My Enemy, My Heart (The Ashford Chronicles)

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  But sometimes she was content, even happy within the circle of Phoebe and her daughters’ warmth. Juliet made her laugh. Chloe understood Deirdre’s need for movement and fresh air, and Phoebe was endlessly patient and thoughtful.

  This matter of the Christmas fete, however, dragged up all Deirdre’s restlessness.

  “The Trillings will help us set up for the fete on Monday,” Phoebe was saying. She looked at Deirdre. “You have been hiding away so much, you haven’t yet met Alicia, Mrs. Trilling. She is my oldest friend here in England.”

  “And her eldest daughter is a cat,” Chloe announced.

  “That isn’t nice, Chloe,” Phoebe admonished her.

  “I have failed in my duties to teach her this, my lady,” Miss Pruitt murmured.

  “Amelia,” Chloe drawled, “wanted to be Lady Ripon.”

  “I heard that she had a temper tantrum when Kieran got engaged to Joanna.”

  “Imagine the hysterics she must have had when she learned he married Deirdre.” Chloe’s eyes danced. “Perhaps that is why she has not yet come to call.”

  “She has been visiting her grandparents in Hampshire,” Phoebe said. “But she will be here along with Jane.”

  “Jane is her younger sister,” Juliet said. “She is Chloe’s age and exceedingly kind and pretty.”

  “Amelia is a lovely girl, too,” Phoebe said.

  “Of which she is well aware,” Chloe grumbled. “Perhaps I can find a way for you to carry your stiletto before Monday, Deirdre. You may need it.”

  Miss Amelia Trilling didn’t look like a formidable opponent, Deirdre decided upon having the young woman presented to her. She was nearly as tiny as Phoebe, with huge cornflower-blue eyes, hair the color of sunshine, and a flawless complexion as pale and smooth as fresh cream.

  Deirdre became all too aware of her height, her changing figure, and an odd rosiness that had taken over her skin in recent days. She also reminded herself that she was the second lady of the manor. However uncomfortable she found that position, others envied her for it.

  Amelia gave her a languid hand and a bored glance before moving on to gush over Phoebe’s latest painting hanging in the gallery. Later, when Deirdre found herself alone with Amelia as they covered a table with a linen cloth and ribbon rosettes, Amelia unsheathed her claws. “I heard that Lord Ripon had married.” She sounded as though she were about to yawn. “At first I thought it a jest. Now that I have met you, I see that it must be.”

  Deirdre wondered if she could shove the rosette pin into Amelia’s hand instead of the tablecloth. She simply had no idea how to respond to female games like the one Amelia apparently wanted to play. She glanced around, hoping for assistance, and caught Chloe’s eye.

  Chloe dropped her bough of holly and sauntered over to the table. “That is a lovely gown you are wearing, Amelia. But do you not have a matching cap?”

  “A cap?” Amelia lost her languid air. “For what would I need a cap?”

  Chloe shrugged. “It is only proper that you wear a cap once you are declared on the shelf.”

  That broadside struck home. Deirdre witnessed the hit in the way Amelia’s shoulders went back, her chin up.

  “I am not much older than you,” Amelia declared. “That is scarcely on the shelf.”

  “Oh.” Chloe laughed. “And here I didn’t think you were Kieran’s age. I beg your pardon. Deirdre, I never told you this morning how pretty you look in that pelisse.”

  Amelia sniffed. “It’s pink. It clashes with her hair.”

  “I thought so myself.” Deirdre managed a smile. “But the Ashford ladies and Miss Pruitt disagreed with me, and you know how formidable they are.”

  “They lied to you, my dear lady.” Amelia sighed so loudly, it was nearly a groan. “Revenge, you know, for Kieran feeling he needed to give you the protection of his name to bring you back here.” Her gaze swept Deirdre’s body. “If that was why he felt obligated to marry you.”

  Deirdre felt her flush deepen and the front of her gown and pelisse cling to her no longer perfectly flat stomach. She also saw Amelia’s gaze sharpen as a giggle escaped her lips.

  “I do believe Miss Pruitt needs my assistance with that holly you abandoned, Lady Chloe.” Amelia danced away.

