by Jane Goodger
Just like that, Roger felt that thick darkness he had carried with him for so long shift, open, become weightless. It was over. Finally.
Chapter 16
Clara stood before her mirror, a beaming Jeanine next to her, and stared at herself in her wedding gown. It seemed as if everyone were excited about the wedding but her. Once the staff had discovered Nathaniel was a baron, they immediately celebrated the match and forgave the lord for his eccentricities. Imagine, pretending he was a gardener! To think they’d been sitting down at the same table with him, flirting with him, and he’d never given them a clue. And how very romantic that he’d fallen in love with their Clara. They just knew there was something special about him. They were thrilled at the prospect of having such lofty visitors to the house in the future, and celebrated their newfound status as staff for a countess and a baroness—even if neither would be living in the Anderson home.
Clara could hardly credit it, how quickly everyone seemed to accept the fact that their gardener was actually a member of the peerage. It was maddening.
For his part, once he’d gotten her parents’ blessing (she was still seething about how easily they’d given in) Nathaniel had immediately hied himself off to London to take care of the business of cashing in on his treasure; there had even a story in The Times about its discovery and an artist’s rendering of the gem. All these years, Harriet had used it as a paperweight, and Clara had made fun of her for keeping the ugly thing in her room. If not for the fact that Harriet had married a sinfully wealthy earl, Clara might have felt guilty for giving the diamond away. But no one mentioned it. No one cared about anything, it seemed, but for the baron’s declaration of love and his proposal.
In the last three weeks, the banns had been read and the license procured, and Clara had isolated herself in her room, refusing to speak to anyone about anything pertaining to the upcoming nuptials. Yes, it was childish, but Clara was sick and tired of being manipulated into doing things she didn’t want to do. This farce of a wedding was the pinnacle of her mother’s long campaign to marry her to a titled gentleman. Hedra could not be reasoned with. Clara’s tears and pleading went ignored. After one particularly heartfelt talk, her mother had simply smiled and said, “But he loves you. Do you not have a care for him at all?”
Of course, no one could understand the depth, the burning pain of his betrayal. And yes, her pride had been stung and she was fully aware that pride goeth before a fall. It was the one part of the Bible she refused to acknowledge. Every time she recalled her diatribes about class and status, she felt ill. He’d just listened and nodded—sometimes offering a tepid argument—and let her go on and on about how the aristocracy was an outdated concept and one that should be abolished.
Still, it was difficult to ignore his claims of love, made without hesitation and in front of her father. Her mother refused to listen to her when she wondered aloud how a man could claim to love a woman but lie and lie and lie to her.
“He had no choice,” Hedra said, more than once.
Worse still was that she missed him. And hated herself for missing him. And she loved him and hated herself for that too. Since he’d gone to London, she had not seen him alone. The entire family, including Lord Berkley and her sister, had eaten together during one uncomfortable dinner. Nathaniel had sat across from her and stared at her throughout the evening, his eyes assessing and, well, cold. Which made Clara wonder if he loved her at all or if he were simply “paying back” her family for taking the diamond from them.
Gone were the easy smiles, the charming, self-effacing man she’d fallen in love with. In his place was this…this…baron. Ugh. She longed for the Nathaniel she’d fallen in love with, that tanned man with the too-long hair and the work-worn hat. In his place was a man who clearly had a valet, whose hair was carefully cut and neatly combed, whose clothes were impeccable and finely tailored. When he smiled, it never reached his eyes, and when he looked at her, there was none of that burning intensity she used to see. Or perhaps she’d imagined it. Perhaps she’d gotten so caught up in the secrecy of their relationship, the inappropriateness of it, she’d thought she’d seen something she had not.
Now, this very morning, she was about to walk down the aisle and marry a complete stranger. Perhaps not a complete stranger. But she did not know Baron Alford and she was afraid she might not love him as much as she’d loved her gardener.
