Tears were streaming down Lesley’s cheeks. She laid down the letters, and sobbed into her handkerchief. Mrs Meredith must have been listening, for she entered and took Lesley into her arms.
“My dear, you are exhausted. I shall take you up to bed with a hot posset, and hot bricks at your feet. It is turning rainy and chill, for all it is August.” And she bustled Lesley up to her bedroom.
Netta had turned down the covers, and soon had Lesley in bed. But Lesley insisted on her leaving the candle alight.
After she was alone again, she took out the letters she had carried with her, and read the remaining three.
Burke wrote of his grief over Sandy, asked desperately for any news of him, showed his increasing concern that Mrs Meredith had not been able to win consent to see the boy.
I dare not tell Lesley. I had hoped to give her good news of the lad with your letter. If matters do not better, I must drop my work and come up to London myself. That Stukely, I will whip him to unconsciousness if he has harmed the lad.
Again he wrote in the last letter:
Lesley is no better. I am alarmed at her. She is stubborn, Viola says, and will nurse her grief rather than allow anyone to comfort her. I could shake her, yet I would rather kiss away her tears, and hold her to me in comfort. She will not allow it. If only we were more close — but forgive me for all this — I still hope to win her, I will try to prove I am a changed man. Her heart is with the lad. She can love so much, if she but loved me I would be the most fortunate man in the world.
Lesley finished the last letter, and laid them all together on the table. She would waken early and read them all again. They showed such a tender side of Burke, such anxiety that he had never revealed to her, such anxious love for her...
Could she believe it? She lay in the darkness, having blown out the candle. Could she believe what he had written?
She realized she wanted to believe what he wrote. She shut her eyes tightly, but in the darkness she could see his face, the dark tan reddening as she snubbed him, or spoke with sarcastic wit at his expense. How patient he had been with her, how his mouth had been held tight to keep from lashing back at her. He was a stronger man than she had believed possible.
But her jealous rage, her anger had hit at him rather than at Denise and Aunt Felicia and the others. Could it be true ... that the four of them had maliciously plotted her downfall, and Burke’s ... and Sandy’s?
She was too weary to think. “I will consider it in the morning,” she murmured and turned over to lie with her cheek on the pillow.
She could not sleep yet. She thought of Burke, and yearned to speak with him, to ask him ... did he mean it? Did he love her? Did he wish to woo and win her? The words he had written burned in her mind.
Another thought started her wide awake. She had been terribly jealous of Denise.
Why?
Could one be jealous over another woman ... without loving the man? She had thought she was angry with Burke because of losing Sandy.
But she had been jealous even before Sandy was taken from her. She had been furious whenever she thought of Denise. She had been green-eyed over that woman whenever they were in the same room with Burke.
Why?
Could it be ... had she been falling in love with Burke? Was she jealous because she wanted Burke’s attention and devotion for herself?
They had been so happy, those first few weeks at Penhallow. Whenever she had overcome her suspicions of him, and allowed herself to be charmed by him, she had enjoyed it. She had come close to admitting her love ... then Denise had turned up.
Had she, Lesley, the man-hater, come to love her husband ... and desire him? If he had insisted on coming to her bed, would she have long resisted him?
In the darkness, she finally confessed it to herself, perhaps because she was weak and exhausted. “I do love him. Oh, Burke ... I do love you. If it could all have been different...”
She remembered his words. If he could only have changed the past, not acted in such a way as to gain himself the reputation of rake ... He regretted it, he would have changed it. But one cannot change the past. It is there, all written out blackly, sanded and dried.
No changing the past. One could only live in the present, and resolve to do better in the future.
She wondered again if she could believe his words. If he did truly love her ... could she allow herself to trust him, and let herself love him?
She realized she already loved him. She could not help that. She loved and desired him, she wanted his arms about her.
Yet ... she did not trust him. Not yet.
