Dark Before the Rising Sun (17 page)

Full many a glorious morning have I seen.

—Shakespeare

The first light of dawn was just breaking beyond the gentle rise of hill toward the east when the coach carrying Lucien Dominick and his daughter rolled along the stately avenue lined with chestnut trees leading to Camareigh, for centuries the home of the Dominick family.

The great house stood silent and dark, shrouded by the morning mists. Its occupants, still lost in their dreams, remained unawakened from peaceful slumber. It was that strange hour of light between day and night, when reality could seem as elusive as dreams.

There was, however, one hearty soul who seemed to have escaped from the arms of Morpheus. As the coach creaked to a stop before the wide steps of the porticoed entrance, a large figure bustled over from the group of low, stone buildings which comprised the stables.

His breath was ragged, but still he managed effectively to bark out orders to the coachman and footmen and send the grooms scurrying to the lathered team of horses.

“Your Grace! Your Grace!” he cried, forgetting himself as he rushed forward and, pushing one of the footmen out of his way, swung open the door of the coach himself. “Is it true? Is it really true?” he asked again while peering into the shadowy confines of the coach. He stepped aside only when the tall shape of the Duke of Camareigh appeared.

The duke remained silent as he turned and assisted his caped companion to descend the steps. As the rising sun's golden light illuminated the skies, the woman's hood fell back and she lifted her face to the warm sun.

“Oh, Lord,” the big man breathed as he stared at the face. “Oh, dear Lord,” he blubbered when he saw the smile. “It can't be true.”

“Butterick,” Rhea said, reaching out and touching the big man. He had been in charge of the stables at Camareigh since before she was born. “I am real, Butterick. And I've come home.”

Butterick sniffed loudly, unashamedly brushing away the tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks. “Oh, Lady Rhea Claire, if ye only knew what this means. Her Grace will be so happy. We've all missed ye so. It just hasn't been the same around here since ye disappeared. I—I just can't be believin' these old eyes of mine,” he said gruffly.

“Thank you, Butterick,” Rhea said, touched. “'Tis good to be seeing you too. I trust you've not let Skylark become too fat and lazy since I've been away?” she asked him.

“Oh, m'lady, certainly not,” he replied seriously. “If I do say so, though, the little mare has sorely missed ye, despite the fact that Her Grace has been exercisin' her for ye,” Butterick explained, sounding more like himself once he was back on the subject dearest to his heart. He warmed to his subject. “Of course, I knew I should've insisted that Her Grace take one of the grooms with her the last time she went ridin', but, and beggin' your pardon, Your Grace,” he said apologetically as he glanced at the silent duke, “ye know how stubborn Her Grace can be at times. Took a tumble, Her Grace did, and got caught out in the rain. Soaked clean through to the bone, she was, when Her Grace and Skylark both came limpin' home. Oh, but we got her all fixed up right and proper, only took a poultice on her fetlock. Skylark, that is,” he reassured Rhea. “Aye, if only I could be doin' as much for Her Grace,” Butterick mumbled with a disgruntled sigh.

“Her Grace's condition has not worsened since I've been away, has it?” the duke asked sharply, taking a step toward the entrance before Butterick could answer.

“'Bout the same, Your Grace.”

“She doesn't know we've returned?” the duke questioned as he glanced up toward the south wing of the house, where the family had their private rooms and where the Duchess of Camareigh's bedchamber overlooked the gardens.

“No, Your Grace. Just like ye ordered when ye sent the outrider on ahead to say that none of the family, especially Her Grace, was to hear about Lady Rhea Claire's return from anyone but yourself.”

“Good. Come along, Rhea,” the duke said now as he glanced again toward the row of darkened windows in the south wing. “I think there is someone who would very much like to see you, my dear.”

Butterick remained where he was for a moment longer while he watched the duke and Lady Rhea Claire climb the steps. He was so happy to have the young lady back home with her family. But he was worried because the duke didn't seem as happy as he should be. Worried, most likely, about Her Grace's health, he speculated as he roared further orders to the stable boys, who seemed to think they could just stand around, like gentry, enjoying the sunrise.

