Secrets of Midnight

by Miriam Minger

  “And I’m bloody surprised you didn’t wait to hear some word from Ogden before you set off for London.”

  “No, no, I decided all must be well after hearing what you did to Fanny and her cohorts—” Nigel abruptly went still, looking at Donovan with some chagrin, although an instant later, he shrugged. “There’s much at stake here. The Arundale dukedom, man, what did you expect? But Ogden has already assured me that everything is as it should be—unless you’ve something to tell me?”

  “No more than that I don’t want my wife troubled with news of my inheritance. Or anything else we’ve discussed. It was hard enough for Corie when those housemaids—damn them, all that business about my marrying her for an heir. I don’t want to see her hurt again.”

  “Yes, yes, I imagine you don’t.”

  Nigel was staring at Donovan so intently that he began to feel uncomfortable, going to refill his glass after all.

  “Well, well, brother, so it’s finally happened.”

  Donovan tensed, but he didn’t turn around. “What’s happened?”

  “Oh, I think you know. I envy you too.”

  Donovan didn’t reply, downing his brandy and heading for the door while Nigel rose from his chair and followed him.

  “Don’t worry, old man, as far as I’m concerned, we came here simply to meet your bride. I only hope Charlotte hasn’t made her regret marrying into our family.”

  Donovan half spun, and Nigel started back a step. “Dammit, I didn’t consider Charlotte. Does she know why—”

  “Ha! The less that woman knows of anything, the better. I told her the same thing I just said to you, that it was fitting we meet your new wife. But do you think that made her whine any less? Good God, she drove me half-mad—complaining about the length of the trip, how she’d rather be in London already, until I couldn’t stand it anymore and rode in another carriage. But I still had to listen to her moan at every stop, how she was being jostled to pieces, how—”

  Donovan didn’t want to hear anymore either, and he ducked outside the library, nearly colliding with Ellen Biddle, who was waiting for him outside the door.

  “Oh! Forgive me, my lord! I didn’t know if I should interrupt you so I waited—”

  “What is it, woman?” He cut her off a bit too sharply, so intent was he on rescuing Corisande from his sister-in-law. “I’m sorry. Is supper ready?”

  “No, not yet, but—well, Lady Donovan has retired, my lord. She asked me to give her regrets to Her Grace, which I did, but your wife looked so pale, I was worried for her and thought you should know—”

  “Best go to her, old boy,” Nigel interjected, tipping his glass in a wry salute. “Damn, if you don’t have all the luck. Think there’s any way we can get Charlotte to retire for the night?”

  Donovan didn’t answer, feeling truly sorry for his brother at that moment as he left them and raced up the stairs. But he forgot Nigel, forgot Charlotte, forgot everything as a moment later he knocked on Corisande’s door.

  Then he cursed to himself. Why was he knocking? She was his wife! He pushed open the door just in time to see Corisande fly across the softly firelit room and dive into bed, throwing the covers over her head.

  It made him chuckle, relief filling him, too, but he sobered when he heard a small plaintive voice call to him brokenly from under the bedclothes. “Go away!”

  Good God, it almost sounded to him as if she’d been crying. He drew closer, hearing muffled sniffles, and grew concerned all over again.

  “Corie?”

  “Go away!”

  “No, I’m not going away until you tell me what’s wrong—”

  “Nothing’s wrong! I’m just glad this whole bloody thing is finally over!”

  Her outburst striking him like a fierce punch in the gut, Donovan couldn’t help saying as vehemently, “Well, it’s not over, woman, I’m sorry to disappoint you. If you must know, my brother and his wife merely came to Cornwall to welcome you into our family. It might be a couple more weeks before the whole matter of my inheritance is settled, so it appears we’re still stuck with each other whether you like it or not!”

  Corisande couldn’t believe it, her heart hammering in her throat. A couple more weeks? Nor could she believe the wild elation surging through her, but she only had an instant to dwell upon the sheer ridiculousness of her feeling so happy before the covers were suddenly wrenched away from her head, and Donovan stood above her, a dark, looming silhouette beside the bed.

