Angelina (3 page)

She scrambled on to the low branch and took a handful of its mane. But this horse was not the plodding old Dobbin. This horse was a bunch of muscled power waiting for release. It sensed her panic when she tried to scramble on to its back and crabbed sideways. She fell on to her hands and knees. Suddenly, it jerked its reins free from the branch it was tied to and reared high above her. She cried out in fright as its hooves slashed downwards.

She was thrown sideways with such force it robbed her of breath. Pressed into the earth by a damp, warm body, she heard James grunt then the horse go crashing off through the undergrowth.

“Thank God you’re unhurt.” 

She clung to him for comfort when he brought them both upright, her heart leaping in her chest like a demented frog.

“I should have handled this better,” he said, rocking her back and forth. “I wouldn’t have you harmed for the world, my dearest sister.”

As her breathing gradually slowed to normal Angelina knew she’d been stupid. Had he meant to harm her he’d have done so at the stream when they were alone. He’d had ample time. Shyly, she raised he eyes to his.

“There’s nothing to forgive, My Lord. I acted stupidly and with undue haste.” She returned his smile. “I’m sorry I pushed you into the stream.”

“So am I.” His rueful chuckle brought a giggle to Angelina’s lips. “My dignity will never recover, and my manservant will never forgive you. He fussed about me like an old hen this morning, determined I’d make a good impression on you.”

“I can only reassure him that you did, My Lord,” she said as they scrambled to their feet.

“You must call me James,’ he said gently “As your brother and guardian, I insist.”

“James.” She said it slowly, almost caressingly, then gave an approving smile. ‘The name suits you well, despite your drenching in the stream.”

He grinned. “It’s an event I will long remember.”

“Aunt Alexandra says my imagination is too vivid for my own good at times. I’m truly sorry I doubted you.”

“Then you’ll not object to your brother kissing you. I deserve something for the uncivil treatment I’ve received at your hands.”

He was still holding her, and Angelina found herself lifting her cheek towards his lips. He was tall and had to stoop. His mouth had just brushed her cheek when she caught a glimpse of Bessie sneaking up behind him with the branch raised threateningly over her head.

“No!” she yelled in a horrified voice, but too late. With a sickening thud the makeshift weapon made contact, and James dropped like a stone at her feet.

Chapter Three

“Rosabelle, my dear. Stop fidgeting.”

Elizabeth was subjected to a rebellious glance. “Yellow makes me look hideous. No-one will ask me to dance.”

“Nonsense.” Elizabeth exchanged a glance with the dressmaker. “The neckline is too low. Trim it with the same lace and ribbon you’re using on the petticoat.”

“Mama!” Rosabelle wailed. “It’s for my eighteenth birthday ball. Stop treating me like a child.”

“Stop behaving like one,” Elizabeth snapped. “You’re trying my patience to the limit.” As usual, she thought, wishing she could feel closer to this only child of hers.

Rosabelle giggled when her brother, William, stuck his head around the door and made a face at her before continuing on his way. “Will told me that Rafe Daventry will be coming down from London for the ball.”  

Elizabeth gave her a searching look. “The Earl has accepted the invitation. I believe he’ll be accompanying the Marquess of Pallister’s party. He’s their house guest at the moment.”

“Rafe cannot possibly be interested in Caroline Pallister,” Rosabelle scorned. “She’s almost an old maid, and has a bad complexion.”

“Caroline will inherit to her father’s fortune, and Rafe needs money if he’s to restore Ravenswood.” She gave a cold smile when alarm touched Rosabelle’s eyes. “Caroline may not be a beauty, but she comes with a large dowry, is accomplished, and conducts herself well in public. She’d make a fitting wife for the Earl.”

“If Rafe had intended to offer for her it would be announced by now.”

“No doubt the Earl will do what he considers best for his future,” she mused, for Rosabelle was right. “And what’s best for Ravenswood, of course. He’s sworn never to step foot in the family home and has vowed to restore the house of his maternal grandparents and live there.”

“That old pile of stones,” Rosabelle muttered.

