“Come with me,” she said abruptly.
“Why?” Dawn asked, although curiosity got the better of her and she rose to her feet.
“I’ve got something to show you.” Aurora glanced back at Gervaise. “You, too.”
They followed Aurora across the loft to her own tent, where the swaddled baby slept peacefully. He was a good child. They entered carefully, so as not to disturb him, though Aurora seemed unconcerned. She opened the trunk from which she had taken the wedding dress. The trunk which had once been their mother’s, too. She delved deep inside and came up with something wrapped in brown paper and string. She closed the trunk and laid the parcel on the top. Dawn felt unable to look away as her sister untied the string and spread the paper open. Inside lay a tiny child’s gown, heavily embroidered with bright blue, red, and yellow flowers.
Slowly, Dawn reached out and touched it. And she knew. She remembered.
“It was mine,” she whispered. “I wore it in the garden when I met the man. Abe. And he took me away.”
“You were still wearing it when he gave you to us,” Aurora said roughly. “I was seven years old and I remember it clearly.”
“You kept the dress.”
She shrugged. “Ma kept it. When she died, I didn’t have the heart to throw it out. She loved you like you were her own. I hated you for that—sometimes at least—because I knew you weren’t her own. I didn’t always make your life easy, did I, little sister? But somewhere, I always loved you, too.”
Dawn swung on her and hugged her fiercely.
Aurora hugged her back. “I’m giving it to you because it should prove who you are. And I can finally do something that will make your life easier. With him. He might even be worth it.”
“I shall try to be,” Gervaise said quietly.
*
This time, the parting was a happy one. Gervaise did not reveal what bride price he had agreed with Ezra, but it was clearly generous enough to put her adopted father in an excellent mood. He gave her a horse to ride and the whole family came outside to wave them off. The older children ran after them for several yards, calling farewells and good luck messages.
Although it brought a lump to Dawn’s throat, her overwhelming emotion was joy. Never had she expected this outcome when she’d arrived.
They travelled quickly so as to make the castle before dark. But in the slower moments, and when they rested the horses, they talked constantly.
Once, as they let the horses drink from a stream, she found him watching her intently.
She smiled faintly. “What?”
“Did you really think I would leave you after a night or two?”
“It would have given us our liaison with honor.”
He took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. “No, it wouldn’t. And yet still you did it.”
“I would do anything for you,” she said, “I love you.”
Cupping her cheek, he kissed her until the horses grew restive.
“It was not totally selfless,” she admitted as they walked the horses back to the road. “I left you because pride would not let me play second fiddle to your wife. I could not bear to be one of your extra women living in a discreet house in Kensington.”
He blinked. “You make it sound like a harem. I only ever had one mistress set up in such circumstances and our relationship has ended.”
“Why?” she asked curiously. “Did you not love her anymore?”
His smile was twisted. “I didn’t love her enough. Even before I met you, I had come to realize that. My previous passages with lovers of any class have been for fun and they were passionate and affectionate. But never…deep. With you, it is different.”
She hugged his arm to her cheek. “I can’t understand why.”
“If there is a reason, it doesn’t matter.”
“But you might fall out of love with me just as quickly.”
“I might,” he agreed. “But I won’t. And if you fall out of love with me—”
She laughed at the very idea, and he grinned appreciatively before returning to his previous point.
“If you ran away to avoid Kensington, why did you agree to marry me when you were sure I would leave you?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Being without you, I suppose. When I left Blackhaven, it seemed the only solution—oh and I have something to tell you about that—”
“Later,” Gervaise interrupted. “Returning to your family seemed the only solution. What changed?”
She grimaced. “Me. When Jerry came to fetch me from the hut, I heard him outside, and the first thing I thought was that it was you. The disappointment was awful, and the despair…and then when you appeared in the camp…” She swallowed. “I realized I would take anything, whatever crumb you could spare me, because I would need the memory to face the lonely years without you. And because I wanted to make you happy, even if only for a very little.”
