Jerome held out his hand to Billy. “Come. You can ride in front of me.”
Their destination was a tiny cottage built of native stone. A shed behind it apparently served as a barn. It was a tidy property far better kept than most tenant farms on Stanmore Acres, but Jerome’s keen eye picked out signs of neglect. The garden needed weeding and the pile of chopped wood was sadly depleted.
He followed Rachel into the cottage, ducking his head beneath the low overhang of the door. The interior was clean and tidy.
A moan came from a man lying in one of the two beds crowded into the room. His breathing was loud and laboured. A thin little girl stood beside him, looking helpless and terrified.
Another child, a boy who looked to be about two, huddled in a corner, sucking his thumb. A cradle with a sleeping baby in it sat near the bed.
The toddler’s eyes were big and frightened as were his older brother’s. Despite little Billy’s best efforts to stem his tears, they were trickling down his cheeks.
Who could blame them for being afraid? These children had already lost one parent and now might be in danger of losing the other. Jerome remembered how scared he had been when, as a child of eleven, his own mother had died.
The girl turned at the sound of their entry. Her face was exhausted and frightened and far too old for seven years. Then she saw Rachel, and her expression of relief was so intense that Jerome was startled. His wife set her leather case down and gathered the little girl into her arms.
The child began to sob. “Please don’t let me pa die and go ‘way like me mum.”
Rachel hugged her. “I shall do everything I can for him, Maggie. Now let me look at him.”
She went over to the man on the bed and felt his forehead. His eyes fluttered open at her touch. She said softly, “I am afraid your fever is very high.”
“Hotter ‘an a fire, he is,” Maggie agreed.
The sick man was suddenly wracked by a fit of harsh, unproductive coughing that made Jerome ache to hear it. He stepped nearer the bed. Although he knew of Taggart, he had never seen him before.
He was about the same age as Jerome, with sandy hair, a square face, sharp nose, and wide mouth. Once he must have been handsome, but illness and anxiety had left their mark in the gauntness of his face and the deep lines chiselled about his eyes and mouth.
Bill blinked at the tall stranger who had suddenly appeared in his home. “Who’re you?” he inquired weakly.
Jerome was acutely conscious of his unshaven face and old stained clothes. The man would think him an impostor if he tried to tell him the truth.
“My husband,” Rachel answered for him. “How long have you been ill?”
The man was coughing again, and Maggie answered, “Three days, but him didn’t take to his bed ‘til yesterday.”
From the easy rapport his wife had with the family, Jerome was certain its members had no idea of her identity
Rachel opened her leather case, selected a bottle filled with a dark, vile looking substance, and removed its cork.
“First, I will give you some of this. It is what worked so well on Maggie.” She gave Taggart two spoonfuls of the concoction. “Now I will make a poultice for your chest to try to ease the congestion. I will need some hot water.”
She looked toward the stone fireplace. The fire was all but extinguished and Jerome, seeing a way to make himself useful, quietly went out to bring in additional wood.
From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw her husband step outside. Surely he did not fear he would contract Taggart’s illness if he remained in the tiny cottage.
When Jerome came back inside, she was surprised to see that he was carrying wood. He knelt beside the fireplace, and carefully coaxed the dying blaze back to life.
She went over to him. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I will be here for some time. You may wish to go back.”
He merely shrugged noncommittally.
Taggart was seized by another fit of coughing that was terrible to hear. The toddler who had been sucking his thumb in the corner began to cry in fright.
Rachel cast a distracted glance in his direction. “Hush now, Tommy.”
Jerome went over to the corner and swept the weeping toddler up in his arms, then he held out a hand to Billy.
“We can be of no help here,” he told them, “and we do not want to get in the way while my wife is trying to make your father better.”
He led both boys outside. Rachel blessed Jerome for his quick, quiet discernment of what would help her most.
When she glanced outside a few minutes later, the two little boys, their worries forgotten for the moment, were in an animated discussion with Jerome, who had dropped down on one knee beside them.
