A Secret Passion (2 page)

She bit back her tears in surprise, for she never, ever cried, not even at her mother’s funeral. Her younger brother had told her she was the oddest being alive that day. And if that had been the worst day of her life, today was surely the second worst.

A faint plume of smoke curling from the chimney signaled her aunt’s presence within. Jane knocked on the door. It soon opened to reveal a thin, plain woman with a careworn face, wholly unremarkable save for her pale cornflower-blue eyes and sincere, warm smile. Her thick nut-brown hair, threaded with gray, matched the color of her homespun day gown.

Faint wrinkles disappeared as sheer joy suffused Clarissa Fairchild’s face. “Jane, oh, how I’ve longed to see you. And here you are!” she cried as she folded her niece into her arms. “With whom did you travel?” She looked outside, as though expecting an entourage. “Where is your maid?”

Jane moved away from her embrace. “I came alone, Aunt.”

“Alone! Whatever could have possessed you?” she quizzed, darting a worried glance before hurriedly closing the door.

“It appears my arrival has gone by unremarked.”

“Come, dearest. I’ve just put on water to boil. I want to hear everything.” They bustled through the short hallway, Jane following her aunt blindly forward. Arriving in the kitchen, Clarissa walked to the cupboard and, without speaking, lowered a second cup and saucer. Jane sat stiffly at the table and watched as Clarissa added two heaping spoonfuls of Bohea tea to the teapot from her small cache. Jane let the silence stretch, taking an uncommonly long time to remove her gloves, pulling at each fingertip before meeting her aunt’s gaze.

“Jane, I would not for the world distress you further, but please tell me you have not traveled alone all the way from the streets of Mayfair? And knowing you, you rode! Why, it must have taken you eight hours at least.”

The worry on Clarissa’s brow was distressing, so Jane forced a light tone as she replied, “Yes, but it was not so terrible a journey. I only worry that I had to ‘steal’ my own horse to get here.”

Clarissa paused in the midst of pouring boiling water over the tea leaves and stared at her niece. “What do you mean, you had to steal your own horse?” Her voice was sharp as she set a plate of small raisin cakes before her niece.

“Well, to make a long story short, Father has disowned me.” During the shocked silence that followed, Jane removed her netted riding hat and smoothed her hair into place. “I must ask, I am afraid, if you will allow me to stay with you. I daresay Father will not look kindly upon you for harboring me, but then, he so rarely looks kindly upon anyone not offering him money for one of his children. Truly, though”—and here her voice broke slightly—”I have nowhere else to stay or I would not ask this of you.”

“Of course you may stay here.” Clarissa frowned, her puzzlement clear. “But what happened? Whyever would my brother disown you? Though you are welcome here for as long as you would wish, why not go to the house Mr. Lovering left you?”

Jane looked out the kitchen window as night descended upon the woodland. Lowering her head, she breathed in the delicate, moist scent of the tea before taking a sip. It smelled heavenly after the cold and dirty ride from London. “I sold the townhouse and everything along with it several months ago when Father sent the family solicitors to explain the once again dire circumstances of the family’s estate.” She made her voice as unemotional as possible. “It was that or the untenable option of selling breeding stock at Pembroke. Father knew I couldn’t bear the idea of selling those horses. They are the last of the ones Mother and I bred, you know.” Her composure was finally threatening to break. Wordlessly, Clarissa handed her a handkerchief. “I, once again, find myself residing with Father, reduced to an obedient dependent… for the most part.”

“Which part?” Clarissa asked, refilling Jane’s cup. “Obedient? Or dependent?”

Jane smiled sadly. “You know me too well, Aunt.”

“But why after such a kind gesture would he disown you?”

“It is simple, really. This morning I refused to marry his choice of a husband. The moneylenders are calling, again, and so he signed a betrothal agreement without consulting me. Knowing he was unlikely to gain my compliance, he posted engagement announcements in the morning papers. By doing so, he ensured I would be practically ruined in the eyes of the
ton
should I cry off. Not that I care so much. But it was tiring to always hear my name bandied about.”

Noticing Clarissa looking with concern at her untouched plate, Jane forced herself to pick up a raisin cake and take a bite. “I learned the news,” she continued lightly, “during my morning ride when a Mr. Kellery stopped after a good gallop on Rotten Row to offer his best wishes on my impending marriage. I laughed and said I would as soon marry again as he would. Mr. Kellery is a well-known older gentleman with a much-avowed dislike of matrimony.”

“Yes, I rather think I recall him from my come-out days,” her aunt said. “And I do believe he was avowing even then.”

“Well, he looked at me with a strange expression and rode away shaking his head. Of course I wondered what sort of prank Mr. Kellery had played. He is a serious gentleman, not the sort to play word games.”

Jane leaned back and closed her eyes, remembering the contentious meeting with her father that had followed. In the privacy of the breakfast parlor, her father had handed her the three morning papers and watched her. He had worn his usual expression of casual disdain.

A few minutes later, she had turned to the butler and addressed him. “I would have a private word with his lordship, please, George.” The silence was oppressive as the butler left the room. Finally she looked up. “I see,” she said very quietly, and then continued, “Father, this is impossible. I will not marry him.”

“You will marry him, Jane,” he said equally quietly. “You will obey me, as every good daughter would a father. I have given you a season in town with every chance to choose a husband. But you have failed, and now you must abide by my choice. I have found a man of good family and good fortune.”

“Hmmm. Billingsley,” she said. “Good family and good fortune. We shall forget for the moment his revolting personality, puffed-up consequence, and hideous person, shall we? For what can they signify in the face of ten—or is it fifteen—thousand a year?” A hot flush moved down her body, leaving her trembling with suppressed emotion.

“Do not overstep yourself, Daughter.”

