapter 7
Caroline sat on the settee in her husband’s study, in front of the fire, waiting for him. She’d been avoiding him for three days, working from dawn till dusk in her flourishing flower garden, her sanctuary, where she invariably turned to escape from the troubles of the world outside.
After three days of despondency, however, she knew it was time for a practical discussion. It was useless to dwell on what she’d lost. Her cherished collection of notes was gone, and she could do nothing about it. But she’d gained a daughter almost overnight, and it was time to address the situation. She was now the mother of a disturbed little girl whose father had created her from an affair with a beautiful French courtesan.