“Sit down, dear girl,” Dora said with a vague smile. “Find something to read to pass the time.”
Laura bit her lip. “Very well, but I have no intention of spending winter here.”
“No. Of course not,” Dora said. “Winter is some weeks away.”
Somehow that did not offer Laura any sense of comfort. Why had Nathaniel not contacted her? She thought again of Dora’s Tarot cards.
Desperate for something to do, Laura began an unfinished linen sampler she’d found in a workbox, the birds and flowers yet to do. Because of her impatient nature, she found sewing tedious, and it did not quell her anxiety about Nathaniel, although it did keep her hands busy. Gold, green, black, magenta, dark brown and copper silks decorated the meandering border entwined with the family initials. There was an autumnal scene at its center, beautifully stitched, an elegantly dressed lady in blue standing among trees, a house and a church in the background.
Two days later, the embroidery had failed to soothe Laura’s mind, and after hours of work, with all the flowers completed but the birds yet to do, she threw the sampler down. She roamed the patterned carpet from one end of the room to the other, turning with a swish of her gown.
“My goodness. You’re like an African lion I saw at the London zoo,” Aunt Dora observed.
Laura sank onto the sofa beside her. “I can’t help fearing something’s wrong at Wolfram. I haven’t received a reply to my telegram.”
Dora cast her a guilty glance. “But you sent it only two days ago.”
“Telegrams are supposed to be quick.”
“I’ve worried you.” Dora looked upset. “I consulted my cards again this morning. I didn’t find anything to concern you in the reading.”
“If I could only hear from him. The telegram might not have been delivered. I’ll ride to the post office and inquire.”
“Very well. Perhaps the fresh air will do you good.”
On the way to the post office, Laura called in at the vicarage. Her growing curiosity banished any reservation concerning Nathaniel’s mother. Dora would approve. This time the vicar was at home. He smoothed his thinning gray hair and apologized for not calling on her. There had been an epidemic of whooping cough in the village environs, which had claimed several small lives.
“How sad. Is there anything I can do?” Laura asked.
“Thank you, my lady. I believe we are at the end of it, God willing.”
“That is good news at least.” Laura hesitated, aware her request was badly timed and would likely sound odd. “My husband’s mother, Olivia, is buried here. I am curious about her. Did you know her?”
“Not well. Her ladyship had married when I came here. I met her at the end of her life. She suffered greatly, poor lady. And her baby, who was born too early, did not survive, of course.”
“I’m sorry to hear that she suffered,” Laura said, fighting to mask her shock.
He stroked his chin. “His lordship’s grandparents were good people. They took their daughter in and cared for her until she died. Many would not have done so.”
“I believe they were.” To admit she knew so little would be an insult to Nathaniel and might become known in the village. The villagers had already shown considerable interest in her, the men removing their hats and bowing, the women bobbing a greeting in the street.
“Is your stay here a long one, Lady Lanyon? The church ladies’ committee has expressed a wish to meet you.”
“Only a few more days, Mr. Maudling. But I should be delighted to receive the ladies. Shall we make it afternoon tea tomorrow at two?”
He smiled. “They will be most gratified. I shall relay your message. Is there some other way in which I might be of help?”
“Thank you, Mr. Maudling, but no.” The sky beyond the window had grown dark and threatening. “I’d best hurry. It appears to be about to rain.”
There was no reply awaiting her at the post office. Riding back to the house, the dark clouds fulfilled their promise and opened with a deluge. When Laura arrived home, her habit was soaked through, and she ran straight up to her bedroom to change.
When she came down again, she found her aunt in her usual chair in the library. “This is a cold house, Laura.”
“I’m sorry you’re cold. Are you miserable here? I gave instructions only to light fires in rooms we use.”
When she told her aunt the news, Dora nodded sagely. “The question I asked about Nathaniel’s mother revealed much suffering.”
Laura sneezed.
“Come closer to the fire, child. You should not have been out riding in this weather. You might have caught a chill.”
