Intrigued

by Bertrice Small

  “That,” Jasmine replied with perfect logic, “is because he isn’t Sebastian d’Oleron. He is a completely different man. Stop looking at him as Sebastian. Stop comparing him to Sebastian. See him for who he is. He is a good man, Autumn.”

  “Good men are boring, Mama,” was Autumn’s response.

  Jasmine laughed. “Not always, poppet.”

  So Autumn began to try to see Gabriel Bainbridge for who he was and not who she wished him to be. What was the matter with her anyway? Her husband would be dead six years in October. Suddenly she wished she was not quite so full with her child. How could a man court a woman who looked like a cow about to calf? She mockingly told him this.

  “I raise cattle,” he said with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I find breeding cows quite beautiful, madame.”

  “I will not foster out my children,” she said seriously.

  “Why would you?” he asked her. “Garwood Hall is a house meant for children, madame. Yours and ours.”

  “I will be thirty in October,” she said. “I know not how many more years I have left to breed.”

  “I will be forty-one in August,” he countered. “If we are diligent, Autumn, I think we can manage a few children before we are too old and gray.” The blue eyes twinkled at her.

  “You are making fun of me,” she said.

  He nodded in agreement. “I am,” he said. “You will get used to it in time, Autumn.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to,” she responded, not certain she liked this teasing.

  He grinned. “You would be a wicked termagant if you were not so adorable, madame.”

  “I am not a termagant!” she cried. “How dare you, sir?”

  “A vixen, then,” he told her. “A delicious little vixen.”

  Autumn ran her hands over her extended belly. “Hardly little, my lord,” she teased him back, “and likely to get bigger, I vow.”

  He laughed at her sally, and then she laughed too.

  Watching them, Jasmine had a faint glimmer of hope. How she would love it if Autumn could fall in love with the Duke of Garwood. If Autumn were remarried and settled with her children, her world would be complete. Nay, not quite complete. The servants who had been with her her entire life were fading away before her eyes. Adali was close to ninety, and she had never before heard of anyone living to that age. Rohana and Toramalli, her twin serving maids, were over eighty. They had been ten years old when she was born, and she would soon be seventy-one. What would she do when she lost them all?

  Adali, back in England again, spent his days sitting in the sun by a window. Becket took care of Queen’s Malvern, so there was nothing left for him to do. Both Rohana and Toramalli were having difficulty in walking of late. Their knees, they complained, would not function properly, and they shuffled as they walked. Toramalli’s hands had grown quite gnarled. Her husband, Fergus, wasn’t much better. He and Red Hugh sat all day and played at chess, which Adali had taught them. We are a household of old men and women, Jasmine thought.

  Lady Sabrina Stuart was married to the Earl of Lynmouth on the second of May. The day was sunny and mild with no wind. The bride wore an antique cream-colored silk wedding gown that had belonged to one of her female antecedents, although no one knew who. It had been found in the attics, carefully preserved in a trunk. Her unbound hair was crowned with a wreath of daisies. Her handsome bridegroom wore sky-blue velvet and seemed to have a waterfall of lace flowing from his cuffs. A banquet was set up on the lawns after the religious ceremony in the family’s ancient chapel.

  The Marquis of Westleigh and his wife had come for the event with all their children, spouses, and grandchildren. Nearby neighbors had been asked. Pits had been dug to roast the beef, which was packed in rock salt. There were country hams and ducks roasted with a stuffing of raisins and apples swimming in plum sauce. There was salmon sent down from the streams at Glenkirk, broiled and set upon silver platters of green cress; golden-crusted pies filled with pieces of goose; rabbit stew in red wine; spring lamb chops, and a large turkey stuffed with cherries, plums, and saffroned rice. There were bowls of new peas and tiny beets, artichokes in white wine, and asparagus in a dilled cream sauce. There were wheels of sharp Cheddar, smaller wheels of soft French brie, freshly baked loaves of bread, and crocks of sweet butter. A cake with a spun-sugar couple atop it, surrounded by tiny, fresh strawberries concluded the meal. The wines came from Archambault and Chermont. The beer flowed freely from its kegs, as did the cider.

