“To whom?” Raeburn inquired softly, his gray eyes cold and disbelieving. “To fishermen’s daughters?” When Jessica refused to answer him, he sighed and said, “Well, perhaps it does not matter now. You’re coming home with me.”
Jessica shook her head. “No, Graham. This is our home now. The cottage may not compare to Renard Chase, but it is adequate for our needs.”
“You may have learned to economize when you lived at the vicarage,” Raeburn insisted, “but I tell you right now, this hovel is not adequate for my niece’s needs. She is a Foxe, and she will be raised as befits her station.” His gray eyes narrowed as he surveyed the room once more. “For God’s sake, Jess, how could you run off like that, knowing you were increasing? Weren’t you aware that any child of Andrew’s would inherit a substantial income, the one that would have come to my brother had he lived to his twenty-first birthday?”
“I was never interested in Andrew’s money,” Jessica said wearily. “I told you that, but you refused to believe me.”
Raeburn persisted. “Did it not occur to you that if the baby were a boy, he would be my heir, the next Earl of Raeburn?”
Jessica flushed. Yes, that thought had occurred to her, and she had known a moment’s bitter triumph at the possibility that the son of the detested art mistress might aspire to one of the loftiest titles in the realm. But when she had imagined her child living at Renard Chase, studying at the finest schools, and mixing with the cream of society, she had begun to wonder if he would grow to despise her for her common background, as his father’s people had, and that possibility had made her determined to bring the baby up on her own. She had acquitted herself of any niggling charge of selfishness by deciding that she must save her child from the contaminating influence of wealth and position….
Thinking with loving adoration of her sleeping daughter, Jessica murmured quietly, “But as it happened, Graham, my little one proved to be but a girl. I’m afraid it will be up to you to provide for your own heir.”
Raeburn’s hard cheek twitched. Stonily he said, “And so I’ve done.”
Jessica jerked her head upright and stared at him, oddly breathless. “What do you mean?”
His strong features were absolutely expressionless as he replied, “I am engaged to be married.”
Jessica blinked hard, wondering why her stomach suddenly felt so hollow. “Married?” she echoed with a nervous titter that turned into a hoarse cough. “You, Graham? I—I always thought you were determined never to take that fatal step.”
He said darkly, “As you pointed out so succinctly, a man must have an heir. With Andrew gone….”
“I see,” Jessica murmured, staring blindly at the threadbare square of drugget that passed for a parlor rug. She shook her head in wonder. Raeburn married, leg-shackled. The idea was incomprehensible. Raeburn was a man large of stature, large of appetite. He liked big, fast horses, and his taste in women seemed inclined along the same lines. While Jessica and Andrew were in London, they had attended a performance of Don Giovanni, and her husband had pointed out Lucinda, the almost-too-buxom brunette singing the role of Zerlina, as Raeburn’s latest chere amie. Of course he would never demean his family name by taking to wife anyone of less than impeccable family and reputation, but the notion of him dancing attendance on some simpering debutante struck Jessica as rather grotesque. With an effort at politeness, she asked, “So who is the lucky girl, Graham, and when may I wish you happy? I seemed to have missed the announcement in the—”
“There’s been no official announcement as yet,” Raeburn interrupted. “The old duke, Daphne’s father, died almost a year ago, and she won’t be out of mourning until the end of November. She’ll be spending Christmas at Renard Chase with her brother the Marquess of—I mean Crowell now—and we’ll make it official then. We intend an Easter wedding.”
