“That’s not the point, John. You could have told me this story at any moment over our past week together. You could have told me last night!”
“What? And have you leave me?”
“I don’t know,” she replied candidly.
“There you have it,” he said. “So I shall tell you now and beg your forgiveness. Mallory, I didn’t consummate our marriage seven years ago, but I did so last night out of love for you. I’ve never loved a woman before…and last night was like no other time before it. You’re my wife. I want us to build a marriage. I want to give you the home and family you dream of.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. She looked away.
John waited, silently praying she would accept his proposal.
Her head bowed, and he knew she would not. She twisted his wedding ring from her finger. “I trusted you. Without trust, we don’t have a marriage.”
He took a step forward and stopped when she held up her hand, warning him not to come closer. “Don’t say that, Mallory. Don’t speak words without considering them thoroughly first.”
With a small, sad smile, she shook her head. “You don’t understand, do you? For seven years, I trusted you to do the right thing without love—and I paid a price. Last night, I trusted you with all my love…and I’m afraid the price is too high.” She placed the ring on the table.
“Mallory—”
“No, John.” She held up a hand, warding him back. “All I’ve ever asked from you was your honesty, and that turned out to be too much to give.”
Anger flared inside him at the unfairness of her accusation. “And your precious Craige Castle,” he reminded her bitterly.
“I don’t have that, either, do I?” She walked to the door. She was about to open it when she looked over her shoulder to him. “Do you know, John, sometime between the chase from London and our living together here, Craige Castle ceased to be important. You’d taken its place in my heart. Now, I have nothing.”
She opened the door and left the cottage.
Lord Woodruff was not happy to arrive late to church.
John and Mallory stood side by side in the pew behind Lord Woodruff’s, along with the other household servants. Ruth, Evie, and Terrell sat in the back with their friends.
If she’d been asked, Mallory would not have been able to say what the reverend had said in his sermon or what readings were given. But she was deeply aware of her husband.
His large hands held the hymnal, and she was all too mindful of what those hands had done to her last night, of the soft moans they’d elicited, of the pleasure they had delivered.
She could barely stand beside him, feeling the heat of his body and smelling the clean scent of Mrs. Irongate’s homemade shaving soap, without remembering how well the two of them had fitted together in bed. If she closed her eyes, she could recall the scents and textures of their lovemaking.
She warned herself not to think this way. First, he had abandoned her, and now he’d betrayed her trust in him. She repeated the warning over and over in her mind until it became a litany and wished she could ignore the burning lump in her throat.
Standing beside Mallory, John wished he could read her mind. She appeared so composed and self-possessed…while his world was falling apart. The wedding ring resting in his pocket felt as heavy as a millstone….
He would get her damned castle back for her. He’d do whatever was necessary to prove she was wrong about him and make her regret she’d ever removed the ring from her finger.
The church service ended. Lord Woodruff hurried after the vicar to argue a point made during the sermon.
Both John and Mallory were relieved that he did.
No sooner, though, had his lordship left his pew than Freddie Hanson clapped John on the back and said heartily, “Grand time last night, grand time. By the way, why don’t you and Mrs. Dawson join us for Sunday dinner? We can make our plans for the harvest home.”
John said, “Yes—”
Just as Mallory said, “No.”
Without looking at each other, John amended, “No, then,” and Mallory agreed readily, “Yes, of course.”
Confused, Freddie glanced from one to the other. Then, apparently deciding to choose his own answer, he smiled and said, “Very well, we’ll see you both around two.”
Actually, supper at the Hansons’ was not such a bad idea, Mallory told herself. She and John had driven over in the pony cart in almost unbearable silence.
Well, that wasn’t completely correct. He’d attempted conversation several times, but she hadn’t answered. Her emotions were still too raw.
Fortunately, the two of them were seated several chairs away from each other at the dining room table with the Hanson children in between. The Reverend Luridge, the rector of St. Michael’s Church, was also a guest. He was a tall, thin man with a bald head and gold-framed spectacles on the end of his nose.
Mallory had been surprised to find the vicar there. At Craige Castle, she’d always hosted the rector for the Sunday meal after the service. Apparently, Freddie Hanson, and not Lord Woodruff, assumed that role in Tunleah Mews.
Sylvie Hanson served a leg of mutton and the food was good and plentiful. Mallory noticed that John ate as if he’d never eaten before and managed to avoid answering any questions from the Hanson children about the harvest home.
“Mr. Dawson, I’m surprised to hear that Lord Woodruff has agreed to host the harvest home,” the Reverend Luridge said. “In the past, he has not been at all interested in shire activities. My congratulations to you for bringing him in.” He took a moment to put a pat of butter on a roll before adding, “I said something to him this morning after the service about how pleased I was to see him taking part in our parish life, but he was so anxious to discuss the particular passage in Luke that I used in the reading today, I don’t believe he heard me. Either way, it is good to see him and his benefactor Tyndale more involved.” He popped the roll in his mouth.