  They danced country dances, reels, and in a straight line, weaving in and out. They played at bowls upon the lawns and shot arrows at butts set up for the purpose. They sang. Then, finally, the bride and groom were chased up the stairs of the house, giggling and laughing, to be undressed and put to bed. It had been a wonderful day for them all, they agreed afterwards, sitting about the fire in the family hall, the bridal couple well occupied, the children abed.

  In the middle of the night Rohana came and woke her mistress. “It is time,” she said meaningfully, and Jasmine rose, drawing her chamber robe about her to follow her serving woman to Adali’s chamber.

  Entering, she saw Toramalli waiting. Jasmine sat by her ancient servant’s bedside and took his hand. The old man’s breathing was shallow and growing fainter by the minute. Afraid he would think she hadn’t come, Jasmine spoke softly to him. “Adali.”

  The brown eyes opened and, seeing her, he smiled. “I have stayed as long as I could, my princess. I will be waiting for you with the master, who says I must go now,” the old man said with great effort and his last bit of strength. Adali’s eyes closed again. He died just as the sun rose on the morning of the third of May.

  Jasmine said nothing to her family, instead seeing her granddaughter, who looked extremely happy, off with her new husband. Only after they had gone did she announce to the household that Adali had died. His grave was dug and he was buried in the family’s private burial grounds. He had served his mistress faithfully for well over seventy years. Jasmine wept, inconsolable at his loss and at the knowledge that sooner than later she would lose the others as well.

  Several days later Red Hugh came to her to say he wanted to go home to Glenkirk. She knew why. “Remain there,” she told him. “I am past the day when I need you to watch over me. Our adventuring is long done, I fear.”

  “Ye were always getting into trouble when I wasna there, my lady,” he reminded. “ ’Twas a mercy, and no thanks to me ye weren’t killed half a dozen times.” He kissed her still elegant hands.

  “Take a letter to Patrick for me,” she said, and he nodded. She asked her other manservant, Fergus More-Leslie, if he would go home to Glenkirk, but Fergus surprised her by declining.

  “I’ll stay wi ye, m’lady. Don’t make no difference to me where I die. When I’m dead, I’m dead. Besides, that old woman of mine would nae leave her sister, nae would I. We’ll stay wi ye till God calls us, I vow.”

  “You are behaving as if you’re going to die, Mama, and you are frightening me,” Autumn said.

  “Well, I’m not,” her mother said firmly, “but Adali’s passing has made me realize what I have refused to see. None of us are young anymore, and those who have served me are entitled to some peace on earth before they must be put into it. They will not go, however.”

  “Where would they go, Mama?” Autumn said. “They love you and have been with you your whole life. They will die in your service.”

  “I suppose I should get someone to help Rohana and Toramalli,” Jasmine considered. “We tried before, but no one ever seems to work out or suit them.”

  “I think they have always been jealous of anyone else serving you, Mama, but now they may be more amenable to having a helper.”

  Spring faded away into summer. Gabriel Bainbridge made several brief trips to Durham to his estate to be certain that everything was running smoothly there. He also, unbeknownst to Autumn, arranged to have his house ready to receive his bride and her children. July passed, and then August came wi
th terrible thunderstorms that flattened the fields of grain just before the harvest and knocked apples and pears from the trees in the orchards. The grains were quickly gathered before rot or mildew could set in, but the damanged fruit could only be pressed immediately into cider that had to be sweetened with precious sugar as the fruits had not been fully ripe.

  Autumn went into labor on the twentieth of August. She had had little warning and few pains, but suddenly she could feel the pressure between her legs and knew that this birth was different from the others. Her waters broke, soaking her skirts, as she screamed for help. Then came the pains—hard, racking pains that ripped through her as if she was being carved up for butchering. Gabriel Bainbridge refused to leave her, standing at her head, wiping her moist brow as she cried and swore in her travail. Finally, after several hours, the baby was born. It was a perfectly formed little boy and he was quite dead, the cord wrapped about his neck so tightly that he was blue.

  “Why isn’t it crying?” Autumn demanded. “Mama, is it a laddie? I did promise the king a laddie. Why isn’t he crying?”