CHAPTER 12
Burke rode home wearily as the afternoon sun began to dip towards the horizon. He was reluctant to face Lesley again, yet he ever hoped he would find her rested and smiling. Smiling! She had not smiled nor spoken a kind word to him since that dreadful night she had seen him with Denise in her negligée and him in his robe.
She did not believe him at all. That stung bitterly. He had tried to win her, to make her trust him. To find all had been in vain had been a dreadful awakening.
His past was being held against him so long. Did she not believe a man could change? Of course, she distrusted men. Being a beautiful woman, and an heiress, had made her naturally suspicious of men and their flattery. And her intelligence and cool mind added to that suspicion. He had seen her beautiful mouth curl up in scorn at compliments, her grey eyes chill when men tried to kiss her hand. She had all but snatched it from them. He had been amused ... but now he understood her better. How tense a situation it had been for her, to be courted continuously — for her money. She had built defences against men, and it was not easy to tear them down.
He thought wistfully of the first days of their marriage. They had ridden out together, he had seen her face sparkle with her interest, warm with sympathy for the welfare of others, keen with quick intelligence about the matters of the running of Penhallow. It had been a revelation to him, how much a good, kind woman would be of aid to him in his difficult work. The women had softened to her, the men had come to respect her quickly. Even the incident of the town hall speech had not been too unfavourable.
After their first anger, the men had said to him, “That’s a smart wife you got yourself, Mr Penhallow! Maybe too smart, you know what I mean? But she’s got a heart, she has. She just doesn’t understand good business! You got to use children in the cloth mills, older folks ain’t got the right small hands for the work!”
Burke grimaced. He was coming to Lesley’s passionate opinion that men would work children to death if it put a few more pounds in their pockets. He sighed. He had seen to it that more food was given to them, but he had not been able to cut their hours of work from twelve per day, nor done more than furnish warmer clothes for them. No lessening of work, no education, not much kindness. Not even for little two-year-old ones.
He drove the small carriage into the stable yard, and two men ran up to greet him. He nodded mechanically, not noting really their anxious looks. He turned over the horse and carriage to them.
He had really hoped Lesley would ride out with him today. He had ordered the carriage ... but she had not even spoken to him nor looked at him. She must hate him bitterly.
Poor dear Sandy. His footsteps dragged as he strode up to the side door and entered. He would wash and change...
Viola heard him and ran to him. “Oh, Burke! Burke!” She had been weeping. Tearstains flushed her cheeks.
He gripped her slender arms. Edgar was coming behind her. “What is it?” he asked sharply. “Lesley —”
“She has departed for London, we do not know why! She received a letter from Aunt Stukely, the butler said. She turned quite white, and ordered trunks and boxes, and she set off with Netta in half an hour!” The words poured from Viola.
Burke felt as though the blood stopped in his body before continuing again at a reckless pace. He felt dizzy, sick. Lesley had left him at last! Edgar was speaking, Burke could not hear him
for the drumming in his head.
She was his wife! He would go after her, he would drag her back with him, though she wept and screamed! She was his wife, though she denied him her bed. By God, he would take her to his bed, and she would accept him...
“We told him too quickly,” Edgar was saying anxiously. “Burke, you must come and sit down!” They led him to the study nearby. He sank into his chair, put his hands to his head.
“Tell me again.” He was amazed at the quietness of his voice. “She received a letter from Aunt Stukely — what did the letter say? Did she tell you?”
Viola said, “We had left in our carriage for the day. We returned two hours ago, and the butler said she had departed. No one knows why. She said she must go to London. She took Grimes and the barouche, and Netta, of course.”
“But why? Why?” He could only think Lesley had seized an excuse to leave him.
“You have another letter from Aunt Stukely,” said Viola anxiously. “It is in the post on your desk — I did look, forgive me,” she added guiltily.
He fumbled among the letters, found the one from Mrs Stukely, and opened it. He read it, frowning over the scrawl and misspellings and lack of punctuation. As he read, he felt a dread cold fear coming over him.