Laura took a chair by the fire, sighing as warmth spread through her cold limbs. “Why would Nathaniel’s father cast his wife out?”
Dora tilted her head. “The baby wasn’t his?”
“That’s the logical explanation, but if not his, then I wonder whose it was. It still would have been Nathaniel’s brother or sister.” She sighed. “How could his father be sure? He might have been wrong.”
“Don’t be naïve, darling girl. Of course he would have known. Some men might turn a blind eye and bring the child up as their own, once an heir had been produced. Apparently, he wasn’t one of them.”
A smile tugged the corner of Laura’s mouth. What would her spinster aunt know of such things? Her smile faded at the thought of the woman whose life was mapped out in the paintings in the gallery. Her death had denied Nathaniel a happy childhood. Laura’s head began to throb, and lights danced before her eyes. “I think I’ll lie down for a while.”
Dora’s eyes widened. “Lie down in the daytime? I do hope you haven’t caught a chill.” She sat up. “Might you be pregnant?”
“This seems very much like a cold. I’ve not been sleeping well of late.”
“You have been disturbed by something or other since you arrived from Cornwall,” Dora scolded.
Laura climbed the stairs, her legs leaden. It was probably only worry about Nathaniel. What could have prevented him from answering her telegram?
***
The storm had battered Wolfram for four days, flooding the roads and cutting off Wolfram Village from Penzance. The gale-force winds uprooted an old oak on the village green. Horizontal rain pelted anyone who had the courage or the necessity to leave their homes. In oilskins, Nathaniel worked beside Hugh and the farm workers, tying down sheeting to cover bales of hay and shepherding livestock into the shelter of barns and stables. They returned to the abbey for a hot meal to find a man from the village with terrible news: a ship had foundered on the rocks.
Snatching up his telescope from the study, Nathaniel raced up into the tower with Hugh behind him. Leaning over the stone parapet, he located the three-masted vessel in danger of breaking up, battered ruthlessly by the mountainous waves.
“There are men still on board,” Nathaniel yelled above the roar of the wind and sea. He wiped the end of his telescope. “They’re trying to launch a rowing boat. They’ll never succeed. We’ll have to get out there. Are you up for it?”
“I’ll say.”
“Ask for volunteers in the village,” Nathaniel called as they ran back down the winding stairs. “Find a fisherman prepared to take his boat out.”
Hugh gave a grim nod. “I’ll see you at the wharf.”
Nathaniel thanked God for Hugh. He was a fine man and a great asset to Wolfram. Since Mallory’s death, he feared he’d leave for a more attractive position that a man of his capabilities would have no difficulty finding, but so far, he had stayed. Nathaniel had been tempted to confess his fears concerning Amanda to Hugh, things which he’d never told another soul, but in the end, he thought better of it.
At the dock, two men joined them on the small fishing boat. They headed out to the foundering ship. The precipitous waves were filled with floating boxes, ropes and debris, while the men still on board the sinking vessel struggled to stack the rowboat lashed to the side with their goods.
“Wha
t the devil? They’ll go down. Greedy to the end,” Nathaniel cried, his words caught by the roar and flung away. A man’s body floated by them. Nathaniel reached down to grab him, but he disappeared beneath the surging waves.
Hugh shook his head. “He’s gone.”
They reached the boat as, with a thunderous crack, a mast fell across the deck, pinning a man beneath it.
“I’ll go and get him,” Nathaniel shouted.
“No, milord! It’s too dangerous,” Hugh yelled.
“Tie a rope around me. Give me plenty of slack.”
The last of the crew clambered over the side into their rowboat, which rode perilously low in the water.
Nathaniel peeled off his slicker. “Get those men on board before their rowboat goes under.”
He dove into the swirling waters, a sturdy rope tied around his waist. A wave broke over his head, sending him rushing toward the bottom. Lungs bursting, he kicked his way to the surface and was immediately swept away, as the men gave him slack on the rope. Another wave hit him, slamming a floating bucket into his shoulder. It took every ounce of his strength to keep his head above water as he swam to the stricken ship. The waves dragged him toward the prow and banged him against the side. He grabbed a dangling rope and heaved himself slowly aboard, lashed by the waves.