  “Are you going to lie there, or will you accompany me back downstairs to greet my brother and sister-in-law properly? They came all this way—”

  “I don’t care if they just arrived from America!” she spouted, indignant and shivering in her thin nightgown, too, as she tried to tug the bedclothes away from him. “I already made my excuses, so go away—oh!”

  Donovan had lifted her bodily and set her with a jarring thump on the floor; the next thing Corisande felt was a stinging slap to her bottom as she shrieked in surprise.

  “You’ve got two minutes to dress, Corie, or you’ll get another and harder too. Now move.”

  She did, so stunned that he had spanked her like a child that she ran to the wardrobe and clutched about for her clothes in a panic.

  But it was even more unsettling that they were alone and in the dark, just as they had been in the carriage. When he’d told her her scar was a thing of beauty and he’d kissed her and touched her breast and run his hands over her thighs and … and she wanted no part of it! She wanted no part of him! God help her, a couple more weeks?

  That thought made her dress faster than she ever had in her life, more than eager to get back downstairs as she flew out of her room and down the corridor, not waiting for Donovan.

  Chapter 28

  “Oh, dear, do you have to go in there? It’s so dreadfully stuffy in this carriage, and we’ve already been riding about for hours now and—”

  “Then get out, Charlotte, and take a nice walk along the quay,” Corisande suggested through clenched teeth as an Arundale footman opened the carriage door and helped her to step down. “I won’t be but a moment, I promise.”

  “But it’s growing so cloudy and windy, surely you can see that. I just know the moment I step outside it would start to rain, and then my hair would be ruined and my dress and my lovely new parasol, and, oh, dear, should you go into that inn? It looks quite common and—and it might be dangerous.”

  “It’s not dangerous, Charlotte. I told you I’ve good friends who live here.” Doing her best to bridle her temper, Corisande forced a smile at the sallow-faced, pinch-nosed young woman who stared at her doubtfully from the dim interior of the carriage. “Truly, a walk would be lovely. You could get some fresh air—”

  “Oh, my, no, and smell all that horrible fish?”

  That did it, Corisande had had enough. Without another word, she spun and crossed the cobbled road, kicking herself that she had been the one to suggest she and her sister-in-law take an afternoon drive instead of waiting around the house for Donovan and Nigel to return from Arundale’s Kitchen.

  She’d had her own motives, too, visiting Oliver certainly one of them, but now she wished she’d risked going alone instead of having to endure Charlotte’s constant whining. She should have known, starting with last night, that the woman had little good to say about anything—complaining ceaselessly about being abandoned in the drawing room, the rigors of the journey, the lateness of the supper. Then breakfast this morning had been served much too early, and her bed had been lumpy, the fireplace smoky, on and on and on …

  Sighing, Corisande had to agree with Donovan as she stepped inside the Trelawnys’ inn. Charlotte, Duchess of Arundale, was a fright, her fretful chatter about as pleasant as fingernails scraping across a chalkboard and her breath almost unbearable although the woman couldn’t entirely help her bad teeth—

  “Corie, dear, I was just thinking of ‘ee! Come in, come in!”

  Corisande smiled at Rebecca Trelawny as the p
lump older woman wound her way past trestle tables where a few patrons sat smoking pipes and drinking home-brewed ale. But upon reaching her, Rebecca gave a nod to the back room.

  “I’ve something to tell ‘ee, Corie, but not here, eh?”

  Corisande nodded and followed, wondering where Oliver might be. The sea captain usually held forth in the inn, telling tall tales to his customers. “Actually I can’t stay long, Rebecca,” she began as the woman quietly closed the door to the back room. “I came to see Oliver—”

  “He’s not here, Corie, that’s what I wanted to tell ‘ee. He asked me to have one of the men bring ‘ee a note, but the day’s slipped away from me. He sailed out to Brittany again at mid-morning, he did, so pleased with the coin already coming in from that fine brandy that he went to try and fetch some more. Said he knew there was a chance for another shipment into Roscoff but he wouldn’t know for sure until he got there. Aw, that man of mine. Gone for days an’ now gone again!”