An hour passed, and Bill’s fever began dropping a little. The poultice Rachel had applied to his chest eased his breathing, and he dozed off.
Another half hour passed, and Bill was racked by a fit of deep, hoarse coughing, but at least this time it was productive. Seeing Maggie’s frightened face, Rachel hastened to reassure her that this was actually a good sign.
Bill’s dull eyes opened, and he looked about the cottage. “Where are me boys?”
“Outside with my husband.”
“Me’d like ‘em to come in.”
Rachel went outside but did not immediately see them. She headed toward the shed, drawn by the sound of wood being chopped behind it. One of Bill’s friends, hearing of his illness, must have come by to help out.
As she rounded the corner of the shed, she saw Billy and his little brother sitting on a crude bench.
They were watching a man, silhouetted by the sun, splitting firewood. He was clad only in buckskin breeches, and the light danced on his bare, tanned chest and on his golden hair, damp and curly from the sweat his exertions had raised. The muscles in his powerful arms rippled as he rhythmically swung the axe.
The sight robbed Rachel of her breath. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. The mythological Hercules made of earthly flesh and blood. So stunned was she by this splendid sight that it was a second before she recognized this glorious, golden creature as her husband.
She wondered what her brother Stephen, who would not know one end of an axe from the other, would say to see the duke he regarded as so haughty and condescending chopping wood for a tenant farmer. “I am going to take the boys inside.”
Jerome nodded and strode over to the bench. Rachel could not take her eyes from him as he pulled his shirt on.
He looked up, catching her avid perusal, and grinned. “Still like what you see?” he inquired softly.
She did. Oh, yes, she did. She smiled at him. “Better than ever.” The answering warmth in her husband’s eyes made her heart skip a beat.
Reluctantly tearing her gaze from him, she held out her hand to Tommy. “Come, we must go inside.”
“Me wanta stay with Jer’m,” the toddler said.
“I will take you in.” Jerome swung the boy, who giggled with great glee, up over his head, then settled him on his shoulders for a ride to the house.
Watching them, Rachel could not help smiling. Jerome would make a fine father, she thought with joy in her heart.
She noticed that enough wood had been chopped to provide the Taggarts with cooking fuel for at least a month.
At the door to the cottage, Jerome put Tommy down and, ducking his head, followed him through the low door.
Tommy scampered to his father’s bedside. Bill took the child’s hand. “Where you been, son?”
The child nodded toward Jerome. “With Jer’m.”
Jer’m smiled.
So did Rachel. Although her husband wrapped himself in his ducal consequence when it suited him, he seemed to enjoy himself more when he could shed it.
“Tell pa what Jer’m done,” little Tommy urged Billy.
His older brother said, “Him chopped the wood for us, Pa.”
When Taggart tried to thank Jerome, he said, “I was happy to be of some help.
You look and sound much better than you did a couple of hours ago.”
“Feeling better, too, thanks to yer wife. She cured me Maggie, too, when her was so sick. Me gives thanks to the Lord for sending her to us.”
That did not sound like the godless man Emily Hextable had called him, Rachel thought. But then he was not a lazy lout either, only overburdened.
Bill said bitterly, “Yer wife be so much better ‘an that other one.”
“Other one?” Jerome inquired.
“The high and mighty Miss Hextable. Nobody hereabout can tolerate that one.”
“But she devotes herself to good works,” Jerome protested.
“Good works! Her’d never come inside this cottage with me or me daughter sick as yer wife done. Her’d be too afeard o’ catching it.”
Jerome’s brow knit. “But I understood she called frequently on the sick.”
“And sits in her fancy carriage outside the door. Which is just as well. That way the sick don’t have to listen to her preaching that’d only make ‘em sicker. The day me wife died in childbed, she showed up to tell me how it was God’s will and I should get down on me knees and thank him for his blessings. It was more than me could take. Me told her me wanted nothing to do with her God or her. Called me an ingrate and a heathen, she did.” Bill broke into a pleased smile, “And she ain’t been back since.”