Clara walked to the window and looked down at their little plot of land, at the roses that were just starting to bloom, at the carefully planned walkway and, in the distance, the hothouse that would give them flowers all next winter. She loved her garden. Laying her hand upon the cool window pane, she swallowed a knot in her throat, wishing she were still that naïve girl who couldn’t wait to walk along those paths and imagine what more they could do to make their garden beautiful. Mr. Smee, she couldn’t help to think, would have been so disappointed in Nathaniel, to know it had all been pretense. All those holes, all that tilling, and none it of it had anything to do with creating beauty or the love of gardening. Another wave of humiliation washed over her. Nathaniel claimed to love her, but how could he? It was far easier to imagine he held her in contempt, a silly country girl with simple pedestrian dreams.
Following the ceremony, they were leaving immediately for London, and then on to Cumbria, with its lakes and deep forests that were so unlike St. Ives. His estate was called Lion’s Gate, and a more pretentious name for an estate she had never heard. Despite his claims of poverty, Clara couldn’t help but think he was exaggerating. Perhaps what constituted poverty for a peer was different from what constituted poverty for ordinary folk.
She would be in charge of a staff, something her finishing school had well prepared her for. Her mother, for all her flaws, had done an admirable job of hiring and supervising the staff, despite her lack of experience. Mrs. Pittsfield had been a large help in that area.
Outside, she heard Harriet’s laughter and felt a sharp twinge. Not only would she miss her sister, but it somehow didn’t seem fair that Harriet would stay in St. Ives while she would be banished to the cold north, just a few hundred miles from Scotland.
“Now, what’s the sad face for, miss?” Jeanine chastised happily. “All brides have the jitters. I expect even I will.”
Now that, Clara didn’t believe for a second. “I’m sure I’ll be fine once the ceremony is over.” And I’m alone with him. In a train compartment. And then later in a hotel room in London. Oh Lord.
Her mother had come to her room the previous night, clearly nervous, and blurted out, “You know what to expect on your wedding night?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Clara said, even though she wasn’t quite sure.
“Good then.” And Hedra had left so quickly, a bit of dust was kicked up from the floor.
The physical part of her marriage was the least of her worries. She had a feeling Nathaniel would put her at ease and be considerate of her. If he could nearly make her swoon from his kisses, she imagined the act of union would be tolerable. It was the rest of her marriage that she worried about.
Before she knew it, Clara was in their carriage on the way to St. Ives Church, horrified that a throng of well-wishers were lining the street. Harriet had been married in Lord Berkley’s tiny chapel with only family and a few friends present—including Harriet’s small group of chums. Clara wasn’t certain how her mother had managed it, but the church was packed with people, including her grandparents, who looked more than a little put out to have been summoned on such short notice to attend their granddaughter’s wedding.
When the wedding party entered the church, her grandmother looked back and immediately stood to make her way to the back, where Clara stood with her sister and matron of honor. Clara watched her progress, struck by how quickly she walked and how tiny she’d become. Her grandmother, like so many older women she knew, was shrinking. She wore black, for the son who had died ten
years earlier, but Clara suspected her damawyn secretly believed she looked good in the color.
“A bit fancy,” she said crossly, looking Clara up and down in her wedding finery, then glancing around the copiously decorated church. Truly, her mother was a miracle worker.
“I couldn’t get married in a pasture, could I, Damawyn? Not to a baron.”
“Your mama says he loves you and that’s all well and good. Answer me up, now, do you love him?”
Clara leaned down to her grandmother’s ear and whispered, “I do, but don’t tell him. I’m still quite cross with him for turning out to be a baron.”
Her grandmother cackled. “He’s an ’ansome enough devil, he is. Back along when I was a girl, he would have turned my ’ead.”
“Damawyn, really,” Clara said in mock horror. “You’re a married woman.”
“And an old one.” She gave Clara a wink “But I’m not bleddy dead yet.” Then her dear grandmother grew serious. “’Tisn’t the worst thing in the world, marrying up like this. Look at ’arriet. She seems happy enough.”
“I’m ecstatic,” said Harriet at her cheeky best.