  Deirdre met Chloe’s eyes. “I gave it away, didn’t I?”

  “The fate of a redhead.” Chloe sounded cheerful. “You blushed. But nothing shows, and since you got married over three months ago, no one will have cause to question your virtue.”

  Deirdre bent to her task of affixing rosettes to the tablecloth. “She said that my marriage to Kieran must be a jest. How do I respond to something like that?”

  “You use your left hand for tasks so she can see your wedding ring. Here, do you need to sit down?”

  Deirdre glanced around the long chamber now filled with fashionable ladies from ages ten to sixty, chattering, laughing, giving one another instructions, and casting curious glances Deirdre’s way.

  She shook her head. “If I go all over faint or ill now, the cat will be out of the bag.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward Chloe under the pretext of straightening the cloth. “But what about tomorrow?”

  “All arranged. I will receive an urgent message that Mrs. Barnes needs me for her youngest two, who do have the grippe at the moment, and you will be too worn from today to work in a hot kitchen.”

  “And give the truth of my condition away to everyone.”

  “That will just be the family and the—oh, I understand. The Trillings will be there.” Chloe propped her chin on her fist for a moment, then shrugged. “What does it matter if everyone knows? You are right and properly married to my brother, and he adores you.”

  Deirdre swallowed against the sudden and unnecessary lump in her throat. “Is that why I scarcely get a word from him while he’s dancing attendance on the London ladies?”

  “He never takes his eyes off you,” Chloe said.

  Deirdre snorted. “I don’t believe devotion has anything to do with his watchfulness.”

  “You’ll see I am right.” Chloe squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “His last letter says he will be home by Christmas Eve. Now come help me with the holly. Amelia is making a muck of it.” She raised her voice. “It needs to be higher so the little ones do not try to eat the berries.”

  Sticking close to Chloe’s side, Deirdre managed to survive the day of female gossip and sidelong glances. She discovered that she liked Jane Trilling, who was even prettier than her sister and far more sweet-natured. She said little, but laughed a great deal. When she took out her embroidery over a late nuncheon of tea, sandwiches, and cake, the way she sought Phoebe’s approval touched a chord in Deirdre that brought the ready lump back to her throat.

  She was the kind of daughter-in-law Phoebe deserved—petite, pretty, accomplished in the feminine arts. Not a great gawk like Deirdre, who looked better in breeches than gowns, who couldn’t knit a row or sew a seam straight. A daughter-in-law who intended to betray her.

  After refreshments, Deirdre wanted to sleep. She didn’t dare ask to be excused, though, so stumbled back to the gallery and began sorting scarves and embroidered handkerchiefs to give away to the children and their mothers. Others set out small toys, and Chloe and Jane Trilling practiced a Christmas pageant some of the children would perform. Jane played the pianoforte and sang beautifully. If Kieran had gotten engaged to Jane, or even Amelia, he never would have found himself in a pickle over Joanna, never would have been sent to sea, never would have brought the enemy home as his bride.

  The need to move, to take a brisk walk along the gallery surged through her, and she stood too quickly. Dizziness overwhelmed her, and she sank to her knees, head down. At once, half a dozen females surrounded her, twittering, questioning, giving her speculative glances.

  She wanted to simply crawl under the table and hide.

  “How long have they been married?” Amelia asked sotto voce.

  “Three and a half months,” Chloe snapped.
She offered Deirdre her hand. “Come along. You look worn to a shade from meeting all these people at once.”

  Willingly, Deirdre let Chloe lead her from the gallery and up the stairs to the second floor. She had to pause on the landing and blink away spots before her eyes.

  “Are you ill?” Chloe asked.

  Deirdre shook her head—a bad idea. “I stood up too quickly, and everything went spinning.” She leaned against the cool, plastered stone wall. “Nothing like making an announcement to the world.”

  “What does it matter? You have been married well long enough, especially since you are not showing in the least.”

  “But I am.”

  When they reached Deirdre’s room, she took off her pelisse and pulled her gown tight. “Look.”