Jerome looked so shocked that Rachel had to bite back a smile. At last, he was hearing about the real Emily.
Bill’s lips curled in contempt. “People hate her coming with her pitiful bit o’ food and expecting to be thanked as though her’d brought a feast. Hear her’s gone off to London now that the duke up and married someone else. Surprised he didn’t marry her. From what me hears o’ him, they’re two o’ a kind.”
Dismayed at the turn the conversation had taken, Rachel opened her mouth to tell Bill the true identity of his visitor, but Jerome gave her a quelling look.
“Ne’er met the duke meself,” Bill continued, “but they say him’s as arrogant and haughty as they come.”
“I have often heard the same,” Jerome said so pleasantly that Rachel had to smother a giggle. He pulled a wooden stool over and sat down beside Taggart’s bed.
Tommy sidled up beside Jerome with a hopeful expression. As he obligingly lifted him on to his lap, the toddler chortled happily.
“Bill, you need help until you are well,” Jerome said. “I know a woman, a widow, who will care for you and the children until you are up and about. I will send her over.”
“Nay, I cannot pay her.”
“She will ask for nothing from you,” Jerome said.
“You mean to pay her yerself,” Taggart guessed. “Tis kind o’ you, but me can’t let you. Me’ll not be able to pay you back.” Bill’s voice turned bitter. “Don’t know how much longer me’ll have this farm. The duke’s bought the land. He won’t care none about crops being bad fer two years. We’re afeard him’ll keep raising our rents like the last owner done.”
“You need not worry. That will not happen.”
“You can’t know that, Mr. Jerm whate’er yer name is.”
“It’s Parnell.”
Bill’s pallor became even more pronounced. “You related to the duke?”
“I am afraid it is worse than that,” Jerome said apologetically. “I am he, but I hope you will not hold that against me.”
Bill’s eyes darted questioningly to Rachel. She gave a little confirming nod of her head. He gulped. “Why didn’t you tell me afore that you’re him?”
Jerome grinned at the sick man. “And ruin my reputation for hauteur and condescension? That would never do! What would people talk about?” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his unshaven chin. “The truth is that between this stubble and the clothes I am wearing, I did not think you would believe me.”
“Yer right on that,” Bill said. “Ne’er heard o’ a duke choppin’ wood ne’ther.”
“I like chopping wood. No doubt,” Jerome added wryly, “because I have the luxury of doing it only when I wish to. Now, Bill, as your landlord, I am telling you that I will send Mrs. Pierce here as well as men to help with the farm until you are back on your feet. You will repay me by getting well.” He took the sick man’s hand in his own and gripped it. “You are the best tenant that I have on Stanmore Acres, and I do not want to lose you.”
Rachel would always remember the look of profound relief on Bill’s face. She suspected that Jerome had just given him better medicine than she ever could by removing the fear that he would lose his farm.
Her love for her husband overflowed her heart, and she smiled proudly at him.
After they returned to Royal Elms, Jerome stopped in the marble hall to look through the letters the day’s post had brought while Rachel went upstairs. On top was the first report from Neville Griffin, the investigator Jerome had hired to look into Stephen’s disappearance. He scanned it, then hurried up the steps to his wife’s bedchamber.
When he told her that he had received it, she asked eagerly whether he had learned anything new.
“Yes, but I fear it only adds to the puzzle,” Jerome said with a frown. “Contrary to the letter from the captain of The Betsy that your uncle received, Stephen did sail from Calais to Dover on that ship. They interviewed several of The Betsy’s officers and sailors who all swear that he was aboard during the voyage across the channel.”
“Then why did the captain write us that letter?”
“I do not know. He is now the captain of another ship that is presently at sea. Griffin will not be able to question him until he returns, but I suspect that the captain may have had something to do with Stephen’s disappearance.”
