Her bright eyes dulled, grew bleak. She was alone now, more alone than she had ever been before in her life. She had lost her husband, her family; her child was growing away from her. Now for some mysterious reason even her closest friend seemed wary of her confidence. Of all the people in the world that Jessica loved, there was only one whom she felt certain she could depend upon in time of trial—and even he owed his first loyalty to another woman….
Jessica’s troubled ruminations were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. As soon as Willa answered it Claire flounced into the room, Jessica’s portfolio in her hands. Her red curls tumbled merrily about her face as she declared with a bright smile, “Oh, good, you’re still awake! The party seemed to drag on forever; I think Daphne must have played every carol written since the Restoration! I wanted to talk to you, but I was afraid you might have gone to bed already. Inthe drawing room you seemed…tired or something. Are you unwell?”
Jessica shrugged with forced levity as she motioned to the chair beside her own. “I have a slight headache, that’s all.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Claire said sympathetically, “headaches can be the very devil, can’t they?” She hesitated, frowning at Jessica’s pallor. “You ought to be in bed, and I shouldn’t be bothering you. I only came by to bring you your sketchbook. I noticed that you had left it downstairs. I knew you would never dream of doing so, so I showed your drawings to Mister Mason—just to get his opinion, you understand. Doesn’t he strike you as rather an odd friend for Lord Crowell to have? There’s something about him, I’m not sure what, unless it’s those yellow eyes of his…. But he seems to have made a conquest of Aunt Talmadge, and he did appear most impressed with what you’d—”
When she saw Jessica staring mutely at her with wide, shocked eyes, Claire broke off, then stammered lamely, “I—I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to do that, Jess. It’s just that I thought you’d be interested in what a real artist had to say about your work.” Still Jessica did not speak, and Claire misinterpreted the reason for her silence. She said awkwardly, “Forgive me. You need to rest. We—we can talk later.” She turned as if to leave.
Jessica shook herself out of the catalepsy that had gripped her momentarily, that freezing terror of discovery. What difference did it make if Mason had seen her sketches? They revealed nothing. Those gentle portraits of her daughter and Claire bore little resemblance to Eryinys’ spiteful caricatures. She was allowing her guilt to overcome her good sense.
Jessica gazed up remorsefully at Claire. The girl had obviously been longing for a chance for a quiet coze, and how she thought that Jessica was angry with her, Jessica shook her head. “Oh, Claire, don’t run off like that. I know you meant well; it’s just that I’m a little…sensitive about my drawings. Please sit down and talk to me. A chat will do my headache far more good than bed. I beg you, stay and keep me company.” She glanced at Willa, who had resumed the mask of the well-trained servant, retreating to her corner where she picked up her sewing basket and began hemming new diapers for Lottie. “Would you care for some refreshment?”
At Jessica’s overture, Claire brightened. With a mock groan of repletion she settled into the armchair next to Jessica’s and giggled, “Lud, Jess, no more food, please! I shall become as fat as—as Lord Crowell if I continue eating the way I have these last few days. I can’t imagine what wizardry you have performed on the cook, to make her quit burning everything the way she usually does. Whenever Aunt Talmadge has tried to instruct the woman on proper methods of roasting and baking, for some reason she seems to resent the interference….”
Jessica’s fine black brows lifted as she considered Flora’s probable manner of “instruction.” If the cook had any spirit at all, she would undoubtedly feel goaded into doing exactly the opposite of whatever Flora told her…. Aloud she suggested, “I rather imagine that Cook is indeed somewhat sensitive to any challenge to her authority. It’s only natural. After all, the kitchen is her realm, her domain, just as the drawing room is yours. Anyone from the family who ventures below stairs is crossing a border into foreign territory, and they may not necessarily be…welcome.”
“But you seem welcome enough,” Claire said, a puzzled line forming between her velvety eyes.
Jessica smiled ironically. “That’s because I am one of them.” She thought of the deference with which the cook and her helpers had received her lately, a marked contrast to their thinly disguised scorn when she first came to the Chase. In the past year and a half, their attitude had reversed itself completely. Sometimes Jessica wondered if the staff accepted her now because she was Lottie’s mother—for her tiny red-haired daughter had engaged the affections of all the household—or if the change had been in herself. Had the servants decided to welcome her because she in turn had ceased to regard them with wary and defensive hostility? She shrugged mentally and added with gentle emphasis, “It’s above stairs that I am out of place….”
Claire exclaimed impatiently, “Oh, Jess, don’t say things like that! I thought you’d got over feeling that way. You’re very much a part of this family, and you’re far more of a lady than—than old Daphne, for all that her father was a duke.”
Jessica sighed. “Thanks, Claire. But you really shouldn’t speak that way, you know—”
“I don’t care!” the girl declared, shaking her bright curls defiantly. Just for a second her expression reminded Jessica irresistibly of Lottie on the verge of bawling, and she felt her heart swell with love for her daughter’s young aunt. Claire said, “Daphne Templeton is a pretentious prig, and she makes me sick when she starts talking about the way she is going to organize my debut…if I ever get to have one. You’d think she was one of the patronesses at Almack’s, the way she declaims on the ‘proper behavior for a girl of my station.’ As best I can figure out, that means it’s all right to be rude to the servants, and she talks as if Graham had snatched her up before she even came out, when everyone knows that she was on her fourth season when her father died….”