A scruple of guilt attacked Elizabeth Wrey when Rosabelle reluctantly paraded in the gown. The delicate shade of yellow she’d chosen was wrong for Rosabelle. Dark-eyed and olive-skinned, there was a bold earthiness about Rosabelle that made a mockery of pastels,and invited the attention of men. Rosabelle’s responses made it plain the attention was welcome. It was high time the girl was married.

But the elegant and impoverished Rafe Daventry, a man who set female hearts fluttering wherever he went, was not the man for Rosabelle, whatever her inclinations,

Rosabelle needed a firm hand and her godfather, George Northbridge, was twenty years her senior. The Marquis was extremely wealthy, and although his first wife had been fertile, she’d miscarried regularly before she’d died.

George had always been fond of Rosabelle. In hindsight, Elizabeth realised his regard for Rosabelle was more than mere fondness. He was unable to tear his eyes away from the breasts which had transformed her daughter from a pert, pretty child into a voluptuous young woman almost overnight.

Secretly, Elizabeth thought George the most disgusting of men. She hated the way he stood with his legs spread wide, as if his breeches could not contain that which God had given him to procreate his kind with.

 Picking up her fan Elizabeth vigorously applied a cooling stream of air to her face. Such thoughts should be kept for the privacy of the boudoir, and even there should not be encouraged for the shameful reminder it lent to her own celibate state.

Thomas had not sought her bed since Rosabelle’s birth. It was common knowledge that his mistress and the son she’d borne him, were cozily settled in a large secluded cottage on the edge of the village.

Despite the traumatic birth of Rosabelle and the warning she could not bear another infant without endangering her life, the chance to have another child had been denied her by the presence of her husband’s mistress. Elizabeth frowned. No wonder Rosabelle was so forward. The girl had suckled from the whore for the first two years of her life.

Rosabelle had turned to Mary Mellor when she’d needed comfort. The first word she’d uttered had been the woman’s name. The second word had been Frey. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed in cat-like concentration. The second nursery maid had been evasive on being questioned, but Elizabeth had soon got the truth out of her.

Furious at the deception, her rage had been absolute when she learned that Rosabelle’s wet-nurse had birthed a bastard son under her own roof. Worse, was the knowledge that her own husband was the boy’s father.

   She’d intended to flay the skin from Mary Mellor’s back with a riding crop when she returned, but someone had warned the estate steward, who’d intercepted the woman on the road and got her to a place of safety.

Elizabeth had waited all day, the crop firmly grasped in her hand. The maid did her best to placate the squalling infant, whose shock at being denied the warm bounty of Mary Mellor’s breast would not be placated by a horn of sweet goat’s milk.

Rosabelle’s cries for Mary grew louder and louder. Just when Elizabeth thought she might use the crop on the screaming toddler instead, Thomas had appeared to confront her.

“We’re waiting dinner for you, madam,” he’d said coldly.

Thwarted by the loss of her prey, Elizabeth had lashed out at him instead, striking him ferociously about the shoulders as hard as she was able, and for as long as her strength allowed.

   Her husband had stood there without flinching, his eyes understanding her rage, her need to punish someone for her hurt. When she’d all but exhausted her strength, she’d slumped against him. Gently, he’d picked her up in his arms and carried her to her chamber, leaving her in the care of her maid.

They’d never spoken of the incident, but Elizabeth knew she’d never forget the sound of the anguished her daughter screaming Mary’s name over and over again.

   She poked Rosabelle between the shoulder blades, reminding the girl that her posture needed correction. Rosabelle would marry George Northbridge. She could forget dreams of love and a union with Rafe Daventry.

“Lengthen the hemline,” she snapped at the dressmaker.

“Mama! It barely exposes my shoe.” 

Elizabeth dismissed her complaint as one of many. “I don’t have the time to argue with you. Be in the study in half an hour. Your father has something to say to us.” Thomas had worn a troubled expression on his face of late, and she prayed he wasn’t going to subject them to one of his tedious lectures about economising on household expenses.

The wounded look in Rosabelle’s eyes gave Elizabeth a moment of remorse. More than anything, she wished she could love the girl. Troubled, she turned and left the room.

* * * *

“What cruel jest is this, Thomas?” Elizabeth’s usually soft voice cut like a sliver of ice through the room. “Do you imagine I’d have forgotten if twin daughters had been born to me?” 