  Chloe shook her head. “I do not notice anything. But, Deirdre . . .” She gnawed her lip for a moment, studying Deirdre with a grave expression. “Does this not make you happy? I mean, Mama told us nothing is more joyful than providing your husband with a child.”

  “I’m an unnatural female, you know that. I rarely considered that I’d marry, let alone provide a man with a baby.”

  “Why ever not?” Chloe perched on the edge of the bed.

  Deirdre smiled. “I spent a year on land. The married ladies all looked so bored.”

  “Mama never seems bored. But I think I understand. I would be a lunatic if all I did was gossip and embroider all day. Kieran will not expect that of you either since he knows how you grew up.”

  “He does expect that of me. That’s why I am this way.” Deirdre pressed both hands to the definite thickness below her waist. “He seemed truly happy about it at first, but I’m not sure that he is now that he seems to have been accepted back into society.” She sank onto her chaise. “If I weren’t an American and our countries weren’t at war, maybe things would be different. Now, though, it’s an inconvenience for both of us. The marriage can’t be set aside without an act of Parliament, and either I get my men out of Dartmoor before I do start to stick out, or they’ll have to wait until afterward, and that’s months off. I wish I could be happy and the right kind of wife and daughter-in-law, but I’m not and never can be like Jane.”

  “Jane? You are jealous of Jane Trilling?” Chloe looked shocked.

  Deirdre startled. “Of course I’m not jealous of Jane or Amelia or anyone else. Why would I be?”

  She had to want her husband’s regard at the least to envy another female’s beauty and talents. Right then, weighed down by anxiety for her crew and Kieran’s determination to keep her away from her crew, she doubted she could want him to so much as like her. A disgust of her would keep him away once he returned to Devonshire, and that suited her plans best, even if his indifference toward anything about her other than her good behavior left her hollow.

  “I’ve been jealous of some men for their greater strength and freedom of movement in port,” Deirdre plunged on, “but never of another woman.”

  Except, to be honest with herself, she did envy the Trilling ladies for their poise and beauty.

  “Deirdre, you are far prettier, and Kieran chose you.”

  “He felt obligated.”

  “Did he”—Chloe blushed—“take advantage of you before he married you?”

  “Not in the least.”

  Unless kissing her until she lost her good sense counted.

  “Well, then, he was not obligated. He made a choice, and, my dear sister-in-law, Kieran does nothing he does not want to do.” Chloe stood. “I must return and shut up that cat Amelia. You get rested up for tomorrow.”

  Deirdre slept for several hours. After she woke and ate the light supper Sally brought up to her, she lay in bed with her hands on her belly and, in the dark emptiness of the night, found herself, for the most fleeting of moments, wishing she were more like Phoebe and happy to be presenting her husband with his heir. How pleasant would life be if Kieran gazed at her as Tyne did Phoebe? Would she feel so empty and restless if she and Kieran created children from love and not merely mutual passion?

  That was a fantasy she couldn’t afford to dwell upon. That was for other females, ones without the lives of eleven men on their consciences.

  With that thought, she rose at dawn, dressed, then made a show of merely picking at her breakfast.

  “You still aren’t feeling well, my dear?” Phoebe asked.

  Deirdre shook her head. “I’m so tired.”

  “Amelia was beastly to her,” Juliet pronounced. “She is so jealous Kieran never even looked at her she could probably pull out your hair, which is prettier than her boring blond.”

  “Juliet,” Phoebe cautioned, “don’t you be mean, too.”

  “But she said the most horrid things about Deirdre.” Juliet pinched up her face. “She said, ‘I hope it is a girl so the succession is secure when he does get a son and can be sure it is his.’”

  Chloe’s cup clattered into its saucer. “She never dared say such a thing in front of everyone.”

  “That is precisely what she said,” Juliet insisted. “And in front of everyone.”

  Phoebe sighed. “I’m afraid she did. In a whisper, of course.”

  “She would not have dared if I had been there,” Chloe ground out. “I know a thing or two about her she would prefer kept secret.”

  Juliet’s blue eyes sparkled. “Like what?”

  “Like the time I caught her and—never you mind. What is it, Addison?”

  The butler stood in the breakfast room doorway. “You have a message, Lady Chloe. One of the Barnes children is waiting in the kitchen.”