Afraid his silence meant he feared for her sanity, she risked a glance at him. He was gazing at her in wonder.
“What did I ever do to inspire such love?” he said huskily.
“Nothing.” She reached up and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You are just you.”
Later, as they galloped across the rugged country, he called, “What was it you were going to tell me about leaving Blackhaven?”
“Oh! Yes, I walked into the town, meaning to talk to Julius Gardyn, only when I got to the hotel, I was no longer convinced it was a good idea.”
“It wasn’t!”
“You’re right. He threw a heavy bowl out of the window at me. If it had hit my head—”
“Dear God.” He pulled on the reins, slowing.
“It didn’t,” she assured him over her shoulder, refusing to slow with him. “It missed me and shattered on the ground.”
He caught up with her again moments later. “Abe is in Blackhaven. We have the dress. It’s time to deal with Gardyn once and for all.”
Chapter Eighteen
Julius Gardyn had been torn whether or not to accept Lady Braithwaite’s invitation to dinner. On the one hand, he loathed jumping whenever his greater, wealthier neighbor called. On the other, only the select few were ever bidden to such an event. To receive an invitation to dinner from her ladyship was really a mark of status. He did not count whoever visited the castle in her absence. Rumor said that lately the Tamars had had all sorts of riff-raff from Julius’s own tenants to the vicar to eloping baronets who probably weren’t baronets at all.
In the end, he accepted, telling himself it was only to please his mother. And by the time he handed her into the hired carriage to drive up to the castle, he was in such a good mood that he didn’t even mind the expense. The trustees of the Gardyn estate had agreed to the eviction of the Benedicts from Haven Hall and to his living there while the legalities of his finally inheriting everything should be dealt with over the next few weeks.
More than that, the Conway girl Braithwaite had been flaunting around Blackhaven had proved to be a fraud. Why else would she have been skulking around the hotel alone in the dark, looking nothing like a Conway or a Gardyn. Save for the damned hair. And now rumor said she had vanished altogether. Gardyn couldn’t wait to taunt Braithwaite about that. Had the young fool really imagined he could frighten or beat him, with a red-blonde girl? Had he expected him to flee before her in shame in case she proved to be Eleanor?
Climbing in after his mother and settling into the carriage, he admitted to himself that there had been a few nasty moments. He still had no idea where Braithwaite had found her, and he did not believe for a moment that the girl was a Conway. There was no denying she looked like a Gardyn. Even his mother had spotted that. She was even about the right age to be Eleanor. But there had been no claim, no proof, only the girl’s provoking presence in the house of his enemy. She had merely been a bad hand that Braithwaite could not play.
And so, Gardyn amused himself by guessing who would be at the countess’s dinner, besides herself
and Braithwaite and the Tamars. The Winslows would be there, inevitably, and probably the wretched vicar, since he had married Wicked Kate Crowmore. There was also a young baron and an old viscount staying at the hotel for the benefit of the waters. He had no doubt that they were acquainted with her ladyship.
Despite his good mood, he could not altogether avoid the sense of resentful inferiority that came over him whenever he arrived at the castle and gazed up at its ancient stone turrets. It had belonged to the same family, quite undeservedly in his view, for hundreds of years. In fact, it had been this outrage with undeserved wealth which had first driven him to politics, to widen the foundations of power. Even then, though, it had been a personal quest for his own power. An ambition he had been close to reaching before Braithwaite had breezed onto the scene, eclipsing everyone with his privilege and his naïve nonsense.
With an effort, he squashed the spurt of ill-feeling and escorted his mother up the steps to the front door. He would have enough fun with Braithwaite tonight.
However, when they reached the magnificent drawing room, it was only Lady Braithwaite who greeted them. A quick glance around the other gathered guests showed him no sign of the earl. Irritatingly, he did see the Benedicts, though he grudgingly admitted their presence did prove the importance of Haven Hall. And there, at the center of an admiring court, was the beautiful young chit the countess had brought to the castle. In Blackhaven, they were taking bets on whether or not Braithwaite would come up to scratch.
