Azalea (4 page)

At the conclusion of the ceremony Christian
hesitated, then kissed his new bride on the forehead. Azalea was
slightly disappointed, but chided herself for the feeling. She knew
it had been agreed that this would not be a true marriage for some
years. Recalling what Clara Banks had told her about her sister's
wedding night, she knew she should be relieved.

Then her new father-in-law was hugging her,
the rector's wife offering congratulations and there was no more
time for relief or regret. She was Mrs. Christian Morely.

* * *

Walking home from Jonathan's farewell party,
Azalea noticed the unmistakeable signs of autumn in the rosy blush
of the dogwood leaves and the prominence of their berries. A few
chrysanthemums bloomed in the tangle of weeds by the walls of the
old magazine.

She did not pause long to admire such
botanical delights this afternoon, for there was already a
noticeable nip in the air, and dusk would be coming early. Azalea
was going to miss Jonathan. True, they had not been as close this
past year, but that was no doubt due mainly to the fact that they
had less free time to spend together.

In the six months since her marriage, Azalea
felt that she had hardly kept her promise to Christian not to grow
up too fast. Everyone was pushing her to learn so many things. She
had little time now for horses and gardens —or for romping with
Jonathan.

And now her friend was leaving for England,
to attend Oxford at his maternal grandfather, Lord Holte's,
insistence. Perhaps she'd see him when she went to London in
another few years. Wouldn't he be surprised!

For Azalea had reluctantly agreed to keep
her marriage secret. Not even Swannee had been told. Although she
knew that her friends would treat her differently if they knew, she
would dearly have loved to tweak Missy Farmer's so superior nose
with the news.

But the worst thing was not being able to
confide in Jonathan. But she knew he would never have been able to
keep such a plum to himself, no matter how many promises she
extracted from him. Perhaps it was just as well she had seen so
little of him since the wedding.

She had managed to convince herself that
having such a delicious secret more than made up for missing the
satisfaction of seeing everybody's reaction to her news. It had
helped to keep life interesting in the absence of the rather
unconventional pastimes she had previously enjoyed. To think, it
had been three months and more since she had so much as climbed a
tree!

Azalea sighed to herself as she pushed open
the self-closing gate, weighted by an old cannon-ball on a chain,
to enter the back gardens. If only the time would pass more
quickly. The years stretching ahead of her before she could join
Chris in England seemed like an eternity.

He and Lord Glaedon had returned after their
trip to Richmond, but had been able to stay for a mere three days
before meeting their ship. Wistfully, Azalea wished again that she
and Chris could have had more time together.

Perhaps Grandfather could be persuaded that
sixteen would be old enough for her to join her husband, she
thought, returning to her favourite subject. After all, only two
months ago Gwenny Pugh, the postmistress's youngest daughter, had
married at sixteen.

With this argument in mind, Azalea skipped
up the front porch steps and entered the house. She let the door
slam behind her, and at once Millie, the young serving maid who
doubled as Cook's assistant, scurried from the parlour, where she
had apparently been waiting for her young mistress.

"Oh, miss, thank the good Lord you've come
home at last!" she exclaimed in obvious agitation. "The Reverend,
he's been asking after you this past hour and more. Fair upset he
seems to be! You'd best go to him at once."

"Upset? Do you mean he is angry with me?"
Azalea asked in some confusion, unable to think of any scrapes she
might have gotten into recently.

"Oh, no, miss!" replied Millie. "I only
meant that he seems disturbed. He got some letter or message or
some such, and he's been—"

Without waiting to hear the end of the
girl's sentence, Azalea turned and ran to the library, a deep
foreboding clutching at her heart.

Opening the door a crack, she cautiously
peered inside to see her grandfather sitting before the dying fire,
a crumpled paper in his lap. He seemed not to have heard her, but
continued to stare unseeing into the flames. Azalea's apprehension
increased.

"Grandfather?" she whispered.