“I know, Damawyn. It’s just not what I had in mind. But it will all work out in the end.”
Her grandmother gave her a keen look. “Only if you want it to.”
With that cryptic response, she headed back to her seat, where her husband had already nodded off, his head bobbing slightly as he snored.
Nathaniel had always considered himself to be a patient fellow, but it had been three weeks since his proposal—perhaps not the most romantic declaration, but he had proposed in a manner of speaking—and she’d hardly looked his way. She was not going to forgive him and he couldn’t help but think she was being a bit stubborn about it all. What if this was a terrible mistake? What if she wasn’t merely angry but had turned the corner to dislike?
What if she truly didn’t love him?
Her mother, her father, even Harriet had assured him she did, and if she didn’t now, she eventually would, but it was still maddening to wonder.
Nathaniel looked at his reflection with an assessing eye. He was dressed impeccably, with a rich blue cummerbund around his waist, a perfectly tied cravat around his neck. He’d borrowed Lord Berkley’s valet for the day, having sent Mr. Standard on ahead to Lion’s Gate to attempt to get the house in some sort of order and hire a skeleton staff before he presented his new bride. Mr. Standard had been trained as a valet, and for at least a while, he would serve in both that capacity and as butler until all Nathaniel’s finances were in order. Thanks to the diamond, that would soon be resolved. Just three days prior, he’d gotten notification that the diamond had been exquisitely cut and was valued at a fortune. The Times ran a story on it and interest in the stone was reportedly high. Proceeds from the sale would most certainly be enough to pay his debts, get his tenants’ properties in order, and begin repairs to Lion’s Gate. Once the steelworks was up and running, he would have a regular income and could then continue making improvements all around. It was as if an unbearable weight had been lifted from his shoulders. So much so, he hadn’t truly understood the extent of how heavy a load it had been before now. Even as a student, he had been aware of the debt his father was accumulating, of how it would someday be up to him to either rescue his inheritance or let it fall to complete ruin. Restoring not only his family’s name but also its riches had seemed a lost cause, but one that was now within his grasp.
“Shall I trim your hair, my lord?” the valet, Mr. Jamison, asked.
Nathaniel turned his head this way and that, and finally rejected the offer, remembering how Clara had seemed to like running her fingers through his thick, wavy locks. He smiled grimly, wondering if he would ever feel such passion from her again. Surely, he could convince her he loved her and was worthy of her love.
“Nervous, sir?” Mr. Jamison asked.
“I am a bit, to be honest. I suppose when I see my bride walking down the aisle I shall be greatly relieved.”
The valet chuckled and gave his shoulders a final brush before stepping back. “Do you need anything else, my lord?”
“No, Mr. Jamison. And please do again extend my thanks to Lord Berkley for your services.”
Once Mr. Jamison had left, Nathaniel took a deep breath, a bit shocked at how it shook when he released it. He hadn’t been lying about being nervous; he was damned uneasy. Clara hadn’t spared even a smile in his direction since she’d agreed to marry him. It had become rather worrisome. He understood her anger, her hurt. Hell, he was angry at himself for allowing this entire situation to blow up as it had. Telling her he understood, telling her he loved her, seemed to do nothing but remind her of his perfidy. He could think of nothing that would make her understand that he knew he was a cad and unworthy of her. But this particular unworthy cad wanted her anyway.
He was the same fellow she’d kissed behind the shed, the same one who’d touched her, made her come, her body pulsing beneath his hand. She was the same girl who’d seemed to relish his touch, who whimpered when he sucked on her nipples. God, he had to stop thinking such thoughts or he’d been in a rare state when she did walk down the aisle. Yes, he was the same fellow he’d thought had managed to make her fall in love him with; only his clothing had changed.
She had fallen in love with a gardener, but the man she’d become angry with was the lying, manipulative baron. And there was nothing he could do about it.