As he fought to gain his feet, the ship gave a groan, and the bow dipped into the sea. The waves broke over the deck, flooding the timber beneath Nathaniel’s feet. He held on as the wind howled around him. The bow rose again, sending him sliding over the tilting, slippery planks. He reached the man, who still lived, wedged beneath the mast. The boat shuddered and another mast fell, missing Nathaniel by a foot. The sudden jerk caused the mast to roll off the man’s legs. Salt spray stung Nathaniel’s eyes, threatening to blind him. He swiped at them with his forearm, then hauled the injured man to the side, diving overboard with him, as the ship, with another mighty groan, slid beneath the sea.
Chapter Twenty-Four
With a grunt of effort, Nathaniel held the injured man afloat as Hugh and the fishermen dragged the fellow on board. In the rough swell, Nathaniel hung on, his strength failing as he waited for his turn to be pulled aboard. He had come close to death before; it wasn’t a new experience, but this time had special significance. This could be a second chance for his marriage and his life. The smugglers were finished; after this, they couldn’t start their business again. And as his life and his past mistakes swept before his eyes, he vowed he would make Laura happy.
A huge wave broke over him, sending him spinning away from the boat. The rope snapped. Nathaniel, salty brine filling his throat, sank into the depths. Thoughts of becoming another victim of Davy Jones’ Locker made him kick violently.
When he resurfaced gasping for air, the fishing boat had drifted farther away. Finding himself closer to an outcrop of rocks within sight of the shore, Nathaniel fought to keep his head above water and swam toward them, aided by the strong tide. It would take all of his boyhood skills to climb high enough up the green-tinged granite slopes to rest before striking out again. If he couldn’t rest, in his exhausted state, he knew he would never make it.
***
Laura slept deeply on and off for what seemed like weeks. Whenever she opened her eyes, she saw her worried aunt beside the bed. Her limbs ached and her head pounded.
When the drowsiness left her, she pushed herself up on the pillows, surprised at how weak she’d become.
“You’ve been sick for three days,” Dora said. “I was tempted to send for your mother.”
Laura eyed her with a frown. “I hope you didn’t.”
“No. There was some concern that you might have contracted whooping cough.” Dora hovered over her with a bowl of broth, waiting to feed her. “I’m so relieved you’re back with us.”
“I can manage, thank you.” The beef soup was tasty, but she had little appetite. She put down the spoon and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “I’m sorry I worried you. Has a telegram come?”
Dora smiled. “Yesterday.” She took the telegram from her pocket.
Laura anxiously read it. “Nathaniel’s well, thank God. He says he’s been busy working with the police. He makes no mention of my coming home.” And no word that he loved or missed her.
“You can’t expect much from a telegram,” Dora said soothingly. “At least he’s all right.”
He was all right. With a deep, gratifying sigh, Laura threw back the bedclothes. “I shall get up today.”
Dora frowned. “Are you sure you should?”
“I’m much better. Send the maid in, will you please?”
An hour later, upon entering the library, Laura caught sight of Dora tucking papers under a cushion. Her aunt looked up with a guilty expression.
“What have you there, Aunt Dora?”
Dora retrieved a bundle of letters and handed them to her. “I decided to wait until you were stronger before I showed you these.” She shrugged. “While you were sick, I searched the attics.”
“You went up to the attics? It seems I can’t leave you alone for a minute before you busy yourself with something you ought not.” Laura’s fascinated gaze settled on the letters, spotted with age and tied up with a faded blue ribbon. She held out her hands, and her aunt deposited the bundle into them. “I suppose you’ve been frightfully bored.”
“Au contraire. I am never bored in my own company. But I haven’t read them,” Dora said with quiet dignity.
Laura sat and patted her aunt’s knee. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit bad tempered. But certainly curious. Shall we read these together?”
