“This is foolishness, my darling,” he breathed, pressing her close. “All I desire is that you talk to me. Just talk to me. Nothing more.”
She struggled and pulled away. Her cheeks were pink, her green eyes bright, and her hair now as much of a tangle as his. “What have you done with the boats?” she demanded.
“Me?”
“Yes. You must have done something, for how did you get to the island if not by boat?”
“Your aunt dispatched James the footman to row me over, and unknown to me she instructed him to maroon us both here.”
Juliet stared in disbelief. “That cannot be so. Aunt M would never allow you to come here.”
“On the contrary, she not only permitted me to come here, she made damned sure I stayed. And before you call me liar again, let me assure you that I didn’t even know you were on the island. I thought I was coming here to await your response to my request to see you.”
“Why would my aunt thrust us together? She knows how I feel about you.”
He searched her lovely eyes, so angry and accusing. “Perhaps I persuaded her that I deserved—”
“You don’t deserve anything,” she pointed out quickly.
“Everyone deserves a second chance, Juliet, even a faithless husband. Lady M thinks so too, and is being the fairy godmother who grants my wish.”
“Wish?”
“Yes. I have yearned for a reconciliation ever since you so rightly spurned me. The chance to speak to you again has been my single prayer throughout the past six years. I cannot go on without striving to win your heart again, and that is why I am here. I laid bare my heart to Lady M, and my presence here on the island is the result.”
Emotion got the better of him, and he put his fingertips lovingly to her cheek, but she brushed his hand aside. “I don’t want your caresses, Charles.”
“Maybe not, but it’s Christmas Day, Juliet, and I love you deeply. Have you no mercy? We once meant everything to each other, and to me you still do, so if we let this opportunity pass by we will both be eeyots.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Don’t use that word.”
“I must use every weapon at my disposal if I am to win your hand again.”
“If I agree to talk, I don’t want you to think that it necessarily follows that we will be reunited. What you did was despicable, and I do not know that I will ever be able to trust you again. Without trust there can be no future happiness. You do understand that?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“I will never, never be the sort of wife to accept a husband’s unfaithfulness.”
“I know.” Oh, how he knew . . .
She held her head haughtily. “Do you accept my terms for talking?”
“Yes.”
She relaxed a little. “Very well. Shall we walk awhile?”
Walk? His stomach was rumbling like an earthquake, but he dared not let any opportunity to be with her pass by, so he nodded. “Yes, of course.” He offered her his arm, but she shook her head.
“There must not be any misunderstanding, and if I take your arm I fear there will be. Let us simply walk around the island.”
With that he had to be content.
The little scene by the jetty had been observed from Marchwell Park, where Juliet’s aunt was again at the window with the spyglass. Magpie Eyot had been under such close scrutiny since dawn that she had left her Christmas guests to their own devices; indeed, she’d hardly given them a thought. Her prime consideration was the pair at the Retreat, and whether or not their broken marriage could be satisfactorily repaired.
As she peered through the glass, she saw a familiar black-and-white shape winging toward her. So that was why she hadn’t seen him yet this morning, he’d been out all night. She quickly opened the window for the magpie to come inside, which he did, scattering powdery snow into the room as he landed on the ledge.
Lady Marchwell was all concern. “My poor, darling boy, you must be frozen!” she cried, and hastened to send her maid for a glass of sherry. Jack had long since learned that wonderful word, and knew exactly when to play upon his mistress’s emotions. He shivered and looked forlorn, so that she hurried to place a velvet cushion in front of the bedroom hearth. “Here you are,” she said, denting it to make a nest. In a trice the magpie was warmly ensconced. No fool he! All this and sherry on its way too? Oh, how he loved this time of year.
But Lady Marchwell was eyeing him thoughtfully. He had, she decided, become a little too attached to drink, which could not, in the long run, be very good for him. A New Year’s resolution was necessary to return him to a desirable state of decorum and sobriety.
7
Charles and Juliet walked side by side through the snow, following the path that led around the island at the very edge of the Thames, although from time to time the swollen river covered it completely and they had to make their way through the trees instead. The path was one they had walked countless times in the past, always hand in hand, always pausing to kiss, always in love. Today, although their hands occasionally brushed, there was a yawning chasm between them. Could it be bridged? Charles prayed so with all his heart.
Such a morning was perfect for Christmas Day, with the distant bells of Windsor ringing across the countryside, children building a snowman outside a cottage on the far bank, and bright red berries shining on all the holly bushes that flourished on the island. Magpies chattered in the pines, their black-and-white plumage sharp against the blue of the sky, and now that he was with Juliet again, Charles found that he no longer found the birds’ noise quite so abhorrent.
They talked of this and that, harmless topics that were nevertheless reminders of how things had once been between them. Mannerisms, occasional smiles, and even an occasional sprinkling of laughter served to arouse shades of the happier past, before hearts and vows had been broken. It was when Juliet asked about Bengal that the hitherto tentative conversation became more serious, for although she was clearly fascinated by the wonderful things he had seen there, and put many questions to him, it was the questions she didn’t put that lingered in the crisp air.