He went back quickly over the words, snatching at the ones with meaning.
Sandy has been child-snatched — must be criminals, he disappeared two weeks ago, we have been hunting. Stukely says you must be told, though what you can do we do not know. Stukely is doing all posible, he is distracted — I am fair weeppping all the days —
She added:
You need not com to London, we do all posible. Stukely thot you shuld know this, that is why I rite to you today.
He laid down the letter. “Sandy has disappeared,” he said flatly, as though speaking would make the words have sense. “They think he was child-snatched by criminals. I must go to London at once.”
Viola had gone pale. She whispered, “Sandy ... gone ... oh, my poor dear Lesley ... she must be sick with it ... oh, dear God, poor dear Sandy...”
Edgar went over to her to comfort her, his arm went quickly about her as she swayed. “We must all go up to London. We shall be needed, I think,” he said quietly.
Burke nodded. “Let me think.” He paused, his hand on his head. Think. Clearly. What to do. “Edgar, if you will tell the men to be ready to drive us all to London ... no. No. I must go first. The house here must be closed up — we probably will not return. Viola — will you ask the housekeeper to attend to that? Let me think.”
He leaned his head on his hands. His brain was whirling. He wanted only to think of Sandy and of Lesley. But first he must plan. Finally he raised his head to find Viola and Edgar eyeing him anxiously.
“Yes. I will go tomorrow, ahead of you. A horse will proceed quickly. Do you remain behind. Mrs Grigson will chaperone you, Viola. I will give her instructions, also the housekeeper. We must close the house — proceed to London and open the townhouse there, ready to pursue the matter of recovering Sandy. It may take some time.”
“Oh, Burke!” whispered Viola, her lips quite pale and white. “Do you think he ... he may be...”
He shook his head blindly. “We must have hope, Viola. Let me see. Edgar, if you will be so good — ride about tomorrow, explain to my men I am called away — they must continue the work of the summer, into the harvest. I shall hope to return to direct the work, but if not, then Bates will be in charge. Yes, Bates, he is a good man.” He rubbed his head. “Is that all? The mill ... tell them at the mill to proceed with the reconstruction of the frame. It should be in order by the harvest. Go ahead and purchase the millstone as we discussed. The money will be in the bank for it. I will send a cheque to the banker, it will be ready.”
Edgar was nodding, listening, taking it all in. “Yes, Burke, I will do all this. When it is completed, you wish us to come to London?”
“Yes, Lesley will wish her sister with her.” Burke smiled a little at Viola, at her anxious face. “Viola can soothe her and make her slow down. She will listen to you, my dear. When the house matters and the farm are cared for, do you pack up all that you need ... Viola, see to it that your sister’s clothes and possessions are packed, all that she will want.”
She said swiftly, “You know I will, Burke. Do not trouble yourself with such matters. I will think of what is necessary.”
“Yes, you are a good intelligent girl. Let me see ... I shall write a note to Bates, and to the banker...”
They insisted on his having tea and some food, but all the household was aroused and scurrying around, alarmed. Mrs Grigson agreed to chaperone Viola, and to come to London with them. She must go off and speak to her eldest son first, and so off she went that evening, to return the next day. The housekeeper listened to her orders, and went off to direct the others. Trunks were dragged down from storage, the carriages were brought out and washed down, the horses brought in from the fields in preparation for departure.
Burke set off early the next morning. Viola and Edgar saw him off before dawn. And he was on the Dover Road to London very quickly. He paused at the inn where they usually stopped, it was only ten in the morning. His blacks were there, and he asked to bespeak horses for Edgar two days hence.
“Don’t worry, Mr Penhallow, we’ll be ready for them. All food and bait for the horses, and fresh ones too,” the innkeeper assured him.
Burke rode on after a quick meal of tea and bread and cheese, he would not wait for more. In the mid-afternoon he galloped into London.