Mallory looked up the table at John, waiting for him to admit to the vicar and the Hansons that he hadn’t secured Lord Woodruff’s approval yet.
“Yes,” Sylvie chimed in. “Everyone is excited about the harvest home. I don’t ever remember an event spawning so much enthusiasm around Tunleah Mews.”
“We’re putting together a musical band,” Freddie said, leaning forward in his chair. “A few fellows and I want to practice a bit before the harvest so we play better than we did last night. You’ll join us, won’t you?”
Everyone stopped eating and waited for John’s answer—especially Mallory. Now was the moment when he should tell all. The Hansons and the Reverend Luridge would understand that approaching Lord Woodruff wasn’t easy.
John looked around the table. He took his time before answering. Mallory watched as he smiled at the Hanson children, who listened to the adult conversation with avid interest.
This community had spirit, and it saddened Mallory to realize their spirits were being starved by the lack of leadership a good landowner could provide. But if ever there was a time to admit the truth, it was now. Mallory waited, expecting John to do the right thing.
She’s just taken a sip of ale when John said, “Lord Woodruff is excited about the idea.”
Mallory choked and had to cover her mouth with her napkin. Sylvie, who had been smiling at John, turned concerned eyes on Mallory. “Are you all right, Mrs. Dawson?”
Reverend Luridge began slapping Mallory firmly on the back. “Something went down the wrong way, eh?”
She held up her hand, begging for him to stop. “I’ll…be…fine,” she managed to get out, between the Reverend Luridge’s assaults.
She lowered the napkin and glared meaningfully at John. “That’s not entirely true about Lord Woodruff, is it, Mr. Dawson?” she prompted.
His lips stretched into a benign smile. “Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me, Mrs. Dawson. He also offered to supply the kegs of ale.”
Hanson slapped his hand down on the table. “Well do
ne!” He laughed with delight. “Who would have thought the old miser would turn out to be so generous? This will be a harvest home like none ever seen in this shire before, right, Reverend?”
The Reverend Luridge, all smiles, rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “You’re right. What a good sign this is. If Lord Woodruff is willing to do all this, perhaps we can convince him to be the benefactor of some other parish works that need to be done.”
“Such as what?” John asked, his expression one of complete sincerity and interest, enough to make Mallory want to pull out her hair and gnash her teeth like a madwoman!
“Our bell tower is in a sorry state of repair. One bell is cracked, and all of them need new ropes. I’ve requested several interviews with Lord Woodruff to discuss the matter, but he has unfortunately been busy with his writing.”
“Yes, he’s very busy with his book,” John agreed sympathetically. “Perhaps I can discuss your request with him.”
“Oh, would you?” the Reverend Luridge said, his eyes glowing with delight.
Mallory twisted the napkin in her lap into a knot to keep from shouting at her husband. Did the man have no shame?
The rest of the meal passed with Hanson and John making plans for the harvest home and the Reverend Luridge going on and on about his bells.
Mallory couldn’t wait to get John alone.
It rained after the midday meal, delaying their departure by an hour or so. By the time they’d said their goodbyes, Mallory was more than ready for a confrontation.
She waited until the pony cart was out of sight of the Hansons’ house before exploding with pent-up anger. “I can’t believe you are deceiving these good people this way!”
His jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze on the mud puddles in the road. “Oh, you’ve decided to speak to me, hmmmm?”
Mallory sat back on the bench, crossing both her arms and legs. “Is that what you were doing?” she asked, feigning enthusiasm. “Telling the Hansons and the Reverend Luridge patent untruths in order to get me to speak to you? How fortunate for you it worked!”
“You are jumping to conclusions. I will secure Lord Woodruff’s approval for the harvest home.”
“And just how are you going to do that, John? The same way you attempt to charm me—through deceit?”
He turned on her, his blue eyes bright with rising ire. “I will convince him to sponsor the harvest home.”
She nodded and then checked items off on her fingers: “And provide all the ale, and contribute to the repairs on the bell tower…you’re going to have a busy week, aren’t you?”
“I’ll pay for the ale. Peterson probably has the blunt now from the sale of the necklace. I could buy enough ale to keep this village befuddled with drink for a year—”
“Oh, that’s a lovely thought,” Mallory replied coolly.
“I can also put in the damn bells,” he finished, through clenched teeth. He drove the cart over a rut in the road and into a deep puddle. Mallory’s bottom bounced on the seat and she was forced to unfold her arms and hold the side. She thought he’d done it on purpose.
“It still doesn’t give you the right to stretch the truth, John. You did it to me, and now I’ve witnessed you doing it to these good people.”
“What would you have me do?” he said. “They’re excited about the harvest. You heard them. Hanson told me there hasn’t been so much goodwill and neighborliness since before Tyndale took over Cardiff Hall. I’ll see that Woodruff sponsors the harvest home and that he does it gladly.”
She came forward, leaning an arm on her knee. “Are you sure?”
“I’d stake my life on it. There, is that what you wanted?” His eyes bored into hers, and Mallory quite wisely decided to back down. They rode the rest of the way in silence.