The old man slowly turned towards her, and
she was shocked at the change in his face. It was as though he had
aged ten years in a few hours.

"What is it? What's wrong?" She could feel
the blood draining from her face.

"You had better sit down, my dear. I'm
afraid I have some very bad news," he said heavily.

He waited while Azalea shakily seated
herself across from him.

"I don't know how to prepare you for this,
child," he began in a voice devoid of expression. "I have received
a letter from Herschel Morely, Howard's eldest son."

She closed her eyes, willing the words to
stop, but her grandfather continued inexorably.

"The
Fortitude,
which was carrying his
father and brother home to England, never reached port. It was lost
in a storm at sea, along with its passengers and crew. No trace has
been found of the ship, nor of any survivors. I'm sorry,
Azalea."

* * *

CHAPTER 2

September 1815

Azalea closed and fastened the valise
containing the few clothes and essential toiletries she would need
during her voyage. Everything else had already been packed in
trunks and sent ahead. The sun was just rising, but in an hour's
time a coach would arrive to carry her the forty miles to Hampton,
where she would stay the night. The following day, she would board
a ship for England.

She sighed as she contemplated the tedious
journey before her. The months since her grandfather's death had
been spent preparing for the voyage, down to the smallest detail,
yet she felt far from prepared mentally. Mechanically, she walked
to the window and gazed out over the lawns.

The past six years were almost a blur in her
memory. Only a few events stood out clearly in her mind. The most
vivid, still, was the day she'd learned of Christian's death at
sea. Her grandfather had suffered a seizure two days after receipt
of that sad news, brought on, no doubt, by the stress of coping
with both his own grief and Azalea's. He never fully recovered his
faculties and for his final two years had been entirely
bedridden.

Azalea had focused herself completely on his
care, though her grandfather had repeatedly expressed concern that
such determined devotion, while touching, was an unhealthy escape
from reality.

"The world goes on, my dear, and so must
your life," he had said. "You cannot hide here with me forever.
There is money enough to hire a nurse. An hour or two of your time
in the evenings, playing chess or reading, would content me. I
would not have you waste your youth at my bedside and then remember
me with bitterness because of it when I am gone."

"You know how much you mean to me,
Grandfather," she had replied. "It is my own choice to be here. The
boys have all gone away to school or are tied up with their
farming, and I never did have much in common with other girls and
their silly, gossiping ways. I am much happier here with you,
believe me."

Eventually, she allowed the persistent Mrs.
Swann to share a bit in his nursing, but she used the extra time
only to tend her neglected gardens and horses. Azalea had spoken
truthfully when she'd said she had little desire for the society of
others.

This was still true. Well-meaning neighbours
came and went, their sympathy a cloak for curiosity. Especially
unwelcome was the frequently asked question, "What will you do
now?"

For Azalea's future was foggier than her
past, even though her path had been carefully laid for her. Despite
his infirmity, Reverend Simpson had prepared quite thoroughly for
his granddaughter's future, she found. When it became clear that he
could not linger much longer, he had summoned his lawyer, dictated
letters and made certain changes to his will.

The reading of that will was another event
that stood out clearly in her mind. Reverend Simpson had left all
of his land and possessions to Azalea, which in itself had not
surprised her. But the conditions of that legacy did: that she sell
the house and land and, with the proceeds, remove herself to
England. There she was to establish herself in London and regain
her father's inheritance, currently held by her uncle, Lord
Kayce.

She had assumed her grandfather's primary
motive in stipulating such a course was to prevent her from
retreating further from society, but then she read the letters that
accompanied the will.

The first must have been written early in
his illness, as it was in her grandfather's own hand. It detailed
his suspicions of Lord Kayce, citing as evidence various things
Azalea's own father had told him years ago. If these suspicions
were to be believed, Lord Kayce had forced his elder brother to
flee England in order to secure for himself the vast Kayce lands
and wealth. Included in the letter was a stern warning to Azalea
not to trust her uncle.