He knew she was wondering what women he had known during his years in Madras, and how intimately, but she was too proud to ask. It was up to him to tell her, if only so that he could in turn ask her about the men in her life during the past six years. Truth to tell, it did not matter how reassuring Lady Marchwell had been on that score, he needed to hear it from Juliet herself.
If he had but known, Juliet was at that same moment struggling to put her unasked question into words. A fear lurked within her that there had been another Sally Monckton in Madras. It was something that had preyed upon her mind since they parted, for if he had taken a mistress while their marriage was happy, then surely he had no reason not to take another when bitterness and thousands of miles separated him from his wife.
As these private anxieties become harder and harder to subdue, they suddenly halted and turned at the same time.
“Juliet, I—”
“Charles, I—”
They both broke off, their eyes meeting self-consciously, then they both demurred.
“After you,” he said.
“You first,” she said.
This time they both laughed, and for a second her glance brushed his with the playfulness of old. “All right, I’ll ask first, although . . .”
“Yes?”
“Although I am embarrassed to mention such a thing to you.”
“Ask what you will,” he urged.
Her cheeks filled with color, and she cleared her throat as she looked down the Thames toward Windsor. “Did you meet anyone in Madras? I . . . I mean, was there someone you loved?” For a moment she could not meet his gaze, but then looked him full in the eyes. “The truth, Charles. I must know the truth.”
“My days of lying to you are at an end, Juliet. Yes, I met many women in Madras, some of whom made their availability quite plain, but I did not take any of them to my bed. Nor indeed, should you thi
nk that an ambiguous answer, did I go to anyone else’s bed. I made love to no one, desired no one, because all I could think of was you.”
“You haven’t been with anyone at all?” Astonishment lit her eyes.
“That’s right.”
She didn’t know what to think, for the Charles Neville she knew was a passionate man who had proved his ardor for her both on going to bed and on awakening again the next morning. For him to be celibate for six long years . . .
“Juliet, guilt and heartbreak are sovereign cures for lust, unless it be for the one for whom one feels the guilt and heartbreak. I have made love to you a thousand times over in my imagination.”
The color on her cheeks deepened, and she had to look away, for in her dreams she had made love to him too. A thousand times over.
“Do you believe me, Juliet?” he pressed.
She nodded. Of course she believed him, because she had been the same.
“Juliet, I must ask you . . . ?”
“If I have taken a lover? Or lovers, maybe?” Her glance swung back to him. “Like you, I have not been without offers, but also like you, I have not desired any of them.”
He reached out to take her hand. “Do you love me still, Juliet?”
“I don’t know, Charles. At this moment I feel so overwhelmed and confused that it is an impossible question to answer.”
He smiled, for at least she had not dashed his hopes completely. “I am content with such an answer, for I have no right to expect any more. But know this, I still love you, and if you would have me back again I would surely be the happiest of men.”
“You go too fast, Charles.”
“I know.” He smiled again. “I also know that I’m getting damnably cold out here. Can we please continue at the lodge? I’m so hungry that I could even contemplate shinning up one of those pines for some cones.”
She gave a quick laugh. “There is no need to do that, for I am sure the Retreat’s kitchens can provide better fare than that, and a warm fire too. But no servants to attend to your needs. What you eat must be prepared yourself.”
“That is no hardship to me. My wanderings in Bengal prepared me for most things.”
They turned and made their way back to the lodge, where the kitchens were delightfully warm, the fire there being much larger and staying alight much longer than in the rest of the house. Soon there were fresh flames as Charles poked the winking embers and then added a holly log that spat and crackled as the fire grew stronger. The dancing light shimmered on the many copper pots and pans that hung around the fireplace, and the blue-and-white crockery on the wall dressers was turned to pink and mauve.
The cooking of simple but substantial meals was nothing to Charles, and soon the smell of toasting bread and scrambling eggs filled the air. When the singing of a kettle in readiness for tea was added to the mix, the atmosphere between the estranged couple soon mellowed into a more mutual desire to talk. Juliet so far forgot herself as to giggle when he placed an exceedingly hearty breakfast before her on the scrubbed table. “Why, Charles Neville, I would never have believed you capable of cooking!”
“Nor would I. The brief perusal of a White’s menu card was once my sole contribution, but when the Devil drives . . .” He smiled as he drew out a chair and sat opposite her. “I have to say that scrambled eggs are enhanced to an unbelievable degree by certain eastern spices, none of which is available in this particular kitchen, but one day soon I will see that you sample what I mean.” He colored a little as he finished, for the sentence presumed there was going to be a happy outcome.
She poured the tea. “Aunt M always says that fresh thyme leaves are the best complement to scrambled eggs,” she said almost absently.
“Or perchance a little of the ketchup made from her secret recipe by Mrs. Fellowes, the cook at Neville Castle.”
Juliet nodded. “Yes, a little of that too.” She watched as he applied himself to the food, and when he had finished pushed her own plate toward him. “Have this as well. I’m not really very hungry.”
“I suppose I have ruined your appetite,” he replied a little ruefully.