  Corisande was somewhat stunned; Oliver hadn’t said a word the other night about the chance of bringing back more of that brandy. She was suddenly worried too.

  She had wanted to tell him about the attack and how the man had known their signal, but it wouldn’t do any good to say anything now. She didn’t want to worry Rebecca; the poor woman already had been asking her husband for months if he might cease his fair trading and enjoy sitting at home with her in front of the fire.

  “Well, I hope it doesn’t take him as long to return this time,” Corisande murmured, and Rebecca nodded in agreement.

  “Ais, I told him if that shipment wasn’t there to come back straightaway, an’ he promised me, Corie. No ifs or an’s about it! An’ my Oliver holds to his word. So ‘ee can look for the signal tomorrow night, an’ if it doesn’t come, you’ll know there was none of that good brandy to be found.” Rebecca’s hand moved to the door. “Now, can I give ‘ee a nice hot drink before ‘ee must be on your way? A piece of buttermilk cake?”

  Corisande shook her head as she stepped outside the room, though buttermilk cake, especially Rebecca’s, which she always served with a dollop of sweet cream, did sound inviting. But by now Charlotte was probably quite overcome by dreaded fish odors, so she’d best hurry. She gave Rebecca a hug and then drew her cloak more snugly around her.

  “Ais, a good idea, wrap yourself tight. A gale’s brewing, I fear, a nor’westerly, so my Oliver should be well clear of it, but I’ll be praying hard tonight, all the same.”

  “I’ll say a prayer too.”

  ” ‘Ee do that, Corie dear. A vicar’s daughter’s prayer is surely worth two of mine!”

  Corisande smiled, turning to the door only to be bumped suddenly out of the way as three men who’d just gotten up from their chairs shouldered past her without even an apology.

  “Ais, those dockhands!” Rebecca snorted with exasperation as the door slammed behind them. “Rude as can be and not getting any better! Been here almost two weeks now an’ haven’t left an extra pence for me cleaning their rooms an’ cooking them meals, an’ nary a thank you either. Pah! Foreigners! Oh, dear, no slight upon your dear mother, though. But these fellows—come here to find work when there’s barely enough for our own? Pah!”

  Corisande shrugged. “Everyone has a right to earn bread, Rebecca. It’s no matter.”

  She gave the still-grumbling woman another hug and then stepped outside. The whistling wind had picked up tremendously in the few moments since she’d entered the inn, so strong now that her skirt whipped around her legs. And obviously Charlotte had noticed, too, the duchess waving to her frantically to hurry.

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear, we’re going to be blown into the sea! We’ll never make it back to the house, I know it! We’ll tip over, the horses will stumble in the mud, we’ll drown!”

  “Drown in what? The heath?” Corisande muttered to herself as she ducked her head to the wind and went to the carriage, a footman waiting to assist her. But she waved him away, saying to an incredulous Charlotte, “I was hoping we might stop first to meet my family but—”

  “Oh, no, oh, no, we must get back to the house!” the frenzied duchess interrupted before Corisande could finish. “Climb into the carriage before you’re blown away!”

  “I’m not going to be blown away and I’m not getting into the carriage,” she shouted, beyond all patience now. “You go ahead, I’ll get home somehow later. Either that, or have Donovan come for me. I’ll be at my father’s house—I haven’t seen him and my three sisters for several days. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come with me and—”

  Again Corisande didn’t get to finish as a powerful gust of wind suddenly tore the carriage door away from the footman and slammed it shut with a bang, while Charlotte shrieked in terror for the coachman to drive on at once. Corisande barely had time to step out of the way as the black ducal coach jerked into motion, and the hapless footman had to run after to swing himself up onto the back platform.

  “Yes, hurry, you don’t want to be blown into the sea,” Corisande said with a wryness that would have matched Donovan’s if he’d just seen this ridiculous little episode.

  Oh, Lord, Donovan.

