Come Midnight (23 page)

***

Their wedding day dawned clear and bright. With Caitlin still asleep in the bed behind him, Adam twitched the draperies aside and peered at the sky. His lips twisted in a bitter smile. For a bride and groom with a dark cloud hanging over their heads, that cloudless sky was a mockery. Then he turned from the window, saw Caitlin's tumble of burnished curls on the rumpled sheets, and quickly banished the thought.

Life is precious,
she had murmured as they made love far into the night.
No matter what might happen, promise me ye'll remember that, Adam. That ye'll throw not a moment away!

He had promised. Which meant he'd no business thinking those dark thoughts. Especially with the gift of a blue and cloudless sky staring him in the face. With the gift of Caitlin's love written indelibly in his mind and heart. Written, no matter what might happen, in his memory, forever.

"A penny for yer thoughts,
macushla
." Caitlin's voice, low and throaty with sleep, poured over his senses like warm honey.

"Ah, but they're worth a deal more than that!" He pounced on the bed, braced his hands on either side of her bare shoulders, and grinned down at her. "If you want them, m'lady, you must pay me in proper coin."

"Oh?" she said, grinning back at him. He'd begun calling her "m'lady" during the night, "to accustom you to the lofty address," he'd told her with a playful twinkle. "And what is the proper coin, milord?"

"A kiss, m'lady."

"What, only one?" she teased. "Yer thoughts are cheaply purchased, then."

"Not so ..."—he slowly lowered his head—"for I hold them dear"—his mouth hovered over hers—"but this"—he tugged at her lower lip with his teeth, lightly grazing the sensitive flesh—"is dearer yet.. ."And then he kissed her senseless.

***

Later—a long while later, with Adam checking to make certain she was unobserved—Caitlin slipped away to her rooms. While she waited for a pair of maids to ready her bath, she smiled dreamily to herself. When the heady aftermath of their lovemaking finally allowed speech, she'd reminded Adam he still hadn't revealed his "dearly purchased" thoughts. "I was thinking," he'd whispered, his breath warm against the damp curls at her ear, "of this glorious day—and a bride to match it."

She'd laughingly accused him of blathering the blarney. But as she gazed out her window now, she saw it was, indeed, a glorious day. A soft breeze ruffled the curtains. A shaft of sunlight slanted across the floor and over her bare toes. Her hands, as she pressed her palms to the sash, touched sun-warmed wood, and—there! A lark singing so sweetly, it brought tears to her eyes as she watched it soaring, soaring into the azure sky. Aye, a glorious day. Past glorious, she thought, for Adam had kept his promise.

Then there was no more time for thought. A parade of footmen and maids carried in buckets of heated water and a great, shell pink enameled tub for her bath. Expert hands lowered Caitlin into scented water. Lathered and scrubbed and rinsed her to a fare-thee-well. Dried her gently with soft linen towels. And brushed her long hair dry before the fire, till it shone and glinted like a cascade of sun-kissed copper coins.

Next, one of the maids set about styling her hair. She wound Caitlin's yard-long tresses into an abundance of loops and coils that began at the crown of her head and fell artfully toward her nape. Pulling out wisps and tendrils about her face to soften the effect, she pronounced this "the Grecian mode," assuring Caitlin it was "all the crack." With this accomplished, the other maid brought forth the exquisite gown Ashleigh had sent the previous afternoon and laid it carefully on the bed.

Caitlin saw she'd already set out the articles contained in a surprise package the duchess had included with the gown. "Just a small pre-wedding gift for the bride," the accompanying note had read. Caitlin was still overwhelmed by Ashleigh's generosity.

The "small" gift consisted of a pair of silk hose, complete with embroidered garters; brand-new ivory kid slippers that fit her perfectly; elbow-length, moss green satin gloves to match the gown's furbelows; and the piece de resistance: a set of lacey undergarments so fine, they looked to Caitlin as if they'd been spun from moonbeams.

At length, they drew her before the tall pier glass, bidding her to keep her eyes closed. "Till all's in place for the full effect, miss," the maid who had dressed her hair explained. She set upon Caitlin's head a coronet of moss green leaves and flowers: tiny, perfect gardenias with the dew still on them, cunningly interwoven with sprigs of baby's breath. With the marquis's approval, all had been plucked from Ravenskeep's conservatory that morning. The maids told Caitlin the flowers were gathered by none other than Townsend himself, and fashioned into a wreath by Mrs. Needham.

