Coming Home (9 page)

Then at her husband's behest Marguerite began to play, and Juliana dragged herself out of her introspection. To her surprise, Colly crossed the room to sit beside her. Under cover of Marguerite's very spirited rendering of a Scarlatti sonata he murmured, ‘Is your stomach hurting you, Miss Colebrook? I've noticed you often have some pain after eating.'

Good heavens! This was not the sort of thing a man and woman should discuss. As a nurse she had naturally discussed all sorts of things with her patients, but she was no longer a nurse, nor was he a patient. Knowing he was as stubborn as she was and that he would wait all evening for a reply, she muttered, ‘It is nothing. I have had it for years. I over ate.' She attempted a dismissive smile, but a particularly vicious twinge of pain jerked her back in her seat.

He reached out. ‘Miss Colebrook … Juliana …'

‘Don't,' was all she said, and he pulled his hand back as if bitten.

‘I fail to see how four mouthfuls of food can be called over-eating,' he hissed. Then he slid to the far end of the settle and pretended to concentrate on Scarlatti.

Oh dear. Did the man watch her every move? He even counted her mouthfuls. She sat very still, willing the pain to subside.

Then she realized what she had done. He had reached out to her and she had repulsed him. Under her reticule, the hand rubbing her stomach stilled. She should have handled Colly's concern with better grace. He had given her an opening, the only one she might ever have. She could have pretended to be distraught, to need his help. She might even have used it as an excuse to speak to Colly about—

About what? There wasn't anything left to say. Nothing at all.

She stopped fiddling with her reticule and concentrated on Lady Brechin's talented recital. It was easy to do. Marguerite's playing style was not the usual vapid, mechanical rendering. On the contrary, she was an extraordinarily accomplished performer. Juliana joined everyone else in demanding more from the pianist. Marguerite smiled shyly and began a stately, dreamy pavane that Juliana had often heard played by mandolinists in Porto. She leaned back against the settle, swallowing the stone in her throat as she remembered the music and sun and loneliness of Portugal.

As she took her candle from the table at the bottom of the stairs, she ventured one last try. Turning to Colly where he stood in the shadows she asked, ‘Shall I see you again before I leave, Mr Hetherington?'

He shook his head. ‘Lord Brechin and I mean to ride out after breakfast so I can familiarize myself with the estate. I expect you will have left by the time we return.'

She could feel her lips trembling and bent her head so he could not see. Over Lord Brechin's protest that it was not necessary to set out too early, she dipped a curtsy in the men's general direction. She held out her hand. ‘Then I shall thank you now, Brigade-Major Hetherington, for your escort from Portugal. I could not have been in safer hands.' She had been rehearsing the last sentence for several minutes, willing him to understand that his presence had offered security and protection from harm, and that she had felt safe with him in spite of the charges against him.

He was no rapist. His father had it all wrong.

Because she could not say what she really felt, she tried to show it in her eyes.

He took her outstretched hand and bent over it. ‘Goodnight, Miss Colebrook. I hope we shall … we shall …' – his voice faltered ‘see more of you in the future.'

She did not look up at him, but her bruised heart eased a little. He had not said goodbye, and he had left the door open a little. A very little. Firming her lips, she steadied the candleholder and with a ramrod straight back ascended the stairs in the wake of the marchioness. As she turned the corner she squeezed a glance out the corner of her eye and saw him standing still, watching her leave.

F
EELING EMPTY, RATHER as if he was on retreat and had not eaten for several days, Colly rode out with John across the upper fields. A sense of anticlimax enveloped him. He had put all his efforts into escorting Juliana to England and now that the task was done, he was bereft. She was leaving. And once she became ensconced in her uncle's household, she would not visit Trewbridge often. She would have all she wanted – her family – and she would not need him any more.

‘John,' he asked, ranging his horse alongside his friend's mount, ‘what is it that your parents have against Miss Colebrook's relatives? It's obvious they've had dealings with them in the past.'

‘No idea, Colly. I've never heard them mention the Colebrooks before.'

