For Love's Sake (18 page)

Swallowing hard, he continued, “When I was a young man, I became very sick. The doctor said that I would probably never be able to produce children, but that I was lucky enough to escape with my life. If you married me, we would never have a family.”

“I don’t care,” Laurel said, bringing her face very close to his. “And I would be honored to be your wife.”

Christopher had braced himself for the imminent refusal, and now that the moment passed, he hardly knew what to do. Relief swept over him in waves. He had told himself a thousand times that he was selfish to want to marry her, to deprive her of the thing that all women wanted most out of life. Though Laurel may not have children, she would never be devoid of love – Christopher would spend the rest of his life ensuring that.

“And me, all that time pitching a fit about how I might get pregnant!” Laurel said. “I feel just awful!”

Christopher shrugged it off. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. I’ve had years to come to terms with it.”

They followed the fence posts that cut along the estate, their rubber boots slopping through the mixture of melted snow and mud that coated the earth. The weather had grown warmer – winter giving itself over to an early spring, February melting into March.

Laurel and Christopher spent the first months of 1901 in pleasant seclusion. His mother returned herself to her rooms in Amesbury Castle, while Kate brought a reluctant Constance back home to her French tutor. There was now only the happy couple and their four servants. Christopher had not even joined in on the local hunts with the Amesbury foxhounds, but he insisted that Laurel drag herself out of bed that morning to watch the pack of hounds and riders thunder across the far side of one of his sheep pastures.

“So it doesn’t bother you that your brother and your sister both have children, but you never will?”

“The fact that they take parenthood for granted bothers me,” Christopher said. “Constance is spoiled, and I think my brother often forgets that he even has two sons.”

They paused at the crest of a hill, looking out over the field below where patches of brown grass peeked from under chunks of murky snow. In the distance, the tongues of two dozen English foxhounds could be heard, although they were miles off yet. Laurel thought that they sounded much like the cries of coonhounds that cut through the night air back home. Although Deirdre’s brothers never allowed her to follow along, she always wanted to go, and now wondered if foxhunting might not be just as exciting.

Christopher pointed to a thicket of brambles and briar bushes that claimed a section of wooden fencing at the edge of the tree line.

“That’s where they’ll come out. Just you watch.”

Laurel’s eyes scanned the edge of the woods for any sign of hound or horse.

“I don’t see anything.”

A flash of orange shot across the field, not a hundred yards away from where they were standing.

“There he goes!”

Right on his paws came the pack of long, lean hounds. They cut through the tangled vines without missing a step, running the poor fox within an inch of his life.

Christopher clenched and unclenched his hands in his jacket pockets. He hadn’t even noticed that Laurel had slipped one of her arms through his. His entire brain was fixated on the hunt.

The riders cleared the fence effortlessly. Scarlet jackets…chestnut horses…a pair of ladies on two smart grays. One poor young gentleman took a nasty fall, nearly getting himself trampled by the rest of the field. A few straggler hounds darted between horses’ hooves…a group of children riding ponies leapt fearlessly…the big black brute that refused to jump at all. To Laurel, this was a new and exhilarating spectacle; to Christopher, it was a stirring presentation of his heritage.

The hunt symbolized all that was good in Britain—fearless gentleman, exciting women, the rolling English countryside, and superb horseflesh. It built camaraderie, as well an appreciation for nature. Christopher even knew of marriages that were settled in the field.

The last of the riders thundered past. All that was left were clods of upturned soil and one downed fence rail. Except for the far off braying of hounds, it was calm. Laurel’s heart raced in her chest, and every muscle in her body was tensed to the point of discomfort. A few moments elapsed before she could digest what she had witnessed.

“Good Lord! I’ve never seen the like in all my life! Do you really ride with them?”

“I do.”

She put her hand to her chest. “And do you expect me to come along, too?”

“If you would like.”

“Then you’d better get to work on those riding lessons you’ve been talking about giving me,” Laurel said. “I’m liable to fall and break my neck!”