  “I will be right down. Deirdre, you find a good book in the library and go to your room. We have managed the food for the fete without you in the past. We can do it again.” She squeezed Deirdre’s shoulder.

  Deirdre cast Phoebe a hopeful glance. “May I, ma’am?”

  “Of course.” Phoebe smiled. “But the truth was bound to come out soon. You are starting to look radiant. Kieran will be bowled over when he sees you.”

  Phoebe was the one who radiated happiness. Deirdre was glad that she was taking pleasure in the upcoming happy event.

  When she and Chloe reached the abandoned cottage an hour later, Deirdre discovered that she no longer needed to pin the breeches to make them fit at the waist, and couldn’t be happy about that at all. She could never visit the prison again unless she found a disguise that allowed her to be female.

  “Can I go as a widow?” Deirdre asked as they headed up the gorge. “Don’t they wear veils?”

  “Yes. I expect we have one or two in the attic. But, Deirdre—” Chloe steered the cart around a boulder jutting over the track. “Deirdre, what if Ross—Mr. Trenerry—sees you are . . . enceinte. Will it not overset him?”

  “He might be tempted to kill Kieran, yes. But he won’t. Given the opportunity, he’ll simply get out of England.”

  “To fight us.”

  “I expect so.”

  Chloe fell silent. The day was clear, so only the jingle of the pony’s harness and rumble of the cart wheels disturbed the stillness of the barren moorland. Uncomfortable in breeches for the first time in her life, Deirdre shifted on the hard seat and sought for distraction.

  “So what did you catch Amelia Trilling doing with Kieran?”

  “Kissing in the hayloft over the—oh, drat.” Chloe snapped her teeth shut.

  “The hayloft? How crude.”

  “What is crude is me telling you.”

  “Why?”

  “You do not need to know about all my brother’s indiscretions. They are simply not as bad as everyone says they are. He was seventeen.” Chloe glared at the track. “Kissing was all. It meant nothing to him. He has kissed all the pretty girls around here.”

  The prison hove into view.

  Chloe drew up the pony. “We will park the cart here. Be careful climbing down.”

  Deirdre ground her teeth and descended from the cart. She had decorated her basket with holly for a festive air
and planned to give the entire thing to Ross with its contents of woolen scarves, soap, and peppermint lozenges. Too little to bring them Christmas blessings, but all she could manage. At least she could tell them that Blaze and Zeb were near at hand, operating on a privateer in the Channel. That would bring Ross pleasure.

  But Ross did not meet them; Wat did. He stumbled from the crowd a bent and gray-faced old man Deirdre barely recognized. She knew he wasn’t young, but two months in Dartmoor had made him ancient with completely gray hair, rheumy eyes, and a deep, hacking cough that shook his fragile-looking body.

  Deirdre’s own chest felt tight. “Ross?”

  Wat shook his head. “He didn’t want to come. You broke his heart, lass.”

  “I never pretended to love him for more than friendship.”

  “Aye, but young men have dreams.” Wat took the basket. “We thank you for what you’re doing.”

  “I saw Blaze.”

  Wat’s hand tightened on the basket. “A prisoner?”

  “He’s free. He and Zeb both. Privateering.”

  Though he started coughing again, Wat left them smiling.

  Chloe and Deirdre were not as they left the prison yard. Neither spoke on their way down to the coast. Chloe kept her face averted, but an occasional sniffle gave away the fact that she was crying.

  “If you cannot,” she finally spoke at the end of the track, “I will get them out of there, whatever it takes.”

  Deirdre understood why Chloe felt so strongly. She had seen it often enough aboard ship to know that Wat was dying.

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  Fine, though cold, weather made the return journey easy going for the last twenty miles, and Kieran and Tyne arrived at Bishops Cove in the middle of the afternoon. Carriages and horses filled the stable yard, a reminder that their ladies would not be alone. That fact stabbed Kieran with disappointment, but the mere possibility of seeing Deirdre, even if he had to do nothing more than give her a chaste kiss on the hand until later, sent him leaping from the carriage before it came to a full stop and loping to the house, Tyne’s chuckle rumbling behind him.