“Well, I confess to being a little nervous and bemused to find myself breakfasting with you again,” she admitted, then raised an eyebrow at the vigor with which he set about her portion as well. “Just how long is it since you last ate?”
“It feels like a week, but I suppose it was early yesterday afternoon. A Basingstoke inn, as I recall. Indifferent fare.”
“You could have cooked better, no doubt,” she replied with a faint smile.
“Indeed I could.”
Their eyes met, and this time she did not look away. “Why did you turn to Sally Monckton?” she asked quietly.
He exhaled slowly. “My reasons were shameful and callow, and reveal me to have been little more than a boy masquerading as a man.” He explained exactly how he had felt at that foolish time, and with each word he felt more humbled and dishonored. He did not leave out a single detail, or spare himself by making excuses, so that when he finished he could truthfully say that she now knew everything. He stripped his conscience bare, and there was nothing more he could do to convince her of his remorse.
She said nothing when he finished, and he became anxious. “Juliet, it would not happen now, believe me. Six years is more than time enough to reflect upon all that I so stupidly threw away.”
She toyed with her teacup. “I believe all you’ve told me, Charles, but you have to understand that your actions proved I could not trust you. I’m sure that if I were the one explaining my infidelity, you would also find it hard to trust me again.”
The words echoed Lady Marchwell’s. “It would be deceitful of me to deny it, for I could not bear to think of you in someone else’s arms.”
For a moment she was silent again, then she glanced at him and away again swiftly. “Did you ever love her? I mean, really love her?”
“No.” It was the truth.
“That at least is consolation.”
He saw a lifeline in such words, and clutched at it. “You can trust me again, Juliet, for I swear that I am now the man I ought to have been then.” He rose and went to a window to look out over the snowy island. “I can only say that the past six years have been my punishment, and that every day I have awakened yearning to find it was a nightmare, and that you will be beside me again, just stirring from sleep, puzzled to know why I am so overjoyed. Juliet, if I could turn back the clock and make things as they were before I let you down . . .”
“But we’re different people now, Charles,” she interrupted quietly.
He went back to the table, his eyes imploring. “I am different now, Juliet, but you are the same sweet, gentle, kind, adorable woman you always were.”
“The same gull I always was too?”
“That is not what I said, or indeed what I meant.” Now his was the gaze filled with reproach. “You see before you a new husband, a better husband, a true husband, who believes to the depths of his soul that we can start again. All you have to do is wear my ring again, and let me prove that I am worthy of you.”
The light in his eyes, the fervor in his voice, and the urgency in his manner, all combined to quicken her heart. More and more glimpses of past happiness jostled at the edge of her consciousness, reminding her just how much love and joy she had shared with him.
“Please, my darling,” he whispered. “See, I have worn the ring all this time . . .” He reached inside his shirt for the purple ribbon, but of course it was not there.
Juliet was puzzled. “My wedding ring? But that’s impossible, for Jack lost it.”
“No, he didn’t, he brought it to me at White’s.” Charles delved everywhere in the shirt in case the ribbon had somehow come undone. Then he remembered taking it off in the drawing room the night before, and without further ado he strode from the kitchen to get it.
Juliet hurried after him. “This is nonsense, Charles. Jack can’t possibly have taken the ring to you, White
’s is miles away from here!”
“Nevertheless he did, and I have kept it around my neck for six years,” Charles shouted over his shoulder as he entered the drawing room. But when he went to the sofa, he found neither ribbon nor ring. He moved the cushions, shoved a hand in every corner, and even looked underneath, but there was no telltale sheen of purple satin or rich glint of gold. Dismayed, he cast around the rest of the room, but no matter where he searched, he found nothing.
Juliet, meanwhile, watched patiently from the doorway. She could see a great deal of the room, far more than Charles could, and what she saw made her smile. Charles had always been comical when he’d lost something, especially when so often he failed to see what was right under his nose. Or right above it. Fondness warmed her eyes; no, much more than fondness . . . “Do you remember when you lost that letter opener your great-aunt gave you for your birthday?”
“That was not funny, for she was coming within the hour and was bound to want to see I’d received it safely.” Charles ran a hand through his hair, and glanced around in bewilderment. Where on God’s own earth was the ring? It had been here last night, but now it had disappeared.
“I remember you found the letter opener in the nick of time, only for her not to mention it anyway,” Juliet went on.
“Which, as I recall, afforded you much hilarity at my expense.”
“Of course.” She paused, knowing she loved him still, and that ring or not, she would be his wife again. How could she not? She had not been able to forget him, and if she’d wavered at all these past six years it was pride’s doing. But the future was a long time to spend alone, and now that she was with him again she knew she wished to spend it with him. Sally Monckton should not be accorded the importance of keeping Sir Charles and Lady Neville apart a moment longer, especially when the ring he sought so desperately was only a few feet from where he stood. “Charles, you must forgive my mirth, but if you will keep giving me cause . . .”
“Cause? What do you mean?” He was cross with her. “Juliet, I have been waiting six years to put that ring back on your finger, it has been my greatest wish, and now that I am with you again the damned ring has disappeared and you appear to think it amusing!”
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