St. Ives Parish Church had stood overlooking St. Ives Bay for centuries, its tall, square bell tower dominating the village. It had seen births and deaths, baptisms, countless Christmases, and on this day, it was about to see a local girl reluctantly marry a man nearly every girl of marriageable age would have given her eye tooth to marry. That was what Hedra had told her in any case.
Clara looked down the long aisle, bordered by white-painted arches that marched toward the altar awash with a rainbow of colors from the stained glass, a statue of Christ on the cross standing on a thick wooden beam that stretched across the aisle. She would have to walk beneath that statue of suffering, which made her own “suffering” seem rather paltry. The church’s pews were filled to capacity, evidence that her mother likely had had invitations at the ready—or at least a list. Other than for Harriet’s wedding, Clara had never seen her mother so happy. But try as she might, Clara simply could not call up the same enthusiasm.
It wasn’t as if she were marrying an ogre; she’d told herself this countless times in the past three weeks. She was marrying a man she loved—or at least a man she had loved. Did she still love him even though she’d fallen in love with who he was pretending to be? Was he the same man?
Dash it all, why couldn’t he have remained a gardener?
The organist, who had been playing soft hymns, suddenly stopped and Clara’s heart nearly flew out of her body. Oh, goodness, this was it.
Harriet gave her a quick hug and whispered, “He loves you, he does,” before beginning her walk down the aisle, her dramatic bouncing locks marking each step. Clara stifled a sigh.
“You’ll be fine, Clarabelle,” her father said, using the name he’d called her as a child. “I think it’s our turn.”
She gave him a tremulous smile and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. The aisle was long and shadowed between the entry and the stained glass window behind the altar, and with her veil obscuring her vision, she could hardly make out the reverend or Nathaniel, whom she presumed was standing at the end. As she walked, she looked at those who had gathered to see her married, old friends and families she’d known all her life, unable to bring herself to look up. Truthfully, she feared she might see that cold baron and not Nathaniel at all.
Please let him smile at me.
At the end, she turned and her father lifted the veil and beamed a smile at her, silently giving her courage. After kissing her father’s cheek, she turned toward the
reverend, aware that she hadn’t spared Nathaniel a single glace. The reverend looked…odd.
Rev. Baker had been officiating masses at St. Ives Parish Church for as long as Clara could remember and she’d never seen that particular expression on his face before. He darted a quick look toward Nathaniel, then back to her.
Whatever…
Clara turned toward Nathaniel and froze. Her lips trembled and her eyes glazed over with tears. For standing there with her at the altar was not Baron Alford, but her own Mr. Emory, complete with dirty gloves, worn boots, and sweat-stained hat. “Oh.”
Rev. Baker leaned forward. “This is Baron Alford, is it not?” he asked, giving Nathaniel another curious look.
“No, Reverend. This is Mr. Nathaniel Emory, our gardener and the man I fell in love with,” she said, her throat closing on the last word.
And then, Nathaniel did something that made it even more difficult to remain angry. He started to cry. Oh, not copious, unmanly tears, but two tears, one from each eye, furtively escaped down his cheeks. “Shall we?” he asked. He sounded like a baron, yes, but he looked like her dear gardener.
“Yes. We shall.”
Though Nathaniel had warned her that Lion’s Gate was in disrepair and the village neglected for nearly a generation, Clara was still shocked by what they found when the hired carriage pulled up in front of the massive home. It looked completely uninhabitable, with broken windows, moss-covered stones, and a tangle of vines covering the façade. The drive was riddled with weeds, just coming to life after a long, cold winter, and the garden—if one could call it that—was completely unkempt, a hodge-podge of weeds and overgrown plantings that cried for attention.
It was beautiful.
Clara smiled but quickly hid her excitement from her husband. Despite her happiness at seeing him in his gardener’s garb on their wedding day, Clara realized she had not yet forgiven him for lying to her all those months. She did try. Her head was constantly filled with silent urgings to get over it. She couldn’t count how many times she told herself to stop being so stubborn, but every time she looked across and saw Baron Alford instead of Mr. Emory, all the anger came rushing back.