“But if Stephen returned to England, what happened to him?”
“Sailors from The Betsy and several other ships that were docked at Dover that night report seeing a man matching Stephen’s description seized and impressed aboard a British frigate, The Sea Falcon. It, too, is currently at sea on a voyage to the Americas.”
His wife’s lovely face was suddenly alight with joy. “But that means Stephen is still alive! That’s wonderful!” Her voice faltered at Jerome’s expression. “Why do you look so grim?”
“Not many men survive impressment.” Especially not when they had led as pampered a life as Stephen had.
“But perhaps my brother was able to convince them of his real identity”
Jerome hated to have to deflate her excitement and happiness, but it would be even crueller to build her hopes in vain. He said quietly, “If that were the case, Stephen would have been home by now. I am sorry, my sweet.”
He pulled her into his arms and held her against him, offering her the comfort of his body.
“I know he is still alive,” she cried. “I know it!”
Jerome had drawn exactly the opposite conclusion from the report and had expected her to do the same.
“Did the report say anything else?”
“No.” Jerome did not tell her about the second investigation that he had ordered, the one into Sophia Wingate’s background. Griffin had written that he had not yet been able to turn up anything about her.
“I am so grateful to you for doing this for me.” Rachel arched her head back and looked up at her husband with a dazzling, dimpled smile that he found irresistible.
He bent his head to capture her mouth in a long, erotic kiss that left them both panting. Her hands began unbuttoning his shirt. It was all the invitation he needed.
Later, when she came to shuddering satisfaction in his arms, she cried in that warm, honey voice, “I love you. I love you so much.”
Jerome thrilled at hearing her say it. He even believed her. So long as he could keep her at Royal Elms, away from London and its determined rakes, she would be safely his.
Although he was not such a fool that he would let himself love her in return, she had become very important to him. In fact, it scared him a little at how important. Not that he would admit that to her. He
would not give such a beautiful woman that power over him.
Jerome lay on his back beside a clear blue stream that twisted and burbled through the floor of a narrow, secluded vale. The spreading, drooping branches of an alder shaded him while he watched his wife wading happily in the creek.
When he had first shown Rachel this spot, she had fallen in love with it. This afternoon, she had coaxed him into returning with her for a picnic.
He reflected that his self-discipline had gone to hell since he had married her
And he did not care.
Jerome thought about their visit to the Taggarts’ cottage that morning. It had been quite unlike any other morning he had ever spent. Although he had always been generous to those who needed help, all of his contributions in the past had been through intermediaries—his hirelings or the parish—and much of it had been anonymous donations.
His visit to the Taggarts was the first time he had helped people directly, had become involved in their lives, and he was surprised by how happy and satisfied that had made him feel.
He remembered the admiring smile that Rachel had given him as they left the Taggarts. It had warmed Jerome to the darkest corners of his soul.
Yes, he thought happily, he was as content and at peace with the world as he could ever remember being.
He turned to watch his wife splashing about in the stream. What a remarkable creature she was.
Desire for her surged through him, and he thought about making love to her here. Would it be private enough?
He propped himself on one elbow and scanned the hillside above them. Sunlight glinted on something extending from a rock outcropping at the edge of a cluster of two oaks, halfway up the hill.
As he watched, the object fluttered about. Puzzled, Jerome stared at it, trying to determine what it could be. It was long and narrow like a stick, but a stick would not glitter in the sunlight. Then he caught a glimpse of a man’s head at the end of it.
And, in a heartstopping flash, he knew what it was. A musket barrel.
And it was aimed at Rachel playing in the creek. Reacting instinctively, without conscious thought, Jerome catapulted to his feet. From the bank of the stream, he launched himself at his wife in a flying tackle. The sound of a shot shattered the idyllic quiet of the vale a split second before he and Rachel went crashing down into the shallow creek.
Midnight Bride Page 25