  There was no help for it. Jasmine showed Autumn the child just born, and her daughter began to wail a cry of such terrible anguish that Jasmine began to weep too. “It’s God’s will,” she sobbed, as if to explain the terrible tragedy. Then she began unwrapping the cord from about the little boy’s neck.

  “God again!” Autumn cried out. “The same God who stole my husband from me and my first son! Now this wee laddie! I hate this God who would do such a terrible thing to me and to my child! What harm did that innocent little baby do, Mama? What harm?” Then she began to wail and cry once more.

  Rohana pressed a goblet of wine to Autumn’s lips. “Drink, my lady. It has the juice of the poppy in it. You must sleep to escape the pain.”

  Autumn gulped the liquid offered. “I hope I never wake up,” she said bitterly. “I hope I never awaken again!”

  “Do not say such a thing,” the Duke of Garwood begged her. “What of Madeline and little Margot, Autumn? Think of your daughters.”

  “Mama will raise them,” she replied sleepily.

  “What of us?” he demanded.

  “You will find another wife,” Autumn said. Her eyes were closing. “One better than me. Kinder.”

  “But I love you,” he told her.

  “That’s nice,” Autumn said as she slid into unconsciousness. He loved her. Someone loved her again, she thought muzzily as she seemed to fade away into nothingness.

  Chapter 20

  She didn’t want to wake up. She didn’t! But consciousness forced itself upon her. Autumn opened her eyes to see her mother sitting by her bedside. She felt empty. So very empty, and looking down at her belly, the awful reality slammed back into her with such force that it almost took her breath away. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she half-whispered.

  “Baptized and buried,” Jasmine said quietly, “How do you feel, my darling child?”

  “How long have I been asleep?” Autumn ignored her mother’s question. She felt awful. Absolutely awful. How else was she supposed to feel after carrying a child to full term only to have it born dead?

  “You have been unconscious for two-and-a-half days,” her mother answered her. Jasmine stood up and, going to the sideboard, poured a small goblet of wine for Autumn.

  Autumn accepted the liquid, drinking it down quickly, for she was thirsty. “I have to write to the king,” she said.

  “It is already done,” Jasmine said.

  “Thank you,” Autumn replied. “I would not have known what to say to him. I promised him a son and I have failed. This is the second son I have lost, Mama. What is the matter with me?”

  “There is nothing the matter with you,” Jasmine reassured her daughter. “You lost Sebastian’s son because of the shock you suffered at your husband’s sudden and unexpected death. This poor wee bairn had the bad luck to get entangled with his cord. He strangled even before he was born. I would not make you sad, my darling, but he was a perfect child, all fat little arms and legs and a beautiful face. ’Tis a terrible tragedy, Autumn, but it was not your fault. These awful things happen.” She paused, and then she said, “I sent Charlie directly to the king to tell him personally, and he took my note to his majesty. Your sorrow will be a private one, Autumn.”

  “Where did you put him, Mama?” the grieving woman asked.

  “Next to your great-grandmother,” Jasmine said quietly. “He will be safe there.”

  “I want to see him,” Autumn begged.

  “In a few days, my daughter, when you have regained a small bit of your strength,” Jasmine told her. “For now you need rest and nourishment, Autumn. Let me look after you.”

  “It would seem I have no choice,” Autumn replied bitterly.

  She ate what they put before her. She drank the hot possets and healing draughts they brought to her. She slept, but she did not cry. It seemed to Autumn that her heart had turned to stone in her chest. Several days after her son had been born and died her daughters came to keep her company. Madeline and Margot both now spoke accentless English, although they were made converse daily in their native French tongue.

  Madeline, who would shortly be eight, said, “We saw our little brother before they put him in the ground, Mama. He was a very pretty child. I’m sorry he did not live to play with us. Are you sorry he died?” She climbed up into the bed with her mother as Margot clambered onto the other side of Autumn.

  “Are you sorry, Mama?” Margot parroted her elder sister.

  “Yes, I am sorry,” Autumn said.

  “Poor little Louis,” Madeline said, shaking her head sadly.