Claire paused, grumbling under her breath. “What Graham sees in her…when I asked him, he just mumbled something about Daphne being ‘suitable’….” She hesitated again; then she admitted grudgingly, “Oh, I suppose you’re right, Jess. Daphne Templeton is Graham’s choice, for whatever reason, and if she’ll make him happy, he’s welcome to her. I just hope no one devises a plan to match me up with that brother of hers!”
Jessica stared, but her instinctive gasp was suddenly drowned out by the clatter of Willa’s sewing box hitting the floor, scissors and pins scattering all about. Jessica jerked around. “Willa, what on earth are you doing?” she demanded.
The maid was already on her knees, reaching for a bobbin of thread that had rolled beneath her chair. “Forgive me, Miss Jess,” she said, not looking up. Her voice quivered.
“The basket slipped off my lap. I’ll try not to be so fumble-fingered again.”
Jessica watched Willa awkwardly gather up the strewn sewing implements, her movements distracted and clumsy, “Truly, it doesn’t matter,” she tried to reassure, but the maid did not seem to hear. When Jessica returned her green gaze to Claire, they exchanged a baffled shrug.
After a moment Jessica recalled Claire’s earlier words and asked carefully, “Just what did you mean by your remark about marrying Lord Crowell, Claire? Has—has the man been making advances to you? I cannot believe that Graham would sanction such behavior, even in his future brother-in-law.”
Claire’s face drooped. She muttered, “Oh, Jess, please don’t—don’t say anything to Graham about this. I mean, His Lordship has done nothing that…it’s just that sometimes he…looks…at me, and it makes me…afraid….”
“Afraid?” Jessica echoed. “How do you mean?”
The girl shrugged helplessly, staring down at her hands. “I don’t know. But I—I keep remembering how Graham has such an obsession about marrying ‘suitable’ people, and who could be more suited to me than a duke? I’ve heard he doesn’t have much
money—but that wouldn’t matter much because Graham says I do—and he must be respectable enough if he’s the brother of the woman Graham himself is taking to wife….”
She inhaled deeply, then burst out, “But I don’t like Lord Crowell! The man’s a pig! Most of the time he seems amiable enough, but every now and then, especially after he’s been at the port, I see this—this expression in his face, and it worries me.” After another hesitation she lifted her chin proudly, and in her soft brown eyes Jessica could read a strange mixture of fear and defiance. Claire said, “I may only be seventeen, Jess, but I know what that look means. I’ve seen it before. And I tell you now that I would prefer to die than to have to let someone like Lord Crowell touch me, whatever his rank. I know what I want in a man, someone strong and slim with bright blue eyes and a way of talking that makes you feel—” She broke off abruptly.
Jessica watched with dawning suspicion. “Claire, who are you talking about?”
“Oh…no one in particular. Doesn’t every girl dream of a handsome gallant?” The girl laughed with unconvincing archness. Her light voice hardened. “It’s just that—that when the time comes for me to find a husband, if Graham tries to wed me to a man like Lord Crowell, I’ll ask…. Well, if I really have all this money, I’ll find someone who pleases me and elope to Scotland, the way you and Andy did.”
Jessica winced. “For God’s sake, Claire, what on earth are you saying? Whom do you mean?”
“Oh, no one, Jess! Honestly, I didn’t mean anyone special! It’s just that I’ve always thought it must have been so romantic, running away with the man you loved.”
Jessica groaned, covering her face with her hands as she remembered much that she had tried to forget. “Romantic?” she snorted.
Claire, watching her with dismay, misinterpreted her distress and stammered, “I’m s-sorry, Jess. I know it must—must hurt you, to think about Andy. But at least the two of you shared something that was exciting and—and beautiful.”
Jessica’s hands fell away, revealing green eyes that gleamed with bitter fire. “My God, the authors of purple romances have much to answer for!” she declared huskily. Suddenly she found herself spitting out words that she had kept locked inside her for almost two years. “I assure you, Claire, romantic was the one thing that ill-starred adventure was not! It was uncomfortable, bounding over roads that had yet to be repaired after the spring rains, and it was expensive, haggling with insolent ostlers for the privilege of hiring a carriage at twice the normal rate, because they knew quite well where Andrew and I were bound. We dreaded each second we had to stop along the way, for fear Raeburn was in hot pursuit—”
Claire interjected thoughtfully, “As I recall, Graham was so deep in his cups that he could scarce have mounted his horse, much less chased anyone….”
Jessica nodded in acknowledgement, remembering how she had been able to taste the brandy on his hard mouth when he kissed her…. She muttered, “Yes. Well, Andrew and I had no way of knowing that.” Gulping down a deep breath she said darkly, “When sheer exhaustion at last forced us to stop in our flight, the first inn we came to refused to take us in. I can still recall the way the landlord looked at me, when Andrew attempted to tell him that I was his sister….”
