Elizabeth Meyette (35 page)

The baby slept, one fist pressed against her lips. She made sucking sounds just as Grace did, and her face was angelic. Soft blonde curls peeked out from beneath her cap, and Emily saw what Jonathon meant about her size. She was larger than Grace had been, but her features were delicate. Emily had to admit that Victoria was a beautiful child.

• • •

Deidre was allowed to come into the nursery when Victoria was awake if Grace was not there. Jonathon would stop in to visit Victoria during these times for two reasons: one to check on Victoria and secondly to ensure Deidre behaved herself.

She seemed calmer since the birth of Victoria, and the madness seemed a distant memory to him as he watched her with their child. She was taking care of herself now, and her natural beauty had returned. Their conversations were brief, but he did not detect any of the loathing toward Emily in her voice.

“Victoria seems to be thriving,” he said.

Deidre brushed the baby’s hair with her hand.

“She is very content.”

Jonathon watched her, and she seemed no different than any other mother nursing her child. He detected a softness in her eyes that had never been there.

“You love her very much, do you not, Deidre?”

She did not look up, but continued to gaze at the baby. “I have never known such love.” She looked up at Jonathon.

“I am aware of the destruction and fear I have caused, Jonathon. I do not know what possessed me, and I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.” Her gaze returned to Victoria.

Jonathon was silent, watching for signs of deceit. But she continued to gaze, enrapt with her baby. She looked up at him.

“I understand if you do not trust me, nor do I blame you. I can only prove my sincerity in how I live my life now. I thank you for allowing me to stay under your roof.”

Jonathon shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with his ambivalent feelings: on the one hand he wanted to believe her words, on the other a feeling in his gut said “beware”.

• • •

The storm woke both babies at the same time, and Sarah rose to tend them. She changed Grace first and, when she noticed that her crib linens were soaked, she brought her over and laid her in Victoria’s crib while she changed that child. By the time she finished, Grace was sleeping soundly, so she left her in that crib and took a crying Victoria to Deidre.

After Victoria was fed and sleeping, Sarah took her back to the nursery and placed her in Grace’s crib with its fresh linens. Yawning, she turned down the oil lamp and returned to her bed and fell into a deep sleep. She did not realize that she had forgotten to lock Deidre’s bedroom door when she left her. Nor did she hear Deidre enter the nursery and take the baby.

• • •

A clap of thunder shook the house when lightning struck a tree in the yard. Emily sat bolt upright, a sense of unease troubling her.

“Jonathon, Jonathon, wake up. Something is amiss.” She shook him until he stirred.

“Wha … what is it, Love? Is the storm raising your passion?” He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp as she slipped out of bed.

“I must look in on Grace,” she felt an urgency course through her. “Jonathon, please come with me.”

He struggled to wake up.

“Grace is fine, Em. It was just thunder.”

White light flashed in the windows as another rumble of thunder crescendoed and then rent the night with its reverberation. Emily felt her brow furrow, and she set her mouth in a firm line. Jonathon looked at her, crawled out of bed, and followed her out of the room.

Emily’s heart stopped when she beheld the scene before her. Deidre stood at the nursery door and stared at them. Her eyes glinted in the candlelight, and she sneered when she saw Emily.

Dashing to the top of the staircase, Deidre gazed over the curving bannister to the marble floor below with an infant clutched to her breast. She looked back at them, eyes glazed with her madness.

“All I ever wanted was you, Jonathon; we were meant to be together.” Her gaze shifted to Emily. “But
you
bewitched him despite your Loyalist sympathies. Now you will pay, Emily, for I shall take away what you cherish most in life — your baby.” She leaned over the railing and began to loosen her grip on the child.

“Deidre, wait. You know I have always cared for you. Let me hold you,” Jonathon’s voice was soft and tender as a lover’s. “Deidre, we have lived our lives together, shared memories, and now share a child.” As he spoke he cautiously inched toward the dazed woman. She eyed him suspiciously at first and moved to hang the baby over the rail, but the tenderness in his voice seemed to reach her, and she drew the baby back a bit.