"Ohh," Caitlin breathed when she opened her eyes. "Sure and I scarcely recognize meself!" She met the pleased gazes of the maids in the glass. "I-I look like the faerie queen—like Queen Mabhe herself, and no mistake."

"Ye make a fine, loverly lady," the younger maid offered shyly.

"A right proper marchioness," the older said with a nod.

Just then, a knock resounded at the door.

One of the maids opened it, and there stood Andrew, who had come to collect her for the ride to the church. The bridegroom, it had been decided, would drive there ahead of them in his gig, leaving the coach for Caitlin and her proud young escort.

Dressed in formal attire—satin knee breeches and silver-buckled pumps, a white waistcoat and starched cravat setting off his cutaway tailcoat of dark blue kerseymere—Andrew reminded her of a young prince. On his dignity, he presented a solemn face as he made her a leg, wobbling only slightly. Then, as he straightened, he took his first real look at her; and dignity went by the boards.

"Caitlin, is that really you?" he cried, eyes like saucers. "You look like"—he bit his bottom lip, pondering for a second—"like Cinderella at the ball!"

"Milord is too kind," Caitlin murmured, sinking into a deep curtsy. "Or perhaps 'tis Prince Charmin' I'm seein'?" she amended, rising and smiling into his wide blue eyes. "Sure and ye must be royalty itself, rigged out in all the grand finery o' the world."

"Papa's valet did it," he mumbled, blushing. Then, on his dignity once more: "Allow me to escort you to the church, dear lady." He crooked his arm, offered it with solemn mien. "Our coach is waiting."

Chapter 17

They were wed in the small Norman church where the Lightfoot family had worshipped for generations. And if the vicar—who, after all, had his living from Ravenskeep—noticed that the marquis failed to participate in the prayers, he didn't say so. The bride noticed, of course, as did others. The best man was quick to note the lapse, being a man who rarely missed anything, but he did not remark upon it. His Grace had wrestled with his own demons upon a time and was not one to cast stones.

As for the remaining guests, Her Grace and Lady St. Clare nodded knowingly to each other upon the bridegroom's silence; then, with a glance at the bride, the pair shared conspiratorial smiles. Sir Patrick attributed the marquis's behavior to a clear-cut case of the wedding nerves; he silently cheered the poor fellow when Ravenskeep spoke his vows in a firm, clear voice.

What impressed everyone was the calm serenity—as well as the fresh, unspoiled loveliness—of the bride. Caitlin moved through the ceremony with the grace and equanimity worthy of a queen. To some raised in the Roman church, the simple Anglican ceremony, conducted entirely in English, might well have proved off-putting; but it was all one to her. She sailed through her vows with nary a misstep, a placid, benign expression on her face. The one exception occurred when the six-year-old at her side was asked, "Who giveth this woman?" The child replied with a ringing, "I do!"—at which point she smiled. Yet it was a gentle smile that in no way marred that collected, unruffled demeanor.

It was when the ceremony itself was over that something changed. They had all gathered in the small vestibule where the marriage lines were to be signed and witnessed. In that rather ordinary, unprepossessing room—and quite unexpectedly—Caitlin found it necessary to fortify herself in order to maintain her peaceful facade.

She wasn't entirely certain how it happened. One moment she was reaching for the quill the vicar handed her, ready to affix her signature below Adam's bold scrawl. The next, as she dipped the quill into the lovely little antique silver inkpot Mrs. Wells had provided, a clock somewhere—she was never sure where—began to toll the hour. Everyone heard it. The tiny chamber seemed to vibrate with the chimes: eleven of them. Eleven, not twelve. And even if there had been twelve, these would have signaled noon, not midnight. And yet, and yet....

All at once, she was hearing another clock, in another time and place, and it was tolling the hour of midnight. Signaling the end of her last moments on earth. Tis but thirteen hours from now ....

Clutching the quill tightly to keep it from trembling, she made herself sign in a steady hand. Thirteen is a number like any other number. Tis thought unlucky only by the ignorant and the superstitious. You will not cave in now, Caitlin O'Bri—ach, 'tis Caitlin Lightfoot now! Lady Caitlin Lightfoot, Marchioness of Ravenskeep, and you will not bring cowardice and dishonor t' the name!

Willing her hand not to shake, she handed the quill to the duke for his witnessing, and things proceeded apace. Then it was over, everyone kissing her and wishing her happy, congratulating Adam and smiling at them both.

In the midst of all this, a small hand touched hers, and Caitlin looked down into Andrew's angelic face. "Caitlin ... ?" he questioned shyly. "Would—would it be all right to call you Mama now?"