Dora’s eyes brightened. “I’ll ring for tea.”
As they nibbled mustard and cress sandwiches and drank their tea, Laura opened each letter, smoothing out the fragile paper.
“They are love letters to Nathaniel’s mother, Olivia, from someone who signs himself, Your loving protector.”
“He did little to protect her at the end,” Dora said wryly.
Laura folded them. “I’m not going to read them.”
Dora looked disappointed. “Oh, why not?”
“I know they appeal to the poet in you, Dora, but I’m… Wait a moment.” Laura examined a plain white envelope. “This one is from Nathaniel’s father, Lord Lanyon.”
Dora moved closer. “What does it say?”
Laura read quickly. “It’s as we feared. He refuses to acknowledge the child as his.” She read down. “He accuses Olivia of debasing herself and the Lanyon name with the steward at Wolfram. He writes that she broke his heart, and that he will never set eyes on her again.” Tears blurred Laura’s vision. “How sad.”
“Men!” Dora huffed.
Laura folded the letter, added it to the rest and retied the blue ribbon. “Although he was a boy, Nathaniel must have heard something of this. It would have been a bitter, lonely time for him.”
“Will you tell him you know?”
“I cannot.” Laura handed the letters to Dora. “You must return these to where you found them.”
“But surely this needs to be discussed between you.”
“I hope it will be someday. Right now, it’s enough to know.”
Laura now understood some of what made Nathaniel behave the way he did. No wonder he found trust and intimacy difficult, especially after the rumors concerning Amanda and Mallory. He was more open with his dogs and horses than with Laura.
“The rumors about Nathaniel’s first wife and her affair with the gardener is like history repeating itself,” Dora said. “It would be doubly hard for him.”
“Yes, even if they weren’t true. Poor Nathaniel. So much sadness in his life.”
Dora raised her brows. “How do you know they weren’t true?”
“Cilla didn’t believe it.”
“How could she be sure?”
Laura pulled the shawl closer around her shoulders. “She was Amanda’s friend and confidant.”
“But might Amanda have lied to her?”
“Dora, do stop this. It is not going to help anyone.”
“What do you intend to do?”
Laura stood. “We shall return to London tomorrow.”
“I forgot to tell you. The ladies from the church committee called to see you while you were ill.”
“Oh, dear, I did invite them. I’ll write and apologize, donate to the church fête. Really, Dora, this house should be lived in by someone who can involve themselves in village affairs. I shall ask Nathaniel to sell it.”
“I quite agree. Before we do,” Dora said, “I want to show you something else I found in one of the larger bedchambers while you were sleeping.”
Laura followed her cryptic aunt up the stairs. They entered an airy bedchamber. “There!” Dora said triumphantly.
During her inspection of the house, Laura hadn’t entered this room. It smelled musty, and the furniture was covered in dust sheets. A portrait in a gilt frame hung on the far wall. A lady with a calm, attractive face sat with a small dog perched on her knee, dressed in the fashion of the last century. Painted by a well-known artist, the folds of her rose-patterned damask gown were so cleverly wrought they looked almost real. Her auburn hair was arranged in ringlets at her nape. She had a strong face, with a long nose, a generous mouth and a whimsical expression in her eyes.
“I think I would have liked her,” Laura said.
“There’s something about her which reminds me of you, not in looks, but in spirit,” Dora said.
“She looks more serene than I,” Laura said with a laugh. She suspected Dora was becoming overly sentimental. She gazed fondly at her aunt. Had she worried her terribly? “Nathaniel told me Olivia’s mother had red hair. There are other paintings of Lady Charlotte here, but nothing quite this detailed.” Laura studied the woman’s face for features like her grandson’s. She found it in the brow and high cheekbones. She touched the painted canvas as if she might connect with the woman who died so long ago. “Nathaniel was fond of her.”
Dora’s eyes shone. “There you are then.”
“She took care of her daughter until she passed away, despite the scandal.”
The Baron's Wife Page 20