A flock of ducks scattered out of their path as the cart pulled into the barnyard. Terrell and the others weren’t around, since they had been given Sunday afternoon off.
Mallory didn’t wait for John to come to a complete stop before she opened the cart door and hopped out. John jumped easily over the side, right into her path. Their eyes locked. She smiled grimly and whirled around, ready to march off to the cottage like a soldier, when a young man stepped out of the barn. His riding clothes were damp and mud-stained, as if he’d ridden through the summer shower earlier.
He removed his hat. “Lord Craige? I’m Roger Ambrose. Major Peterson sent me.”
John glanced over his shoulders to ensure they weren’t being watched. “Come, let us go in the barn.”
Mallory, not about to be left out, followed the men.
They stopped in the middle of the barn. Roger gave John a letter. Breaking the seal, John moved over to the shaft of light coming in through the door and held the letter up to read. Mallory read over his shoulder.
Craige—
Richards sold the necklace and we’ve hired men to search for Louis Barron. You were right. He did pay the Runners to track you down and has offered a bounty on your capture. Your Mayfair place and other properties were auctioned off by the Bailiff last Wednesday to pay some of your debts. Richards and I started rumors that you and your wife have fled to Italy or Greece to escape your creditors and this is now the accepted truth among our social circle.
I have done as you asked and have men watching every shop Louis was known to patronize in hopes of learning his whereabouts. I also took the initiative of having men check all the ports. There is no record of his leaving the country. However, there is a record of three Runners leaving Dover for Italy. My source with Bow Street tells me they were paid very handsomely to track you down.
Be careful,
John
He’d underlined the word “careful” three times.
I’ll send another message through Roger next Sunday. Don’t trust the Post. I delivered Lady Craige’s letter to her mother, who wished me to assure her daughter she will do as asked and seek a temporary home with a family friend in East Anglia. Her mother said Lady Craige would know the name. In the meantime, enjoy the carefree life of a farmer, don’t let those pigs grow too fat, and here’s a bit of the money we earned off the necklace to tide you over.
Peterson
Several crisp pound notes of different denominations were folded in with the letter. John held the notes up to Mallory. “Ale money.” There was enough there to do as John had promised—keep the village of Tunleah Mews in drink for a year.
John rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. He turned. “Louis can’t have just disappeared.”
“Why not?” Mallory asked.
“You don’t know him, Mallory. The man is…flamboyant. But he’s also a creature of habits. He has a card game he plays in every Tuesday night, and he’s done so for the last twenty years or more. He patronizes only one coffee shop. His clothes are made by the same tailor, no matter what the style. Even the snuff he uses is a special blend made by the same tobacconist ever since I can remember. For him to disappear…?” He shook his head. “No, he’s waiting. I can feel it in my bones. Once he’s certain it’s safe, he’ll come back to London.”
“Is there a message you wish to send to Major Peterson, my lord?” Roger asked respectfully.
John tucked the letter in his coat pocket. “Tell Peterson thank you for the good work and that I shall anticipate his next report Sunday.”
“Wait, I have a request,” Mallory said. The gentlemen turned to her. “Is it possible that Major Peterson could deliver a small note to my mother in East Anglia if I have it ready for you next week?”
“I’m certain he can,” Roger answered. “Does he have her address?”
“She’s staying with Squire Hal Thomas,” Mallory said proudly, knowing full well that John would not like to hear this. “The Post will know how to deliver it.”
John tensed at the mention of Hal’s name. “I hope you didn’t tell her our whereabouts.”
Refusing to be cowed, Mallory met his gaze levelly. “I don’t plan on it.”
&nb
sp; “I have another message for Peterson,” John said. “Have him send some of the money from the diamonds to Mallory’s mother. I want her taken care of.”
“Yes, my lord,” Roger said. He cast an uncertain glance in first Mallory’s direction, then John’s. “Is there anything else?”
“No, nothing,” John answered, and waved him on. Roger bowed and went to fetch his horse, tethered in one of the stalls. He led it out of the barn, mounted, and rode off across a meadow.
John stood silhouetted in the barn door, his feet spread wide apart. He watched Roger leave, his expression unreadable. When the messenger was out of sight, he brought the pony and cart into the barn.
Watching him unhitch the pony and comb it down, Mallory allowed herself for the first time to contemplate the unthinkable. What if they were forced to leave the country? What would happen to her mother?
Tears came unbidden to her eyes.
John turned and saw them. The harsh lines of his face softened. “Mallory, don’t worry.”
“I’m not,” she denied, and pressed a hand against her burning cheeks.
“I’ll find Louis—I promise.”
“Yes, like all the other promises you’ve made.” The words flew out of her before she could stop them.
John went very still. His eyes glittered. Mallory stepped back, suddenly wary—but she was too late.
His hand shot out and he grabbed her by the wrist. “Come.” He half-dragged her out of the barn and toward the house.
Mallory twisted her arm, trying to break his hold. Her feet were forced to move at double time to keep up. “Where are we going?”
Falling in Love Again Page 22