‘Oh.' He would have to ask the marchioness directly. That is if she would still talk to him once he told the Trewbridges about his past.

Restlessly he fidgeted in the saddle. He should tell them now and get it over with. He took the bull by the horns. ‘John, when we return to the house, I must talk to your family. It is a serious matter. I shall understand if you do not wish me to take up the stewardship.'

John glanced at him, obviously ready with a funning quip, then his face changed when he saw Colly's expression.

‘Ah … this is the Big Announcement, is it not? My parents had the feeling there was something preying on your mind. I thought it related to Miss Colebrook, but Mama said she didn't think so.'

Colly flinched. There was a good side and a bad side to living in a big household. Everyone knew what went on in your life. But although curiosity could be uncomfortable, he knew it had its roots in the concern of the household members for one another. After living alone for so many years, he had forgotten that. Not that he had been
alone
in the army precisely, but nobody there had cared whether he was happy or unhappy.

‘John, I …'

His friend smiled, and they wheeled their horses and headed back to Trewbridge.

As they approached the house, the smaller of the Trewbridge carriages turned out of the gate. John nodded towards it. ‘Will you be seeing her again?' he asked.

‘I can't. When I explain, you'll see why.'

John glanced at him, but said nothing further. That was like John. He had never been one for unnecessary gabbling. But would he still be a friend when he had heard Colly's despicable story?

Life could be very strange. He'd kept his history a secret for nearly five years, and then in the space of a week he'd had to tell the tale twice. He shook his head as he dismounted. He rather thought Juliana believed him, but he wasn't entirely sure. Sometimes she cast him speculative looks he didn't understand.

He desperately hoped the Trewbridges believed him.

 

‘So, of course, I had to tell you this, in case you should uh … decide to change your minds about employing me,' he finished weakly, a half-hour later. Everyone was in the small drawing room and Colly suddenly found it claustrophobic. The elegant furnishings closed in on him as he sat alone on one side of the room facing the Trewbridge family.

‘Right. Now we have heard what you were accused of, we need to hear your side of the story, Colly,' the marquess said.

‘Sir?' At least the marquess was going to give him a hearing. Which was more than his father had done. Sometimes his father had puzzled him. On the surface Ambrose Hetherington was all bluster and indignation, but Colly had often wondered if his manner cloaked deeper emotions.

Colly had left Heather Hill on an autumn afternoon of gentle rain. For years he had not allowed himself to remember the details of that day. But now he recalled the soft scurry of raindrops on the window as he had stuffed a few clothes and books into a valise, snivelling all the while like a baby. He had been twenty-two, yet he had felt like a desolate child of six or seven, crying hopelessly against a parental edict.

As he snapped shut his portmanteau, his little sister had sidled into his bedchamber and shoved a roll of banknotes and a small locket at him. ‘Remember me,' she whispered. ‘God be with you.'

‘How did you—?' he had begun, but she had scurried out and closed the door in his face.

And as he lay injured after the Battle of the Douro, the locket had been torn off him by one of the despised carrion who plucked keepsakes from their dying brethren.

How could he explain all this to the Marquess of Trewbridge? The gentleman was a proud, authoritative man with a respected name who would brook no lies or subterfuges. And he would certainly not house a criminal under his roof. But at least he'd asked Colly for his side of the story.

‘I don't have much of an explanation to make, my lord. Sir Archie Blevin was a neighbour. All our lives, Amelia, my brother William and myself had been companions. My sister is considerably younger so we did not see much of her. Our family spent most of the year at Heather Hill and we children were thrown together a great deal.' Colly looked down at his feet. ‘Then Amelia went to London for her first Season, and after she came home, this happened. She was much changed when she returned from London. Miss Colebrook thinks she was covering up for—'

‘Miss Colebrook knows of this?' Incredulity sharpened the marquess's tone.

Colly soldiered on. ‘Yes, my lord. She persisted in asking me to accompany her from Porto to England. In the end I had to admit why I was not an appropriate escort for her.'

‘I see.' The marquess sounded amused. ‘She is a very determined, independent young lady, isn't she, Colly?'