His townhouse would be closed, the beds not aired. He had considered whether Lesley would be at Stukelys, and decided not. She detested them too much. Mrs Meredith next.
He rode into the street and stared in amazement. Several criminal types were lounging there outside the door, being kept guard by poker-faced footmen.
He left his horse with a lackey and strode inside. More criminal-looking characters were in the hallway. One was small, sly, weaselly, and Burke’s hand went instinctively to his wallet pocket. A pickpocket for sure. Another tough character was huge, and sailorly, with a roll to his walk, a red neckerchief about his huge bull neck. He looked as though he could kill with the knife that half-stuck from his belt.
He asked the butler curtly, “What are all these men doing in the hallway and out of doors?”
The butler replied impassively, “Mr Penhallow, sir, they be speaking with your wife regarding the lad.”
Burke stared at him, then strode into the drawing room unannounced. He found his wife standing before a tall, thin type, his dirty hands held out for the money she counted into his hand.
She was saying, “He is a lad of six years, about so high, with red hair some darker than mine. He has dark grey eyes, and is a sturdy though thin child.”
“Yes, I’ll be on the look-out for him right enough,” said the man, and made to leave the room.
Mrs Meredith, perched uneasily on the edge of the sofa, spotted Burke first. “Oh, Mr Penhallow, thank God you have come!”
Burke stood aside to let the thin man pass him, and closed the door firmly after him. “What in the name of the gods are you doing, Lesley?” he asked, with resignation.
“Trying to find Sandy,” she said, and her full mouth quivered. “Oh, Burke ... you heard?”
He came to her and took her in his arms. She was shaking. She put her head on his shoulder for a moment. His hands soothed her, he stroked her back gently. It was a sweet moment, to feel her trembling and yielding against him, though he knew it was grief that brought her.
She stiffened and drew back from him, as though recalled to herself. He did not allow her to go far. He held her firmly, and kissed her forehead, where a red-gold curl had tumbled against the whiteness.
“I was so sorry, so sick to hear it, Lesley,” he told her gravely. “I wish you had remained to let me aid you. Why did you run away so quickly?”
“I thought you would forbid me to come,” and she shook her head
. “No, I did not think at all. I just had to come to London quickly, and begin looking for Sandy.”
She pulled away from him, he had to let her go. “You will not find him by bribing those men,” he said, more sternly. “They will but take your money and run.”
“It may help,” she said forlornly. “I could not think what else to do, but go out myself into the slums and alleys.”
He frowned, but she might have a point there. “Have you seen the Stukelys?” he asked.
“Yes, this morning. They knew little. Uncle Stukely is satisfied, so long as the money continues to pour in from Sandy’s account! I lost my temper and told them when he died they would have nothing, nothing!” she cried bitterly, her fists clenched, her grey eyes beginning to fire up.
“Now, Lesley, my dear, do not upset yourself again,” said Mrs Meredith wearily. “Dear Mr Penhallow...”
He nodded. “I’ll speak to the other men, and send them away. Lesley, we will speak of this and decide what to do next. Do you sit down, and rest yourself.”
Burke went out, and spoke to the men. He told them gravely, “My little nephew is missing, and believed to be carried off. He is six years old, about so high, of grey eyes and deep red hair. He is a sturdy lad, though thin. If you see aught of him, or hear of such a lad, come to us and I will reward you well.”
They nodded, said, “How about moneys now, gov’nor?”
“When you bring me good word of him,” said Burke firmly, and had the butler send them away.
He heard one grumble, “The lady give the others coin! He shoulda give us coin!”
When the butler closed the door, his worried gaze met Burke’s. “I could not stop her from sending, Mr Penhallow.”
“I know. She meant well. Perhaps it will do some good,” said Burke. “If anyone comes with word, let me know at once, not my wife.”
The Ruby Heart: A classic Regency love story Page 15