Jessica gaped as his words fit together in her mind, and the picture they formed was too shocking for diplomacy. “You’re going to marry Lady Daphne Templeton,” she choked in ragged astonishment. Even her artist’s imagination, with its appreciation of the unusual, the novel, could not accept that small, insipid young woman as wife to the large and flamboyant earl, even though their families had long been acquainted. Daphne was two years older than Jessica, and when they had met—and instantly clashed—she had been winding up her fourth unsuccessful Season in the marriage mart, a sorry fact that Andrew had privately attributed to her father’s clutch-fisted refusal to provide an adequate dowry for the girl. Both Daphne and her brother were hanging out for an advantageous marriage, but she was far too conscious of her exalted birth to consider an offer from a wealthy cit, and among her own kind her lack of both portion and particular beauty made a proposal unlikely unless some man fell madly in love with her personality. And since she was by nature prudish and condescending…. The last time Jessica had seen Lady Daphne had been on the dance floor at Almack’s. Her light blue eyes had been alight with rage, and over her bland face, its usual prim expression wiped out by fury, an ostrich feather had dripped with the sticky-sweet almond liqueur that Jessica had flung there…. Jessica giggled wildly at the memory. “Graham, you’ve taken leave of your senses!”
Stiffening, he said frigidly, “Jessica, I advise you to be quiet before you say something you may deeply regret in future. Lady Daphne is a woman of unimpeachable breeding and demeanor. Our fathers were close friends, which I suppose is the chief reason I thought of her when…. She has greatly honored me by consenting to become my wife. You would do well to remember that once we are married, she will not only be mistress of my house but also your kinswoman, and you should conduct yourself accordingly.”
Jessica flushed, acknowledging her ill manners. Whom Raeburn chose to marry was no concern of hers. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Graham,” she admitted tensely, bowing her head so that he could not see the effort this apology cost her. “I was unpardonably rude, and my only excuse is that, as I’m sure you’re aware, your—your fiancée and I have not always been on the most cordial of terms….”
She heard Raeburn snort, and she continued with as much dignity as she could muster, “I am truly sorry, Graham, and I promise I shan’t embarrass you if I meet Lady Daphne again. But—but happily there is little chance of our encountering each other—”
“I should say there was every chance,” Raeburn drawled wryly, “since the two of you will both be living at Renard Chase.”
“No,” Jessica said with flat insistence. “You cannot make me go back there.” She turned to stare at the dying fire, and she shivered. Watching the glowing embers turn softly gray, she wondered why people claimed hell was made of flame and sulphur. Hell was cold, cold as the slick marble walls of the Palladian mansion, cold as the scornful painted smiles of the Foxes and their friends and their household…. Jessica repeated, “I will not go back, Graham.”
She could hear the puzzled frown in his deep voice. “But why not, Jess? I’m not asking you to come back in some inferior position, if that’s what you fear. You’ll be treated with all honor and respect as my sister-in-law, my brother’s widow, and the fact that I am marrying will not change that one jot. It is my duty—and my most earnest wish—to provide for you now that Andrew is gone, and I will continue to do so until such time as you yourself decide to remarry.”
Remarry? Jessica thought bitterly. After the fiasco her union with Andrew had become, despite her love for him, did Raeburn really think she was eager to repeat the experience? No doubt that was what he hoped. He had not yet succeeded in convincing her that she ought to return to his home, and already he was plotting to rid himself of her, to foist her onto someone else, “You should be more prudent with such offers, Graham,” she muttered cynically, still not looking at him, “else you may find yourself with a pensioner for life. I have no intention of ever marrying again.”
At her last words, her voice dropped forlornly, her waspish resentment overpowered by the image of the future she had just outlined for herself, a lif
e without love, without comfort, without…. Something twisted deep inside her as she faced the prospect of never again knowing the sweetness of lying in a man’s hard arms, minds and bodies joined in one perfect moment of communion. She and Andrew had rushed untried into marriage, driven by anger as much as by love, but despite the social and mental differences that inevitably drove them apart, their physical union had been fortuitous—eager, youthful enthusiasm more than compensating for their mutual clumsiness and naïveté. Jessica had cared for her husband, and she had been bitterly hurt when he obviously grew to regret their elopement; but when Andrew died, the thought that had most shattered her was the realization that henceforth she would have to sleep alone….