The joyous news of Rhea Claire's arrival spread fast through the halls of Camareigh, especially through the servants' quarters, where the housekeeper and underbutler were rousing sleepy maids and footmen. Soon the whole house would be in an uproar with celebrations.

The grand staircase was lighted by newly lit candles along its muraled length as Lucien Dominick and Rhea Claire Leighton ascended the steps, while along the silent corridors to the south wing, the light in the many wall sconces was flickering as the candles reached the end of their nighttime existence.

They passed through the Long Gallery, where the painted faces of Dominick ancestors stared down in mute curiosity at the early-morning trespassers. Rhea couldn't help but spare a quick glance at the portrait of her Elizabethan ancestor, the privateer. In the half light, she could have sworn that he was smiling. But when Rhea and her father passed beneath another portrait, Rhea kept staring straight ahead. Another day, perhaps, she would look at that particular portrait, but not today.

Standing before the double doors to the duchess's private chambers, Lucien hesitated, then opened the doors and quietly escorted Rhea into the darkened room.

“Wait here for me, my dear,” Lucien whispered. “I think I should go to warn her first. She has been very ill, and I do not wish to shock her. Once she knows you have returned safely, no doctor's cures could possibly benefit her more. She has despaired so that she has lost much of her spirit.”

“I'll wait,” Rhea said softly. “But if she is sleeping, then do not disturb her. I am not going anywhere.”

“Lucien? Is that you?” a voice called from the shadows near the tall windows.

Lucien and Rhea spun around, both startled by the sound, and as they stared across the room, they realized that the long velvet hangings had been pulled open. Sitting curled up on the low window seat was a robed figure.

“Rina? What are you doing out of bed? You shouldn't be sitting here without a fire in the hearth. And I'd wager you don't have your slippers on, either. You mustn't become chilled, my dear,” Lucien told her, his concern only too obvious as he hurried to her side.

“You sound like Rawley, always fussing about something,” the duchess responded huskily, still sounding as if she were suffering from a chest cold. “I was just sitting here watching the dawn. I do think the skies are finally clearing. Did you have a good journey to Bath? I do think Butterick should have accompanied you. He does have the best eye for horseflesh. I am glad you have returned. I missed you,” the duchess confided, holding out her hand to the duke.

“You are feeling better?” Lucien asked as he took her cold hand between his and, moving forward, partly blocked the duchess's view of the door behind.

“Yes, I am. As you can hear, I've gotten my voice back,” she said with a slight laugh that quickly became a cough. “Who is that with you? I thought I heard whispering. If that is you, Rawley, then you can take that dose of Mrs. Taylor's Special Treat yourself,” the duchess warned, but when no impertinent threat followed from Rawley, she frowned and strained to see into the darkness. “Rawley?”

Lucien stepped aside, allowing the pale shaft of sunlight to spread across the room and reveal the caped figure moving slowly closer.

“Mama?”

The Duchess of Camareigh looked as if she had been turned to stone.

“Rhea.” The duchess spoke her daughter's name, but no sound issued from her lips.

Then Rhea Claire was kneeling before her mother, her face pressed against her mother's breast as she felt those comforting arms holding her close. Sabrina Dominick's hands, shaking almost uncontrollably, caressed the golden curls. Then, cupping her daughter's face, she turned it upward so she could look into the violet eyes that were reflections of her own.

“My dearest child, my sweet Rhea Claire,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears as she stared down at Rhea's upturned face in disbelief.

Lucien stood back, allowing them this moment together. His eyes blurred as he stared down at the two heads bent close together, one so dark, the other so fair, both so dear to him. Weary though he ought to have been, he felt no tiredness, for he knew an uplifting of spirit he had not felt since the nightmare had begun almost a year earlier. And as the early light streaked through the windows, he felt as if the darkness and gloom which had been so much a part of life at Camareigh since Rhea Claire's kidnapping were now banished forever.

Sabrina glanced across her daughter's head, her eyes meeting Lucien's. No words were needed. Rhea Claire had returned and, for the moment, that was all that mattered. The countless questions and answers would come later, but for now it was enough to have Rhea Claire there with them.