‘Yes.' Colly's reply was heartfelt.

The marquess seemed to be smothering a grin. ‘Does she believe in your innocence?'

‘I'm not sure. I hope so.'

‘I cannot see her allowing you to escort her if she had doubts about your innocence.'

I can
, Colly thought.
She was so desperate to get to England she thought the risk was worth it
.

‘Colly, you are not the first young man to be falsely accused thus,' the marquess continued. ‘Since you stayed with us after Corunna, we have followed your career with interest. From what I know of you, I do not think you would abandon a young woman. I think it is more likely you would marry the young woman and smother her with kindness. But … do you have any idea who the father of Miss Blevin's child might be?'

Colly felt an appalling constriction in his throat and prayed the others did not notice. The marquess believed him! ‘No,' he croaked. ‘Perhaps somebody from London.'

‘Hmm.' The marquess thought for a moment while Colly chewed over his words. He needed to get to his feet and pace, but as the marquess was seated, he could not.

‘You know, Colly, this whole thing needs to be cleared up. I cannot understand why you have let it colour your whole life. Why not pay a visit to Heather Hill to find out the lie of the land?'

‘I cannot. My father banned me from the property. Besides, I have no wish to go back there.'

‘Ah – pride, Colly, pride,' the marquess mused.

Colly thought that was rich, coming from the Marquess of Trewbridge. In the same circumstances the Marquess of Trewbridge would be a dashed sight more prideful than Colwyn Hetherington.

‘Colly,' the marchioness burst out, obviously unable to keep silent any longer, ‘why don't you write to your mama? I am sure she is longing to hear from you.'

Colly shook his head. ‘I should very much like to see my mother and sister again, my lady. But my father …' He shrugged. ‘However, I shall visit my grandmother as soon as convenient. My father has no jurisdiction over her, and she was very supportive when I needed it most.'

Apparently his father had been furious when he discovered she had bankrolled Colly into the army. He had forbidden the old lady to have anything more to do with him. But nobody could bully Grandmama. She was wealthy and independent and made no bones about her dislike of her pompous son whom she had dubbed ‘His Highness'. However, since Colly had not heard from her in months, it
was
possible that Father had intercepted letters between Colly and his grandmother.

‘As for my mother and sister, my father and brother will block me from seeing them,' he finished.

‘Your brother too?' John enquired.

‘Yes. My brother tends to follow prevailing opinion,' Colly said drily. ‘When I was first accused he was nonplussed, but then he changed and refused to speak to me. Things had not been right between the two of us for some time, you see.'

Colly looked down at his feet again. This was devilishly awkward to explain. ‘Even though William was not very interested in Heather Hill, Father insisted he should spend more time there. He wanted William to be ready to take over the reins.'

Here Colly paused, feeling embarrassed. ‘Father was forever going on about how he expected to die soon. Every little twinge brought on – well, never mind.' He cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunately William has never been a good judge of horseflesh and the arguments between them reached epic proportions during my last year in England. They would both apply to me for my opinion, then they'd disagree with it. Things became very awkward.'

‘Dash it all, Colly! You are the best judge of horseflesh I know,' John protested.

Colly felt even more embarrassed. ‘I don't know about that, but my interest in horses seemed to irritate Father. He kept saying it wasn't fair, or some such thing. I was never sure what he meant.' Unable to remain seated any longer he sprang to his feet and began to pace. To hang with politeness. Because his legs were longer than most, four paces brought him up short by the door. He swivelled and prowled back to the window. ‘As we grew further apart, I learned to keep my own counsel.' He shrugged. He'd bared his soul enough. There wasn't anything else to say.

The Trewbridges exchanged glances. Colly eyed them nervously.

The marquess stood up and held out his hand. ‘Well, Colly, you had best put it all behind you. Welcome to Trewbridge.'

Colly, throat burning, clasped it thankfully, like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline.

He hoped Miss Colebrook was receiving a similar welcome from her family.
Good luck, my love
, he thought as he accepted a celebratory glass of claret from John.