  “Poor Louis,” Margot reprised.

  “He is to have his own stone marker,” Madeline told her mother with an air of self-importance. “Grandma says it will read: Louis Charles Stuart, born and died August twentieth, sixteen hundred and sixty-one. And there is to be angel carved on it.”

  “Angel. Angel. Angel,” Margot sing-songed.

  “Oh, be quiet, Maggot! I am telling Mama,” Maddie said irritably.

  “Do not call your sister ‘Maggot,’ ” Autumn scolded her elder daughter, although she was forced to push back a giggle. Maddie was obviously quite clever. “She is Marquerite Louise or Margot.”

  “She is a botheration, Mama,” Maddie said. “She is always following me about. She is too little to be any fun.”

  “You are sisters,” Autumn told them. “You must love one another and protect one another. You only have each other, mes filles. Go now, and let Mama rest again.”

  “Papa says we are to all have a beautiful home of our own soon,” Maddie announced to her mother as she and her sister climbed off Autumn’s bed. “We are to have our own ponies. He says he is the luckiest man alive to have three beautiful ladies to bring to Garwood Hall.” She giggled. “It is so nice to have a papa at last, isn’t it, Margot?”

  Margot nodded enthusiastically. “I want a black pony,” she said.

  Then the two little girls departed Autumn’s bedchamber hand in hand, leaving their shocked mother to ponder what her children had just said. Papa was obviously Gabriel Bainbridge. How dare he take it upon himself to tell her daughters to address him in such a manner? She had not said she would marry him. She wouldn’t marry him! She didn’t need his title and she didn’t need his house. She would build her own house, and to hell with an English title. She was still Madame la Marquise d’Auriville.

  On the first of September Autumn felt strong enough to get up and get dressed. Then, with Lily and Orane supporting her, she left the house and walked slowly to the family burial ground. When she had finally reached the site she sat down upon the marble bench saying, “Leave me,” to her two serving women.

  “And how do you propose to get back?” Lily demanded irritably. “You couldn’t have got here at all if it weren’t for me and Orane, m’lady.”

  “I want to be alone,” Autumn said. “Go! Come back later if you must, but leave me in peace fo
r now.”

  The two women hurried away, Lily muttering beneath her breath about how some people were so stubborn and never learned.

  Autumn sat quietly, the warm September sun on her back. The tiny mound next to her great-grandmother’s grave was already grassed over. The marker, of course, was not yet ready. Two sons, she thought, both born dead. In her belly one day and gone the next. She had not been to either funeral. Nay, she lay prostrate, desperately trying to escape the pain of it all while her sons were buried by others. Sebastian’s hadn’t even had a name, although she always thought of him as Michel when he crept into her consciousness.

  But Louis—her little Louis she had carried until he was due to be born. To lose him so easily at that point was incomprehensible to her. How could such a terrible thing have happened? Was God punishing her? Why had he not punished Mama, and Charlie been born dead too? Or was it, as her mother was so fond of saying, fate? Plain, ordinary fate that had taken a hand in her sons’ deaths. Why could she not successfully birth lads? Her daughters were both hale and hearty enough.

  She did not hear him, and so Gabriel Bainbridge stood quietly by a tree watching Autumn. Except at the moment of the child’s birth, when she had realized its fate, she had not cried. Was she so heartless then? he wondered. She had made no secret of the fact she had deliberately set out to fill Barbara Palmer’s place in her absence. She had been pleased to be having the king’s child. Now that child was lost to her. Had it only been a means to an end for her? Was she that callous, that cold-hearted?

  Then he heard the noise. A tiny noise at first, and then, as if a dam had broken her sobs poured forth in a sorrowful stream of weeping. There was such anguish and genuine pain in the sound that it reached out to him and touched his heart. So she was not the unfeeling bitch he had thought her to be. It was then Gabriel Bainbridge realized that Autumn was a far more complicated woman than he had anticipated. He debated going to her and comforting her, but she had come here to mourn in private. She was not ready to share her grief with anyone yet, let alone him. The Duke of Garwood slipped quietly away without Autumn ever having known he was there.