This repose did not last long, however, for an imperious knocking sounded at the door and, with the duke's command to enter, a robust-looking woman with a sour-looking face charged into the room. She came to a halt when she caught sight of the two women silhouetted against the window.

“Well, I had to be seein' it with me own eyes. Lady Rhea Claire. I told them we'd have ye back here one of these days soon,” the woman stated, apparently not overly surprised to find Rhea sitting with her mother. “Reckon I'll be needin' to bring Mrs. Taylor's Special Treat,” she declared, and for the first time since Rhea had known her, which had been all of her young life, the grizzle-haired maid allowed herself a wide smile. As she stood there beaming, she looked almost pretty.

“Seein' your face, m'lady, will put the roses back in Her Grace's cheeks. And I must say, m'lady,” she added in growing puzzlement, her eyes raking Rhea Claire's figure, for the cloak had fallen from Rhea's shoulders to reveal the décolletage of her gown, “that I've never seen ye lookin' so well. Here I was thinkin' I was goin' to have to put ye to bed and give ye an extra dose of Mrs.—”

“Taylor's Special Treat,” Rhea finished for her. “Hello, Rawley,” she greeted the maid.

“M'lady,” Rawley said, her smile widening. “Well, the whole household is in an uproar, Your Grace,” she said, addressing the duke as if he had personally caused the upset. “Ye'd think, the way them silly maids are actin', 'twas Michaelmas. Poor Mrs. Peacham isn't goin' get any help from them today in cookin' the meals. Which reminds me, Your Grace. Ye'll be wantin' some breakfast first, or d'ye want to take a wee nap? Ye must be tired from the journey. Why, ye've made wonderful time, ye have,” Rawley continued. Once started, Rawley was hard to stop.

“I couldn't sleep now, Father,” Rhea said, her hand still held in her mother's. “I want to see the others.”

“And I feel quite hungry for the first time in many, many months,” the duchess admitted.

Rhea Claire glanced up at her mother, noticing for the first time how very thin she had become. With her dark hair hanging down to her waist, she suddenly seemed so vulnerable, and Rhea realized that the past year of worry had taken its toll on both of her parents' health.

“Ah, now that does me old heart good to hear ye talkin' like that, Your Grace,” Rawley said, and Rhea could picture her rubbing her hands together.

“Tell Mrs. Peacham and Mason that we shall breakfast in here. I shall go and inform Francis and Robin of their sister's return. I would like you to see that we are not disturbed, Rawley, for at least the next half hour.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” Rawley said, promising herself that no one would get through that door. “Don't think Mason will ever be the same, though, Your Grace, seein' how ye got through the entrance without him bein' on duty to greet ye. The man's brokenhearted about it. Thinks he's let the family tradition down. He's gettin' hard of hearin', if ye asked me,” Rawley muttered as she left the room.

“Now, sit down beside me, Rhea, and let me look at you,” the duchess said, thinking she would never get tired of staring at her daughter's face and wondering how many times during the past year had she dreamed of this very moment. “Rawley is right, my dear. I have never seen you looking more beautiful. Have you, Lucien? From what I heard from Alys, I expected you to be little more than skin and bones,” the duchess said with a sad smile, for it hurt her even to think of what had happened to her daughter on the ship.

“Father told me that you let Alys stay here at Camareigh. Thank you for that, Mother,” Rhea said, remembering how she and Alys had become friends while sharing the misery of that voyage to the colonies.

“I could have done nothing less for the poor child. If it had not been for her, we would not have known you were still alive, or heard about that horrible voyage to the colonies. Even hearing the bad was some comfort, for at least you were alive. She told me how you became friends and how you told her so many stories about Camareigh and about your family. She was so frightened when she was brought here, but she seems to love Camareigh and the family so much that I hadn't the heart to send her back to London. She does not have a family of her own, and we have so much room here,” the duchess tried to explain away her tender heart.

“I remember I used to become almost irritated with her because she asked so many questions about Camareigh, but I realized that those reminiscences and stories were what kept me alive. They comforted me when I was cold and hungry and frightened of never seeing my family again,” Rhea said, still haunted by memories.