Her husband’s dark eyes shifted away from her direct gaze, as well they might. Rosabelle stared at her father, shocked. For once, she had nothing to say for herself.

A tiny shudder crept down Elizabeth’s spine at the thought of a second Rosabelle.

“You were out of your mind with pain and fever, Elizabeth.” Thomas picked up a cut crystal decanter and poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass. Automatically he inhaled, appreciating its fruity aroma. It was a fine blend, one of a brace of bottles William had given him for his birthday.

Will was watching her through dark, narrowed eyes. A tiny smile played around his mouth. He was a darker, stockier version of James, but lacked the grace and the strength of character his older brother possessed.

Will was too obviously enjoying her discomfort. They didn’t really get on, though he was hardly ever disrespectful towards her. He saved that for his father.

“I couldn’t bear to see you suffer, my dear.” Thomas crossed to when she stood and took her hands in his. Despite the warmth of the day they were cold. He lowered his gaze from the accusatory light in hers. “Lady Alexandra convinced me the infant wouldn’t survive.” Giving an insincere smile, he said, “Angelina was beautiful, such a tiny little thing. Her hair was a wisp of red, and you wound it around your finger. I’d never seen a woman gaze with such love at a child, nor a child who looked so much like her mother.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes as forgotten memories pressed in on her. The child had been like an exquisite doll, her hair the colour of spun gold. The feeling of contentment had been indescribable, and surfaced now as a deep grieving ache in her heart.

She’d gone to sleep feeling such divine love for her baby daughter, then when she woke...? She shook her head. They’d given her laudanum to ease the pain. Had it confused her, had she forgotten she’d birthed two daughters? It was possible. The infant she remembered, the one she’d lost, had been nothing like the one she’d brought home to Wrey house.

Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, then her heart fluttered in hope when she understood the ramifications of what Thomas was saying to her. Her fingers curled around his as she gazed anxiously into his eyes. “My dear little Rosabelle is truly alive?”

Eyes rife with anger, Rosabelle sauntered across the room with her hands on her hips to confront her mother. “That is my name. I believe my sister’s name is Angelina?

  Thomas was perspiring. “You’ll be gratified to know I had the child christened thus so she’d be assured a place in heaven.”

“Very laudable, Thomas.” The dry comment brought a flood of colour to his cheeks.

Her eyes swept over both William and Rosabelle, then she rose from the stool and swept towards to door, saying softly as she half-turned. “God obviously didn’t appreciate the sacrifice you made on his behalf, for he allowed her to live. How could you do it,Thomas? How could you abandon your own daughter while she still breathed, cheat me of her love, then live a lie for all these years? What sort of man are you?” 

* * * *

Thomas could have shrivelled from the wounded expression in her eyes.

When the door closed behind her relief rushed through him. He’d done it, fooled his wife into thinking the two girls were twins! But there was no satisfaction in the victory. Needing a stiff drink he turned once more towards the decanter.

He encountered the eyes of William, and bristled at the sight of the cruelly amused expression they contained.

His youngest son sauntered towards him, his voice softly mocking. “Are there any more of your offspring we should congratulate you on, Father? First it was your bastard, Frey. Now we’re being introduced to a long lost sister.”

 “Hold your tongue, Will.”  Thomas growled. “I’ll have your respect.”

“Haven’t you always told us respect has to be earned?”

“Don’t, Will.” Rosabelle placed a restraining hand on his arm. “If anyone should be out of countenance, it should be me. Papa did what he thought was best at the time. We must try and accept this outsider as our sister.” 

 Linking her arm through Will’s, she drew the three of them together. “How can I bear to share the love of my two favourite men with another?”

Sliding an arm around Rosabelle’s waist William kissed her cheek. “Twenty sisters could not mean as much to me as one of the hairs on your head.”  

“And you, Papa?” Her dark eyes shone with unshed tears, a catch trembled in her voice. “Will you shall grow to love Angelina more than you love me?”

“No other daughter can steal the place you hold in my heart.” Neither she or Elizabeth must ever discover Rosabelle was a nameless orphan. Avoiding her eyes he drew the hand to his lips and kissed it before taking a box from his waistcoat pocket. “See what I bought you whilst I was in London.” His smile was indulgent when she opened what was little more than a conscience gift.