The second letter was from a Lady Beauforth,
first cousin to Azalea's mother and niece to her grandfather. It
was dated quite recently, and was obviously in response to a query
the Reverend had sent some months earlier.

My dear Uncle Gregory:

I was delighted to hear from you after so
many years. I remember you with affection from my childhood, and
Mother always spoke lovingly of you. Of course I would be delighted
to offer my young cousin Azalea entree to London Society. She will
be wonderful company for my own daughter, Marilyn, whom your Azalea
cannot fail to love as dearly as I do. And how exciting to have a
young American in our midst! Such a pity that your health will
prevent you from accompanying her, but the whirl of London is
always more enjoyable for the young, in any event.

I will endeavour to introduce Azalea about
without mentioning her American origin, unless her accent should
give her away—to avoid any unpleasantness about the recent war, you
understand. Of course, I myself have never much regarded politics,
nor have most of my friends, so do not worry on that score. Please
assure her that she will be delighted with Town life. We shall
await Azalea's arrival impatiently.

Your devoted niece, etc.

Alice Beauforth

A postscript to this letter, dictated by her
grandfather, informed Azalea that for all of her apparent
flightiness, Lady Beauforth was very highly placed in Society and
would afford Azalea ample protection while she regained her own
fortune— protection he could no longer give her.

Enclosed with the letters were the proofs of
Azalea's marriage to Christian, with instructions to use them, if
necessary, to enlist the aid of Herschel Morely, the new Lord
Glaedon, in her mission.

Azalea had reluctantly answered Lady
Beauforth's somewhat disjointed missive, informing her cousin of
Reverend Simpson's death and of her own expected arrival date in
England. She had no intention of concealing her nationality, of
course, but refrained from mentioning this in her letter.

She also omitted any mention of Lord Kayce,
her early marriage, or her plans to gain her inheritance. If her
uncle really were dangerous, no good could come of giving him
advance warning of her arrival or her existence. And after reading
her rambling letter, she did not trust Lady Beauforth to remain
silent on any point.

Thus it was a very brief, almost terse, note
that Lady Beauforth would have received. No doubt that lady would
attribute it to her young cousin's grief, or the influence of
having been brought up in the wilds. Azalea could not bring herself
to care overmuch which.

She absently fingered the large packet
containing a copy of the will, the letters and the marriage lines.
On impulse, she opened it again, to glance through the contents.
There was the marriage certificate, with signatures of the rector,
Dr. Wills, as having performed the ceremony and of Mrs. Wills as
witness, as well as a document of consent signed by her
grandfather.

Her throat tightened when she saw
Christian's signature above her own childish one. Even after so
many years, that loss still hurt.

She returned the certificate to the packet
and tucked it into a compartment of her valise. Fastening it, she
took a final glance around to assure herself that nothing had been
forgotten, then turned and closed the door on the echoing chamber
that had been her bedroom for most of her nineteen years.

The sound brought Millie, the mulatto
servant, out of her own room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
"Why, miss! I didn't know you was awake! I never heard a sound in
your room all morning. You should have at least called me to help
you dress—I could use the practice. Miz Swann says young ladies
don't never dress theirselves in Londonengland." Millie's hands
fluttered about her as she spoke.

"Yes, Millie, I'll have to get used to that
myself, I suppose. But for this morning, I was certain you would
have enough to do without helping me to dress. Besides, this gown
fastens down the front, so it was no trouble at all for me to do
myself." She glanced into her looking glass to make certain her
toilette was complete.

For the start of her journey, Azalea was
clad in half mourning, her simple dress of deep plum ornamented
only by black lace at throat and wrists. Her hair, tied back by a
simple black ribbon, now reached nearly to her waist, its colour
having deepened over the past few years to a rich auburn. At the
same time, her hermitlike existence had caused her youthful tan to
fade and her complexion was now of a paleness that she imagined
might rival that of any London lady addicted to creams and
sunshades.