“Deidre, come to me,” Jonathon said, his voice low and soothing. Emily saw her waver, her eyes locked on Jonathon, and then back to Emily, who still stood frozen in place.

“You attempt to seduce me
now
, Jonathon? When I hold the life of your child — yours and
hers
— in my hands? It is far too late for you to convince me at this point. I am going to kill what you love most.” She hung the infant over the rail suspended in a blanket, but in one movement, Jonathon was beside her and caught the baby before she could release her. Loathing burning in his eyes, he glared at her. Looking down at the baby, his eyes widened, and he gently tugged the bonnet off the baby’s head revealing soft blonde curls.

“Do you not even know your own child?” he seethed.

Deidre stepped back as if she had been struck; losing her footing she arched backward then forward flailing to grasp the rail. Pupils dilated with madness and hatred, her wrathful eyes first registered confusion, then awareness, then fear as she groped madly for something to save her. Jonathon holding their child was the last thing she saw before she plummeted down the stairs to her death, screaming in terror and defeat. Twisted in a bizarre contortion, her body lay at the foot of the stairs, her golden hair strewn around her head like a halo. Blood trickled from her mouth and pooled beneath her broken form, a scarlet shadow against the white marble floor.

Hearing the screams, others hurried out to the hall each recoiling in horror at the scene below. Emily, trembling violently, felt Joanna’s arm encircle her waist. She watched David begin a slow descent to the main floor, his eyes dazed with the horror before him. Jonathon stared at Deidre’s body, hideously contorted below him. Victoria whimpered, awakened by the commotion, and Jonathon pressed his lips against her forehead whispering soft assurances, gently bouncing her in his arms.

Slowly Emily released herself from Joanna’s protective embrace and went to Jonathon. Looking into his soft brown eyes, she reached up and caressed his face, then shifting her gaze to Victoria, she gently took the child from his arms. She again looked up into his eyes, and nodded slightly her unspoken love, assuring him. She looked down through her tears and placed a gentle kiss on the blonde curls.

Jonathon wrapped her in his arms, the baby between them.

“My love,” he whispered. “My love.”

• • •

Spring brought warm weather, sunshine and Andrew to Brentwood Manor. Emily saw Jenny’s reaction before she saw her brother as he rode up the drive. Stopping halfway along the road, he dismounted and grabbed Jenny as she threw herself into his arms. She reached up and removed his hat as he kissed her soundly, and then she placed it on her head as they walked arm-in-arm back to the manor.

Emily smiled as they came up the drive, and Jonathon came up from the stables where he had been preparing to ride.

“Andrew!” Emily said as she kissed her brother’s cheek.

“Good day, Em.” He looked at his sister carefully. “How are you?”

“I am well, truly, I am,” she reassured him.

He looked down at the two cradles on the veranda and whistled.

“You certainly have your hands full,” he laughed.

“It is almost like having twins, but you can certainly tell them apart,” Emily smiled.

Andrew picked up Grace who wiggled excitedly in his arms. Her dark curls danced across her head as she played with the lace at his throat.

“You have grown, young lady!” he said.

Emily picked up Victoria, who laid her head on Emily’s shoulder and stared at Andrew.

Joanna joined them, bringing mugs of ale and cider and freshly baked gingerbread.

“Oh, how I have missed Dora!” Andrew exclaimed. “I must kiss her in thanksgiving for this welcome home.”

“You seem to be kissing everyone for your welcome home,” Jonathon teased looking at Jenny.

“You had best not kiss Dora as you did me, Andrew, for I want no competition to make me jealous.” Jenny said.

David rode up from the nearest field and joined the group on the porch just as Andrew returned from the kitchen house.

Emily looked around the gathering and said a silent prayer gratitude for her life, for her family. As if reading her mind, Jonathon looked across at her and smiled, his eyes tender. He stood and raised his glass in a toast.

“To my beloved wife who has taught me what it means to love. To our family who surrounds us with support and caring. To our country, newly formed, that will allow us to pursue our dreams and live our lives in freedom.”