They walked arm in arm down the path that led to Christopher’s home. Despite the chill, it was a lovely day, and the sun threatened to break free of the heavy clouds at any minute. Christopher and Laurel’s private stroll around the property was always the highlight of both their afternoons, and this one was no exception. It was only the peculiar sounds of an advancing piece of machinery announced the arrival of an unexpected turn of events.

Across the wet grass, a chugging, choking contraption staggered up a small hill, kicking up mud and struggling to gain traction. The driver, disguised by a motoring coat, cap, and goggles waved at them. It was not until he was practically on top of them that Christopher chose to acknowledge the man.

“Jonathan! What do you have here?”

The motorist rolled to a stop beside them. “Why, it is an auto-
voiture
!”

“Yes, I see that, but what are
you
doing with it?”

Christopher’s brother pulled off his absurd goggles. Beneath them, his round face bore red marks where the leather straps fit too snugly against the tops of his cheeks. Laurel could tell immediately that there was no familial resemblance between the two men at all, and never would have guessed in a thousand years that they were brothers.

Jonathan Brayles was in every way a very ordinary looking man. He did not possess Christopher’s great height, was of average build, and anyone who passed by him in the street would hardly bother to take a second look—not that he was unattractive
per se
, but he was so utterly mediocre that nothing merited further inspection.

“I brought it back from France. It’s a
Panhard et Lavassor
.”

Christopher gave the contraption a thorough visual inspection. It had enormous hay-wagon wheels, which were painted bright yellow, and housed a labyrinth of gears and levers just to make it go forward or retreat backward. Poor Jonathan’s teeth were nearly rattling out of his head, but he beamed to the tip of his red nose with pride over the thing.

“We just arrived home yesterday, and we brought along a little party,” he explained. “I was sent down to fetch you.”

Dusting off his hands, Christopher gestured towards Laurel. “Has mother told you?”

“Oh, the entire world knows by now. Everyone is most eager to meet the young lady who has you by the…purse strings.”

Laurel blushed. It was never her intention to exert any kind of control over him, whether it was by his purse or any other part of his person. Christopher saw this and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“This is my distinguished brother, Lord Amesbury,” he said.

Jonathan peeled off his glove and extended a clammy hand. “
Jonathan
.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Now
this
is exactly what I thought about when I pictured England,” Laurel said.

It was a half hour drive from Christopher’s estate to Amesbury Castle, the ancestral home of the Brayles family. The castle, built right after the Norman Conquest, was a tall, grey stone structure. It was really one giant square building inside of a large bailey, situated upon a vast, flat plateau. The outermost walls, enclosing the bailey, had to be at least thirty feet tall, built to withstand bombardment and protect Christopher’s ancestors from sieges.

Inside, the bailey was now nothing more than a large, green lawn. Christopher assured her that it once held cottages, stables, and even the castle kitchens, but somewhere along the course of time, all of that had been removed. Jonathan’s Panhard motorcar sat parked just inside the gate, and a set of wicker basket-chairs and tables were situated in the grass just outside the enormous front door of the castle.

A footman welcomed them inside, divested them of their coats and hats, and informed Christopher that his brother was entertaining guests in the Great Hall. A long, dark corridor led straight from the entryway to the hall. Their footsteps echoed against the polished stone floor, reverberating off the stone walls and heavy wooden doors on either side. Laurel wanted to ask what was behind each one, but the sound of laughter coming from the archway ahead of them pulled her forward.

She and Christopher stepped across the threshold, which was flanked by two medieval suits of armor. Tall mullioned windows lined the uppermost level of the wall directly across from them, and the ceiling seemed to climb up for miles. It was the largest room that Laurel had ever seen, and could swallow Christopher’s entire house whole.

“
Jesus,
” she said aloud.

Her head turned toward the sound of voices, which were all gathered around a large stone fireplace on the far end of the room. Leaning against the mantle, Jonathan beckoned them over to join the group. Large high-backed leather armchairs and tufted Chesterfield sofas allowed the guests to ward off the perpetual chill in the ancient house, and were frequent gathering places during the colder months.