“Is Lord Braithwaite not joining us?” Julius’s mother asked bluntly. She liked the earl, could never quite lose her old habits of toadying.
“Later, I hope,” the countess said pleasantly, although Gardyn could have sworn she was furious. “He has been called away on urgent estate business, but he assured me he would be here.” She smiled, though her humor was glacial. “Wretched boy. We shall allow him another fifteen minutes, for otherwise, he will have upset my numbers.”
“Wretched indeed,” Gardyn murmured, escorting his mother to a chair by the fire, where he left her to gossip with the elderly viscount.
Promenading about the room, he exchanged distant bows with Mrs. Benedict, then paused to speak to Winslow, who hailed him heartily. It was a good place to stop, because he could see through the open drawing room doors to the gallery and thus be warned in advance of Braithwaite’s approach. He would be quite disappointed if the earl didn’t appear. It would make the evening somewhat pointless.
“Been meaning to have a word with you, Gardyn,” Winslow said confidentially, taking his arm to urge him a little away from other guests. “We have a gypsy.”
Gardyn blinked. “Do we share him?” he asked caustically.
Winslow laughed in his good-natured way. “Why yes, sort of! I cannot yet be certain, but I think the fellow can shed light upon what happened to Eleanor.”
That swiped his breath away, though fortunately, his reaction did not seem to be out of place, for Winslow patted his arm as though for comfort.
“I know, I know. Rakes it all up again, does it not?”
“I don’t understand,” Gardyn said. “I thought you spoke to all the gypsies passing in the neighborhood at the time.”
“So did we. But if we did, I don’t think we learned the whole truth.”
“What is the truth?” Gardyn demanded. “And where did you find this fellow?”
“I didn’t,” Winslow said. “Braithwaite did.”
“Braithwaite?” Gardyn hoped there wasn’t as much loathing as he felt in his voice. “What business does Braithwaite have with gypsies?”
“Well, we shall have to ask him,” Winslow said vaguely. “I just wanted you to be prepared. And your mother, also. I’m hopeful that if Braithwaite returns tomorrow morning…ah, speak of the devil.”
Gardyn jerked around, and through the drawing room door caught sight of Braithwaite, in riding clothes, and the thrice-wretched Conway girl clinging to his arm. From the opposite direction, three female children launched themselves upon the newcomers with cries of “Cousin! He found you! Oh, well done, Gervaise!”
Blushing and laughing, the girl released the earl’s arm to return the enthusiastic embraces. Over their heads, Braithwaite glanced in the door and met Gardyn’s gaze. There was no determined good nature there any more, far less the plea for friendship which had once amused Julius. Today, his eyes were hard and wintry, his mouth a thin, uncompromising line.
Gardyn had never been remotely afraid of Braithwaite—except, perhaps, of his influence. But at this moment, alarm tugged hard at his stomach. Braithwaite knew something.
But the commotion in the gallery had drawn the countess’s attention. “Braithwaite, you are not dressed!” she scolded him, hurrying across the room to the door where she was brought up short, presumably at the sight of her daughters where they had no business to be. Or perhaps at the sight of “Miss Conway”, who hugged her cloak tightly about her.
“We saw them arrive from the schoolroom window,” one of the children explained apologetically. “Sorry, Mama!” And without further telling, the three girls vanished.
The countess’s back was ramrod straight. Clearly, she had no intention of embracing anyone. “Miss Conway,” she said freezingly.
“No longer,” Braithwaite said, and Julius almost laughed. Presumably the fool had learned she was some actress, or worse, just as Gardyn had always known. “She is my wife. Lady Braithwaite – Lady Braithwaite.”
His effort to lighten the formal introduction fell on deaf ears. Even when the younger woman curtseyed, the older did not move a muscle. Gardyn knew how she felt. Without warning, the bottom was falling out of his world.
If he had married her, he must truly believe her to be Eleanor. How else would she be remotely worthy of his hand? And that, in conjunction with Winslow’s ramblings about the gypsy, was suddenly ominous.