Raeburn’s large hands closed gently over Jessica’s shoulders through the thickness of her shawl, and he eased her around on the settee so that she faced him. One long finger curled under her drooping chin and tilted her head upward so that he could study her pale, defiant face. He was troubled by the signs of depression bruising her translucent skin, the ashen tint that seemed a reflection of her worn black weeds, and the fire had gone out of her beautiful eyes, leaving them lackluster and bleak. For one grinding moment he felt a perverse urge to rip the ugly, tattered dress from her shoulders, kiss her fiercely until her mouth was red again, her cheeks flushed with color, her eyes glowing with their customary rage at his high-handedness.
Rigorously he repressed that thought, and his hand dropped away from her face. He said with soft insistence, “Of course you’ll marry again someday, Jess.” He wondered why the words set his teeth on edge.
Jessica shook her head in a mute gesture of denial, and Raeburn continued with studied calm. “You were born to be some fortunate man’s wife. Perhaps you think me callous or even cruel for saying such a thing, but I promise you I don’t mean to be. You loved my little brother. So did I. After my father died, it fell to me to be the one to raise Andy and Claire, and not a day passes that I don’t feel his loss acutely…but that doesn’t mean my life stops while I mourn him. Your life must go on too.”
“My life consists solely of my daughter,” Jessica said stiffly, and Raeburn’s expression hardened.
“As you wish,” he muttered, “but in that case, you had better resign yourself to returning to the Chase with me, for that is where my niece is going to be raised…with you or without you.”
Jessica trembled, hugging her arms convulsively. At last he had said it, had uttered aloud the implicit threat that had haunted her since her husband’s death, had made her choose a hard, tenuous life of obscure poverty over the undeniable comfort of the Raeburn estate. Her green eyes enormous, she whispered hoarsely, anxiously, “You mean to take my child from me, Graham?”
He knew a fleeting moment of shame at her obvious fear, but he did not allow his expression to waver. He declared steadily, “I have no wish to part you from your daughter, Jess, but in this I must be adamant, my brother’s child will be raised at Renard Chase in a manner befitting her station in life. Of course I should prefer that you live there too, but if you will not, then you will leave me no choice but to seek custody of her. I am already trustee for any moneys she stands to inherit from her father; it should be easy enough to have myself appointed her guardian as well….”
“But I am her mother,” Jessica asserted. “She needs me.” With mute appeal her hands reached up to touch the bodice of her dress. “Graham,” she pleaded hoarsely, “you cannot take Lottie from me. I…I still nurse her.”
His gray eyes flicked over her full bosom covered with somber black bombazine, and he felt a sudden urgent desire to see her swollen breasts bared as she gave suck to her child. He felt his body stir potently at the thought, and he realized with alarmingly jealous surprise that he wanted it to be his child too…. Aloud he said with a shrug, “I believe wet nurses are moderately easy to procure these days.”
Jessica paled, humiliated that she had abased herself. She squared her shoulders and faced him with hate-filled eyes. “I warn you, Graham, if you try to go through with this, I will oppose you.”
With affected unconcern he declared tiredly, “That’s scarcely anything new, Jess. You have always opposed me. You are the least governable woman it has ever been my misfortune….” He stood up deliberately, looming over her, large and intimidating, and when she shrank back instinctively, he softened his tone somewhat, a little ashamed of taking such easy advantage of his superior size and strength. He cajoled, “Be reasonable, my dear. You know it is hopeless to fight me in this; we are not evenly matched.”
“But I will fight you,” Jessica insisted doggedly, trying to garner her courage. “I will use every weapon at my disposal.”
“I’m sure you will,” he agreed quietly, and he sat down beside her again and took her icy fingers in his. He spoke conversationally, but his tone was sympathetic, almost—almost pitying. “If there is one thing that I have known about you from the first day we met, Jessica Foxe, it is that you are a fighter. Unfortunately for you, so am I. So…oppose me if you will, but in this matter I will not be swayed: you and your daughter—and your maid too, if you want her—are coming back with me to the place where you belong, the place where my brother’s child will be raised as she ought to be. As soon as I can hire a coach, we are all going home to Renard Chase.”