Her voice trailed off, and glancing at the girl who listened avidly, she decided not to describe the dingy, sordid tavern where they had finally taken shelter, the leering inmates and the strange hands that tried the bedroom doorknob in the middle of the night. She shook her head wryly. “And when we did at last reach Gretna Green…. Trust me, Claire, when I say that there is nothing romantic about being married in a blacksmith’s shop. If you have been raised to believe that a wedding means taking your vows in church, wearing lace and singing hymns, pledging yourselves before God and all your friends—then by contrast, leaping over the anvil seems sacrilegious and silly and…and degrading.”
Claire wrinkled her nose, and Jessica could see that the girl still did not understand the essence of what she was trying to tell her. “But, Jess,” she asked innocently, “could the lack of music and bridal finery really matter so much, as long as you became Andy’s wife?”
Jessica smiled thinly, sardonically. “But that’s just it, Claire,” she said. “Andrew and I knew that we were married—under Scottish edict, all that is required is a declaration in the presence of witnesses—but despite the law, when we returned to England, society looked upon me not as Andrew’s true wife, but as the parson’s brat, the conniving harlot who had seduced him….”
Claire’s white skin grew whiter, showing up the faint freckles that were almost invisible. “Oh, Jess,” she said miserably, “surely you don’t mean that—”
Jessica’s patience was rapidly vanishing in the face of the girl’s persistent naïveté, and she knew that a second longer, and the words she had tried to avoid would be ripped from her throat. She could not do that to Andrew’s sister, whom she loved. Slowly she crossed the room to the window, where she pulled back the drape and stared out into the night. Moonlight glimmered on the freshly fallen snow like antique satin, and she was astonished to see the same light gleaming on the pale hair of the large, solitary figure whose restless strides slashed the virginal blanket raggedly, like a dull knife.
“Please, Claire,” Jessica rasped, trying to speak normally as she gazed down at him, wondering what agitation had driven him out into the cold and the dark to wander about like a damned spirit. “Please, Claire,” she repeated, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I—I only want you to understand that you must not even make jokes about eloping with a man. Such talk is…unseemly.”
Behind her Claire recognized the dismissal in Jessica’s words. She murmured contritely, “I’m truly sorry I distressed you. I didn’t mean to. I was—I was just…curious.” She stared at Jessica’s rigid back, then with a sigh she turned to leave. After a second, Jessica heard Willa close the corridor door firmly behind the girl.
As Jessica watched Raeburn’s aimless meandering below she wondered with a certain dread what he would make of Claire’s probing questions. She prayed the girl would not repeat them elsewhere, just as she hoped fervently that they had been prompted by nothing more critical than adolescent inquisitiveness, and not some crackbrained notion of….
Jessica trembled with apprehension. She knew that Claire was growing up far more rapidly than her brother credited, but still…. She shook her head impatiently. No, of course not, she was imagining things. Claire had not left Renard Chase since last fall, there was no man nearby for whom she might have conceived an ill-advised tendre. Had Jessica thought there was any real danger that Claire might have formed such an attachment, she would do everything in her power to scuttle it before Raeburn found out; if such a step became necessary to quash the girl’s romantic fantasies, Jessica would overcome her own scruples and tell her the rest of the story of her short marriage. She would betray Andrew in order to save Claire.
Despite the pain such revelations would cause her personally, Jessica knew that if it were required, she would not hesitate to tell Claire bluntly that Andrew’s passionate, all-consuming love for her had died a very quick death. When her husband realized that the only way he could overcome the ostracism of society and regain the position he had occupied since birth was to join with the others against her, his wife, he had willingly taken their side. When the ton made it clear that they regarded Jessica as little better than a whore, Andrew concurred with their judgment and began to treat her accordingly….
Jessica watched Raeburn hungrily as he strode along the slushy drive, the lines of his powerful body lithe and compelling even through the masking folds of his long greatcoat. In the moonlight she could just make out the little cloud of steam his hot breath formed around his mouth, and she remembered with an almost physical ache me feel of that breath, that mouth caressing her face, her skin….
She must not let herself think of him in this way, she chided herself angrily; he was not hers…. She supposed she
ought to be laughing at the cruel irony of it all, that despite the way he had assaulted her on the day they met, in the end, after she married Andrew, Raeburn himself had been the only one who had not despised her, the only man who had tried to defend her against the strictures of society—but she had not understood. She had thought him as bad or worse than all the rest, and afterward when she lashed out at those who had rejected her, she had made him the target of her crudest revenge. The shreds of her lacerated self-respect had blinded her to his worth, and they had not fallen away from her eyes, revealing the truth, until now, when it was far, far too late.
With steps weighted with remorse, she turned away from the window, dragging the drapery after her, her fingers strangely reluctant to release the plush velvet. The movement flashed an irregular triangle of yellow light that reflected on the snow below, attracting the attention of the man who walked there, and he turned iron-colored eyes upward to stare at her window. He was still standing there, his booted toes buried in the edge of a snowbank, his hands clenched deep in his pockets, long after the curtain had dropped back heavily into place.
The Clergyman's Daughter Page 13