But he would not allow it to be true. He would fight it however he could, and he never, ever gave up.
Braithwaite drew his bride’s hand through his arm and walked past his mother into the drawing room, where everyone was either gawking or moving closer for the purpose.
“Gervaise!” Lady Serena said with relief. “Oh, thank God!”
Braithwaite grinned at her, and then, with easy apology, gestured to his improper dress. “Please forgive us! We were held up but will be with you in half an hour, if my lady mother permits? Please do start dinner without us.”
“Foolish boy,” said the redoubtable dowager. “Of course I permit. I insist, since this is all for you.” Somehow, she had recovered from her shock faster than Julius. Perhaps because she had less to lose. She sailed farther into the drawing room, taking her new daughter-in-law’s free arm. “My son has spoiled my surprise announcement. Of course, my real purpose in inviting you all here tonight was to celebrate his marriage, and to introduce you formally to my new daughter.”
Gardyn could not help admiring her, for it was quite clear to him that she had had no more idea than anyone else that Braithwaite had got married. With two sentences she had squashed any scandal, though there might still be talk. Gardyn did not care.
Braithwaite’s gaze, cold once more, picked him out again. “Might I have a quick word, Gardyn? With you and Mrs. Gardyn. Mr. Winslow?”
Irritated, Gardyn would have loved to walk in the opposite direction, but just as with this boy’s father, he found himself obeying, walking to the fireplace, and escorting his mother from the room. Ably led by Lady Serena, conversation had started back up again. Everyone was delighted, either with events or with the gossip possibilities. All but one white-faced young lady whom Serena kept carefully by her side. The beauty whom Lady Braithwaite had lined up for her son.
Gardyn laughed. “I believe you are in the basket, Braithwaite,” he mocked as he passed the earl at the doorway. The dowager countess, too, was glaring at this fresh hold-up to dinner.
“We shan’t be long,” Braithwaite murmured. “We’ll step down to my office, if you
don’t mind.”
“What’s on your mind, Braithwaite?” Winslow asked, not best pleased as they all trooped downstairs. “Could it not wait until after dinner.”
“No, I don’t think so, sir. Not when a crime is likely to be committed.”
Gardyn’s skin prickled uncomfortably.
“Crime?” Winslow repeated startled. “I thought you were interested in past crimes?”
Damnation, why couldn’t the fool leave things alone? Was this to do with Winslow’s wretched gypsy?
“The matter turns out to involve both past and present.” Braithwaite led the way across the hall toward the back of the house, an area Gardyn couldn’t remember ever being in. It didn’t make him feel better.
Braithwaite opened a door and stood back to allow his new wife and Julius’s mother to enter. The office was substantial, containing two desks, various cabinets, and bookcases. Ledgers and papers were piled on one of the desks. The other, closer to the cheerful fire burning in the grate, was clearer, containing what looked like the earl’s correspondence.
A man sat on one side of the second desk, gazing at them. He was a tall, lean, swarthy individual in a mended coat, with a dirty yellow kerchief tied around his throat. He might have been anywhere between forty and fifty years old. He was almost certainly a gypsy. And beside him stood a burly man who presumably was responsible for keeping him there. Several chairs had been placed around the desk.
“What’s going on, Julius?” his mother demanded. “Why are we here? It’s cold.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Braithwaite said at once, always so damnably civil. “It won’t take long, but I do feel you should be present, too. Sit here, by the fire. This,” he went on, as everyone sat in the chairs provided, “is Mr. Abraham Smith, a travelling Romany, and a horse dealer to trade. He has a story to tell. About a child taken from the garden of her home. If you please, Abe, repeat what you told us on the way up to the castle.”
Abe looked up, not at the earl but at his new countess. That, too, was ominous. Although there was nothing this fellow could say that could not be denied. If it ever came to a gypsy’s word against a Gardyn’s, there was no doubt which would be believed.
The Wicked Gypsy (Blackhaven Brides Book 8) Page 21