* * *
Chapter 3
The flat-columned facade of the house rose grim and forbidding under threatening skies as Jessica peered warily out the window of the coach, and with a sigh of resignation she pulled the leather curtain shut. She had dreaded this moment for days, ever since Raeburn had found her in Brighton. She had been so distraught at the prospect of returning to the estate that she had been only partially conscious of the time they had spent in London, time during which the earl had sent word to his family to prepare for the prodigal’s return, time during which he had wound up his affairs in Town and, incidentally, had also called in an expensive but discreet modiste to outfit Jessica with a new wardrobe to take to Renard Chase with her.
Jessica gazed down at her fashionable gown of lilac half-mourning, comparing it with the threadbare black dress that she had been wearing when Raeburn found her, the same dress she had worn the night she fled from his home. Half mad with anguish, she had wanted nothing that would remind her of the inhabitants of that house, and she and Willa had escaped with only the clothes on their backs. Later, when those garments had faded and frayed, Willa had advised her mistress to use part of the money paid her by her publishers to purchase something sturdy and warm, but Jessica had clung to her widow’s weeds as if they were a shield, a battle-scarred banner, with each new rent and tear a further charge against the Foxes…. Of course she hadn’t told Raeburn that. When he said grimly that he was ordering new clothing for her, she had made little comment, beyond a tight-lipped insistence that she was not ready to put aside her mourning entirely, even after thirteen months.
Jessica sighed and glanced anxiously at her daughter. The interior of the coach was extremely cold, but, wrapped in a warm new blanket of softest Kashmir wool, Lottie slept peacefully in Willa’s arms, lulled by the rocking motion of the well-sprung carriage marked with the Raeburn crest. Had it really been only a little more than a year since Andrew’s death? Jessica mused. It seemed to her that she had lived forever in dread of discovery. But no, only thirteen short months had passed, and now she was returning to Renard Chase, as everything she had ever feared came true…. She wondered drearily how long it would be before the Foxes made their move to take the baby from her. In her heart she knew it was only a matter of time.
A faint cough attracted her attention, and she turned to look at the man sitting beside her, his long legs stretched diagonally across the narrow space between the two seats, catching the hem of the rug covering Jessica’s lap and crowding her tightly into the corner. Raeburn was peering at her intently, his wide brow furrowed as if he were trying to see into her mind.
“Jess, do you really hate Renard Chase so much?” he
inquired quietly, his tone oddly gentle. With resignation she nodded silently, and after a moment he noted with forced lightness, “That’s strange. I’ve always vastly preferred it to any of my other houses.”
Aware that sullen rudeness would serve no purpose, Jessica made an effort to smile. “I’ve never denied that the Chase is beautiful,” she conceded with characteristic honesty. Andrew had explained to her once that the seventeenth-century house was one of the earliest efforts of John Webb, a student of Inigo Jones, and while its Palladian design was clearly imitative, more suited to a Mediterranean clime, the architecture was light and graceful, a symphony of white marble and airy arcades that were singularly inviting in the summer. Andrew had loved the house too, never understanding that to Jessica those tall Ionic columns bad seemed like sentries bent on keeping her, the interloper, outside…. When she and Willa had sneaked out of the sleeping house in the middle of the night, she had heard her footsteps echoing behind her, and to her distressed mind they had sounded like the mocking laughter of all the Foxes who had ever lived there.
Raeburn said, “I think you could be happy if you’d try, Jess. In your heart you know your daughter belongs here, and I want you to feel that you also belong. Promise me you’ll make an effort. That’s all I ask.”
Jessica smiled without humor, her memories still too vivid to make concession easy. “I think perhaps you ask too much, Graham,” she muttered.
Raeburn’s tone hardened, and his eyes pointedly remarked her new clothes and the color that was already returning to her cheeks due to her improved diet. “My dear sister-in-law,” he said icily, “most women would be on their knees with prayers of gratitude at such an opportunity. To have one’s wants so generously provided for with no requirement in return beyond a modicum of common courtesy—surely such duties will not be too taxing for someone of your undeniable…resources?”
The Clergyman's Daughter Page 5