Laurel counted at least six people positioned around the fireplace, all of them turning in her direction. Of course they were eager to get a glimpse of Christopher’s future bride, but did they
really
have to stare?

Immediately, one beautiful blonde jumped to her feet. “Christopher, she’s but a child!”

The woman’s tone was hardly friendly, and evoked something within Laurel that was a strange mixture of fear and indignation.

“I’m nineteen.”

Christopher reeled around to face her. “When did you turn nineteen?”

“A few weeks back,” Laurel said. “I didn’t think it worth mentioning.”

The haughty blonde eyed her up and down. “Nineteen or not, she’s almost ten years younger than you, Christopher.”

Laurel felt like a new mule that was being inspected—hooves lifted, lips pulled back. Lucky for her that they didn’t hitch up her petticoats and feel her knees!

“Theresa, may I present Miss Laurel Graham,” Christopher cleared his throat. “Laurel, this is Lady Amesbury.”

Some kind of welcoming party.
Already, she was off on the wrong foot with her new family. When it became clear that Lady Amesbury expected her to curtsey, Laurel thought she was going to be sick right there on the red Aubusson rug.

Christopher stood there, unsure of how to best diffuse the situation. It was—by rite—proper for Laurel to show respect, but he did not have the heart to make her do it. No one hated Theresa Amesbury more than he did.

Thankfully, Jonathan had the good sense to intervene. “Welcome, Miss Graham. Welcome! We are quite glad to have you here, and hope that Christopher has been taking good care of you.”

“He has, thank you…My Lord.”

Jonathan shook his dark head. “Now, none of that! I won’t have it! You’re family and will call me Jonathan. Isn’t that right,
Theresa?
”

His wife huffed and puffed, but had no choice but to agree.

Smiling almost stupidly, Jonathan turned to his guests. Going around the circle, he introduced each one of them. “Lord and Lady DePardieu, Mr. Bruce, Lady Ampherst, Lord Forrest, Mrs. Hartley, and her daughter, Miss Hartley.”

They were all in their early to mid-thirties, with the exception of Miss Hartley, who was closer to Laurel’s age than anyone else’s. Everyone eyed her with a certain degree of curiosity, but none went so far as to be rude. In fact, most of the other guests seemed friendly and welcoming.

“You are an American, Miss Graham?” Miss Hartley asked.

Laurel and Christopher settled into the group, she taking a seat beside the young lady, and he standing by the mantle with his brother.

“That’s right.”

“And where from, exactly? I would love to travel someday.”

“A small town in North Carolina,” Laurel said. “You’ve never heard of it.”

The young woman folded and unfolded her delicate hands in her lap. “But a lovely place, I am sure.”

“Yes, it was–is–lovely.”

Miss Hartley smiled. Something about her reminded Laurel of the Lottie Dellingers and Theodosia Waycasters of the world, but despite her best efforts, she could not dislike the girl.

An outburst of masculine laughter from the fireplace caught both of their attention. Christopher had his elder brother in tears over some obviously very funny story that he was telling. They had not seen each other for the better part of a year, and were making up for lost time.

Miss Hartley glanced at Laurel. “Are you
really
marrying Lord Christopher?”

“So it seems.”

“He’s very handsome.”

She smiled as she watched him laughing. “He is, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes, everyone thinks so,” Miss Hartley said. “He’s been one of the most sought after bachelors in all of society for years. If fact, invitations for parties at this very house are usually only accepted on the rare chance that
he
might be here.”

“I had no idea.”

The young lady nodded. “It seems everyone is in quite an uproar to find out what you have that no one else does. And if I were you, I would watch out for that one.” She gestured towards Theresa Amesbury. “She’s already got your number.”

Laurel’s bedroom at Amesbury Castle was large and furnished in mauve silks. Her window overlooked the rear part of the bailey, which served as an enormous formal garden. It was not much to look at then, but she imagined that it was breathtaking in the summer.

“Will you wear the gold silk, or the green, Miss?” Flora, who had been sent up from Christopher’s house, asked as she laid both gowns across the bed.