Their voiced blended in shouts of “Here, here” and “Well said”.

• • •

A spring breeze billowed the curtains in their bedroom as Jonathon and Emily lay together basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Jonathon curled around Emily, his arm draped over her hip and he nuzzled the back of her neck.

“Jonathon?”

“Yes, Love?”

“When did you fall in love with me?”

Jonathon pulled her toward him so they faced each other. Emily saw the twinkle in his eye, and his mouth turned up at one corner.

“It might have been the time you called me an arrogant cad, or perhaps the day I caught you scantily dressed and bathing in a nearby stream.”

She lightly swatted him on his shoulder laughing as she remembered the times of which he spoke.

His face sobered and he looked into her eyes.

“Truly, Em, the first moment I beheld you descending the stairs, I was besotted. Your eyes caught mine and drew me under your spell, and I knew it was hopeless to resist.”

Emily warmed at his words, and her body tingled.

“So while we were at sea, the whole time we sailed, you fought the urge to ravish me?”

Jonathon chuckled. “It was probably fortuitous that I was injured so seriously, for I do not think I could have held my desire in check living in such close quarters all that time.”

“You are teasing me, Captain Brentwood.”

“One thing I do not dissemble about is my love for you. I take that very seriously. Here allow me to show you.”

He drew her into his arms and covered her mouth with his.

“I believe you sir,” Emily whispered against his lips.

Elizabeth Meyette is an author, poet, and blogger. Her first novel,
Love’s Destiny
, took thirty years from inception to publication because her career as an English teacher left little time to concentrate on her own writing. Deciding to retire from teaching early to pursue her writing career, she found that
Love’s Spirit
took about
¹
⁄
₃₀
of the time that
Love’s Destiny
required. Elizabeth lives in Michigan with her husband Richard and often finds inspiration for her writing as she enjoys the beauty of the Great Lakes.

Visit Elizabeth Meyette at:
www.elizabethmeyette.com
.

London, April 1774

Emily Wentworth waged a battle between grief and anger. Today grief was winning.

She sat lost in thought, burrowed deeply into the comfort of the brown leather chair, one of two that sat before the large fireplace in the study. It was a room she visited often, one that usually brought a feeling of warmth and closeness to her father when he was away at sea. Today, however, an aching emptiness filled her as it had for the last two weeks since she had received word of her father’s death. A violent winter storm had surged across the Atlantic ravaging George Wentworth’s ship, the
Spirit
. The few survivors rescued by a passing merchant ship spoke of George’s bravery in his futile attempts to save his men and his ship
.

Emily gazed around the room that reflected her father. Well-loved books lined the shelves on the walls surrounding the enormous mahogany desk where he pored over ledgers and charts when he was home. Emily smiled as she remembered how he would set them aside when she entered the room.

“Am I bothering you, Father?” she would ask, her timid smile revealing a dimple in each cheek.

“Nothing is as important as you, Em,” he would chuckle, falling willingly to her ploy.

They spent hours talking of his voyages, Emily sitting entranced with his tales of the wild animals and exotic people of Africa, of lands scorched under unending heat and sun, of women dressed in beautiful silks in Asia. She imagined she could hear the vendors hawking their wares in crowded markets, the bustle of the people, the lilt and cadence of their languages, the smell of exotic spices and the aromas of mysterious foods. He also told her stories of the colonies in America and the proud spirit that was the cornerstone of that land. Emily tried to picture the vast territory yet to be settled and the rugged Indians who lived there. She knew some were friendly and helped the British, while others were fierce and terrifying. She wondered about the men and women who would travel across the ocean to live in a land so far from their beloved England.

Emily stared at the embers dying in the hearth. The room took on a chill as the sun settled in the west. Her cheeks were wet, and she realized that she had been crying. Rising, she paced the room. She touched the smoke-stained pipes, always stationed on his desk, and ran her fingertips lightly across the books that lined the shelves. She had read many of them herself, unusual for most girls of her day. George Wentworth had insisted that reading and writing be a part of her education.