Touched to the quick, she felt the burn of tears behind her lids. She blinked them back and dropped to a crouch, so their eyes were level. " 'Twould be more than all right, Andrew. I've loved ye like me own since— ach, since I can't remember when! I'll adore ye callin' me Mama, wee
macushla,
and count me blessin's each and every time ye say it."

The child's radiant smile pierced her heart, even as the small arms flung joyously about her neck soothed it. "I love you, Mama."

"I love ye, child o' me heart," she murmured in an unsteady voice. And wondered, with a sickly panic, if there were any way to make it bearable for him: when the morrow came, and she was gone.

While she'd waited for them to return from their ride the day before, she composed a long letter to the child, which she'd leave with the one she'd written his father. In the latter, she'd asked Adam to give Andrew his when he judged the time was right. The thrust of both letters was the same: death could never undo the love they shared. She'd also written, she firmly believed her soul would win heaven—to soothe the lad; and more importantly in Adam's case, informing him she'd outwitted Appleby, with Megan's help. She ended the letters saying she expected them both to join her there. And until that far-off day, they must never doubt she was with them in spirit—and would be, for all time.

Cold comfort to the grieving? Yet the child will have his da. Aye, they'll have each other, which is more than they would have had without your intervention. You must believe they'll be a comfort to each other—you must!

But would that ever be enough? With a dismissing shake of her head, Caitlin swallowed her misgivings as Andrew trustingly clutched her hand and everyone filed out. It would have to be.

***

When they returned to the Hall, Caitlin was touched to see the staff lined up to greet them on the drive. Then she learned they were there not to greet the newlyweds, as she'd thought, but to greet her in particular! She was their new mistress, Adam whispered to her in an aside, and they expected it. It was also customary, he added with a sheepish grin, for the new mistress to say a few words to them at the end.

He introduced his marchioness with a formal speech, much as if she were meeting them for the first time. They stood all in a row, with Townsend at the head; then Mrs. Needham, proceeding through the ranks of maids, of footmen and underfootmen, of gardeners and undergardeners, to the meanest scullions and stable boys at the end. As the majordomo named each one in turn, the servants curtsied to her, or bowed, or simply tugged humbly at their forelocks, in the age-old sign of obeisance.

Caitlin found her tongue and thanked them, managing a few words of appreciation for their guidance and support since she'd first come to the Hall. "There may be some that feel I've risen above me station," she told them, "and so I have. 'Tis a long way from Ireland's bogs t' Ravenskeep Hall." She took a moment to smile at a young Irish maid named Bridget, who'd just been taken on a few days ago. "And longer still, t' the lord's table at the Hall. Yet I promise ye this: 'twill niver make me toplofty or foolishly proud. I want ye t' know I feel honored t' be yer mistress."

Led by Fergus, they gave her a rousing cheer—which even the stern glance of Townsend couldn't quell—and Caitlin had to swallow to dislodge the lump in her throat But the majordomo had a surprise for her that was even more touching. At his quiet nod, the door opened— and through it walked Jepson and Mrs. Hodgkins!

Smiles wreathed the faces of the two London servants as they came forth to wish her happy. From the looks of Adam and Andrew—and the child's giggle—she knew this had been their well-guarded secret: a loving conspiracy between them. It wrung her heart.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. No matter how hard Caitlin tried to cling to what was happening, time flew. It seemed the guests had only just arrived when she and Adam were waving good-bye as their conveyances pulled away. The Westmonts and the St. Clares left first, with Ashleigh and Megan whispering encouragement with regard to "the plan" as they hugged her. Then the vicar and Mrs. Wells took their leave, though Jeremy remained behind to spend the afternoon with Andrew.

But this, too, seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. The boys began their play by rolling a ball of yarn for Athena the cat. She and Adam watched, sharing in the fun. Yet it seemed only minutes later that the vicar's manservant arrived to collect the child and drive him home for supper.

In fleeting moments, when she risked a glance at the clock, Caitlin began to hate the sight of it. It was becoming more and more impossible to forget what lay ahead. How could she savor every minute—as she'd enjoined Adam to do—when the hours raced by, like hounds on the chase!

Worse, she learned Adam hadn't been able to forget—though he'd been managing to hide it well. It happened during supper, with one of those surreptitious glances at the clock she hadn't been able to curtail. As she quickly tore her gaze away, she chanced to meet her husband's eyes across the table. He was quick to shutter them, but it was too late. She saw the wild grief and desperation burning there, like unholy blue fire in his own private hell. And for the first time, Caitlin had real doubt about what she'd done.