  She began to walk quickly toward the parsonage, trying not to think of how angry he might be once he discovered she’d stayed behind in Porthleven. Of course, she had no intention at all of journeying across the heath alone; if the storm proved too bad and Donovan couldn’t come for her, she would just spend the night in her own bed, her narrow single bed, not anything like the huge bed she’d shared those two nights with Donovan …

  Corisande shivered, not wanting to think of that either. Nor how he’d stared at her so strangely all through supper last night, looking at her almost as if he’d never really seen her before. Of course, it could have been because her hair was mussed and her dress askew; she’d pulled on her clothing in the dark after all. And certainly she didn’t want to think about how vastly disappointed he must be to have to wait longer for his inheritance—Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why think of Donovan at all?

  So she tried not to, wondering instead when she was going to be able to write down all the figures of Tuesday’s landing in the ledger she kept hidden in the church. She supposed after she visited her family she might have some time, that is, if the gale grew worse and there was no chance of Donovan coming to fetch her—

  “Donovan again, always Donovan,” she said aloud, resignedly, grateful that the parsonage was only another few houses away. A blast of wind, laced now with cold rain, hit her with tremendous force and so suddenly that she half spun, looking back down the darkening street as she braced herself against a cottage wall.

  Villagers were rushing outside to close banging shutters and shoo their children indoors while dogs barked at the low, heavy clouds scudding across the sky. And the harbor was alive with activity as boats were lashed to the docks, a few larger vessels anchored farther out bobbing upon the angry, steely-looking waves, their masts dipping and swaying. Other than that, the streets were nearly empty where she stood, well, except for those three men huddled as if talking among themselves down the hill.

  Corisande turned and kept walking, then slowed down.

  Three men? Strange. She glanced over her shoulder to see that they were no longer huddled but coming up the street at her pace, their capped heads lowered against the wind and shoulders hunched. She’d scarcely thought twice about it at the inn, but could they be the same ones who’d bumped into … ?

  Corisande began to walk faster, glancing behind her to see that the men were now walking faster, too, which made her heart jump. Then she immediately told herself she was being silly. It was growing dark, but there was still enough light to see quite well, and she was in the very center of the village. Surely she had nothing to fear. So why, then, was she suddenly so nervous?

  She didn’t want to, but she hazarded a quick glance behind her to find to her immense relief that the three men were gone. Where, she could not say, but she didn’t waste time wonderin
g. She half flew into the parsonage, where the comforting warmth of the place and the smell of Frances’s leek and potato pie greeted her like an old friend.

  “Hello? Anyone here?”

  At once a clatter arose from the kitchen as wooden chairs scraped against the floor and Luther began to yip, and her sisters came spilling down the narrow hallway at a run.

  “Oh, Corie, is she here? Is she here?” That from Marguerite, who embraced Corisande excitedly while glancing past her into the parlor.

  “The duchess, Corie! Where’s the duchess?” piped Estelle as Luther spun and pranced and yapped at her feet.

  “Oh, so you heard Donovan and I have important visitors?” Not surprised that the news must have flown like tonight’s gale through Porthleven, Corisande bent down to give her youngest sister a hug and then moved on to Linette, who flung her slender arms around her neck.

  “I don’t care about any silly duchess, Corie. I’m glad just to see you.”

  “And I’m very glad to see you too,” Corisande murmured, giving Linette a good squeeze before releasing her. “But I’m sorry to say the duchess decided to go home. Charlotte doesn’t much like storms. Doesn’t like much of anything, for that matter.”

  “Did she take her shiny black coach with her?” Her voice very small, Estelle looked crestfallen. “Johnnie Morton saw you riding in a huge, shiny black coach—with men in fancy clothes sitting on a funny little seat. He came hollering back into the school to tell us.”

  “Yes, it was quite big with a crest and silver mountings and footmen in fancy clothes, and I’m afraid they all went home with the duchess. But I’m here, and something smells very good in the kitchen. Do you think Frances made enough for me too? Where is Frances?”

  Suddenly there was an uncomfortable silence as all three girls looked at each other, none of them looking at her.

  “She’s not in the kitchen? Marguerite?”

  “She’s out trying to get Papa to come in for supper, Corie. She told us to stay inside—the storm coming and all —and she knew, too, that you might be stopping by—”