“By having the audacity to comment on the man to whom I have been sold?” She lifted the teacup from the saucer, but put it back when she could not control her shaking hand. “Really, you have treated me like nothing better than cattle, selling me off to the highest bidder.
Again
.” Now that her anger had risen, she couldn’t stop. “It is too bad you didn’t have more daughters. Just imagine the profits had there been two of us!”

Jane could see the telltale sign of anger on her father’s face. A large vein near the center of his pale forehead stood out, like a streak of lightning foretelling doom. His dark, watery eyes bulged. But still his calm tone remained.

“You will marry again, or you will leave this house,” he said. “If it is the latter, I will not know you anymore. Nor will your brother, or your friends. However, I concede you do have a choice. What is it to be?”

Jane felt the cold tendrils of angry pride stiffen her spine. Rising from the table, she dropped her napkin over her untouched breakfast. “How much time am I to be granted before I take my leave?”

Her father narrowed his murky eyes. “None,” he said as he left the room.

The kind old butler kept his gaze on the tips of his boots when he reentered the dining room. His heightened color proved eavesdropping was his forte. “Shall I go after your maid? She has just stepped out to run your errands this morning.”

“No, thank you, George,” she said, recovering herself. “I would only ask your help in sending a note to Mrs. Dougherty to beg off her invitation for tomorrow evening. It appears I will not be staying in London after all.”

“Yes, miss,” he responded.

“No, George, it is ma’am. You must remember I have been married.”

“Yes, miss,” he responded with a slow smile. Despite her unfortunate situation, she could not resist smiling back at the family butler who had always been so kind to her, especially during the five years since her mother had died. He had spent hours talking to her, walking with her in the pastures of Pembroke, and offering comfort when no one else had, all at a respectful distance, of course. She rose from the table and shook his hand before she reached up and kissed his wrinkled old face good-bye. She looked at the tears in his eyes, and brushed at them with her fingertips.

“George, this is for the best. I knew I should never have returned here after Mr. Lovering died. You were the only enticement.” She smiled at his long face. “But how can I stay here when you refuse to maintain the family’s appearances?” She laughed before adding to the bald and well-attired man, “Your hair needs cutting again, and those shabby clothes…” It was their favorite joke, and it would be their last.

“Yes, miss. As you say, miss.”

“Now, George…”

Jane was awakened from her reverie by the soothing touch of her aunt. Clarissa pressed a cool, damp compress on Jane’s forehead, easing the aching pain she felt. “And now, here I am, my dearest aunt, an uninvited houseguest, sitting in your kitchen.” Jane grasped her aunt’s hand in her own. “But for you, I will try to be obedient.”

Clarissa laughed and shook her head.

Chapter Two

THE bright morning sunlight hurt Jane’s sleepless eyes as it filtered through the budding trees of Littlefield’s landscape three mornings later. She descended a steep bank, slippery with dew, then guided her horse through a muddy stream. Salty breezes wafted through fields of verdant young grasses and wildflowers in the semidarkness before the rays of the sun penetrated the early morning sky and stilled the air.

She had known she would not sleep again when the bedcovers had twisted into an uncomfortable mass. Torturous thoughts had swirled through her brain all night. Only the wind rushing by her face during a good gallop could promise to banish her worries, at least for a little while.

Pax stumbled while scrambling up the steep bank of the stream. Jane leaned her weight forward and gave the animal more freedom with the reins. At the top of the bank, her horse stopped and snorted. Jane wondered what Pax saw, and squinted over her mare’s alert ears.

A streak of black was in the distance. It was a horse and rider. Going far, far too fast. At breakneck speed, in fact. In an instant she urged her mount into a gallop. She thought that if she could not stop the runaway, at least she could be there to pick up the pieces when the rider fell off.

Her horse could not overtake the other. Jane changed tactics and circled around the opposite direction of the field to try to cut off the pair. As they drew closer, she could hear the man curse.

“Get the… devil out of here… private property,” was all she could make out.

Then the horse, despite its lathered sides, lowered its head and ran faster than before. Jane stopped and watched the pair gallop out of control around the perimeter of the field. Finally, the huge horse headed toward her in full gallop and reared within a few feet of her horse. Jane’s mount crow-hopped and whinnied as the man half slid, half fell off the tail end of the stallion. It took all of Jane’s resources to stay in her sidesaddle. The man’s brutally strong back was turned to her as he dusted himself off and watched the black horse jump the high fence that enclosed the field and take off.

“Are you hurt?” asked Jane.

Breathing hard, he turned to face her. The man’s overly long black hair was touched with a few brushstrokes of gray on the sides. He was dressed almost indecently, a plain white shirt with buttons undone halfway and sleeves rolled up, no neckcloth, not even a coat. She tried not to notice the torn green-stained breeches that left nothing to the imagination. If she was not mistaken, she could even discern the edges of a pair of men’s smalls under a tear near the thigh. She felt a blush suffuse her face as she finalized her perusal by noting that his scratched boots were caked in mud and had probably never seen a boot brush. As her gaze moved back up to his face, his cold expression hardened even further. His angular face promised to brook little argument. She backed her horse up a few paces.

He looked furious as he wiped the grime from his brow. “This is private property, Madam. Were you unable to read the notices posted?” he asked, his gray eyes turbulent with anger.

She was not sure why she should be defensive for trying to help. “Pray forgive me,” she said. “I thought you might have been in need of help.”

“I see.” He looked at her for an uncomfortably long moment. She resisted the urge to squirm as he stepped forward the paces she had given up. “And you thought you could stop that two-ton miserable sack of horseflesh?” he asked.

“I am most sorry to have invaded your master’s property. Do be so kind as to overlook it. It shall not happen again,” she replied, lifting her chin.