Love's Odyssey

Love’s Odyssey

By

Jane Toombs

ISBN: 978-1-77145-096-6

Books We Love Ltd.

Chestermere
, Alberta 

Canada
 

Copyright 2013 by Jane Toombs

Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2013

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Chapter 1

"Well, girl, don't stand gawking out the window—answer me!"

Romell Wellsley turned from the view of her uncle's gardens to look at Sir Thomas Wellsley himself. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "I didn't mean to be discourteous."

"Very well, very well," Sir Thomas said gruffly. No doubt I'm a bit short with everyone these days. Still, I must have your promise you'll not cause another ruckus like yesterday's."

Blood rose to Romell's cheeks. "I did nothing!" she cried. "My only wish was to be friendly. I had no notion those boys would come to blows."

Sir Thomas shook his head. "Scarcely a month in
England and already men fight over you. It's not seemly, not seemly at all. A pity your mother died so young. As for your father—"

"Papa was a wonderful man!"

"I, too, loved Richard," her uncle said. "But being his brother didn't blind me to his faults. I see Richard in you, Romell. You must realize that behavior which might be considered merely high-spirited in a man is not appropriate in an eighteen-year-old girl."

"Papa did well in
Virginia," she said. "You admitted as much yourself."

Sir Thomas nodded. "He found himself in the colonies. When I've settled his estate, your dowry will be substantial. I intend, however, to provide a dowry myself, so any marriage you might contract for will not be delayed. You're certainly comely enough. If you can manage to modify your demeanor, there's no reason why you shouldn't make a good match soon."

Romell smiled hesitantly. "I'll try to please you, Uncle Thomas. When I promised Papa, before he died, that I'd do my best to learn to be an English lady, I didn't realize the task would prove to be so difficult."

"Colony manners are as different from ours as colony dress," he told her, returning her smile. "You'll learn."

Romell glanced down at her scoop-necked gown of peach satin, admiring the fine lace that trimmed both the neck and the elbow-length sleeves. What she wore was the latest English fashion, she knew, but she wasn't used to exposing so much of herself. Why, the tops of her breasts showed! Perhaps it hadn't been only her attitude that had set the squire's sons to quarreling over her.

"Don't look so worried, child," her uncle said, reaching over to pat her cheek. His hand fell away, but his gaze continued to meet hers. "Since you've been here," he said, "I've come to wish a son of yours might someday inherit Three Oaks. I know it to be impossible, of course, due to the entailment. As you know, when I die the estate will go to a distant male cousin, descended from another branch of the family."

"But, sir, you're barely over fifty. Have you not thought to remarry? It may be you'd have a son."

A strange, almost desperate look crossed her uncle's face. "I fear there's no time," he muttered.

Romell gazed at him in concern. "Are you ill?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort. I spoke hastily. Political matters needn't concern you. And yet—" He broke off to stare at her again, so intently she gripped her fingers nervously about the small book of poetry she held.

"I believe a visit to your mother's relatives in Holland is in order," he said abruptly. "I'll see to the arrangements."

"My mother's relatives? But she was an orphan! I—I don't understand."

"Your mother has cousins in Holland. I don't wonder Richard never mentioned them—he despised the Dutch. With the exception of your mother, naturally. Annaleis was so charming no man could dislike her, whatever her lineage."

"I don't remember my mother."

"You have her brown eyes."

"Yes, Papa often said so. But I fear I have his cinnamon hair, and you've said yourself I've inherited his impetuous ways." As she spoke, Romell was thinking that, though Sir Thomas was her father's elder brother, there was nothing in him to remind her of Papa.

“I've no doubt you'll do very well, in time," her uncle said. "Control, that's the secret. He who controls himself has the power to rule the world. Would that King Charles might take note!"

The fighting in
Scotland, Romell thought. Sir Thomas didn't approve of sending English troops there. He remained facing her, but he was staring over her head.

She looked down at the gilt-edged book of John Donne’s poetry she held. Her uncle’s library had more volumes in it than the entire colony of Virginia. Romell sighed.

In Virginia they would have finished the spring planting. The green shoots of hemp and flax would already be above ground. The cows would be dropping calves, and the tobacco sprouts would be ready for planting in the fields.

But
Virginia was no longer her home. She lived at Three Oaks now, as she had promised Papa she would. Her father was eight months dead, and she must try to amend to suit Sir Thomas.

She glanced up at her uncle and saw his gaze was fixed on something outside the windows. Romell turned to look out at the side gardens where two gardeners methodically clipped back the riotous growth of spring so each shrub conformed to a pattern. In their way, Sir Thomas's gardens were lovely. They were certainly renowned throughout
Suffolk for their elaborate order. Why did their formality make her feel stifled?

"
Roosevelt," her uncle said.

Romell turned back to him. "Sir?"

"Those Dutch cousins of your mother's. I knew I'd remember the name. Spinster sisters. Halva and Greta Roosevelt if I'm not mistaken."

"I'm quite content here at Three Oaks," she said.

"Nevertheless, the trip is—" Sir Thomas broke off and strode to the long windows of the sitting room. As Romell followed him she thought she heard him mutter: "Too late."

She stared out at the two gardeners, who had abandoned their work and were looking in the direction of the front drive, although she couldn't see the drive from the sitting room. Did she hear horses? The gardeners gathered up their tools and hurried toward the rear of the mansion. A moment later, Romell heard the hollow boom of the massive iron hawk knocking against the oaken door of the great hall.

"Is something amiss?" she asked her uncle.

He didn't seem to hear her. All the color had left his long, rather ascetic face. His hair was quite gray, and, with his light eyes he seemed to have no color to him at all at that moment, like a wax puppet.

"Uncle Thomas!" she exclaimed, just as Hamer knocked.

Instead of bidding the butler to enter, Sir Thomas strode to the door. She caught a glimpse of Hamer's face before her uncle went out, closing the door and leaving her alone in the sitting room. Romell frowned. She'd never seen Hamer anything but impassive--surely she'd imagined that he looked frightened? Should she go after Sir Thomas? What would an English lady do?

Ladies didn't interfere in men's affairs. Ladies didn't attract undue attention. To follow her uncle would violate both precepts.

What could possibly be wrong at Three Oaks? Her uncle kept everything in such good order it was difficult to believe that any trouble threatened.

She remembered her first view of the Wellsley estate. Just over four weeks ago it had been, when the carriage bringing her from London passed between the great oaks lining the road and turned into the curved drive, passing between boxwood hedges so neat not a leaf grew out of place. At the loop of the drive the stone mansion rose three stories high, but was still almost dwarfed by the three gigantic oaks in the loop. The oaks and the house looked to have been there from the beginning of time.

Three Oaks, home of the Wellsleys for over a hundred years. What could go wrong? 

Outside, the light faded quickly as clouds massed in the late afternoon sky, giving the day an ominous feel. Or did her apprehension stem from what she had seen in her uncle's face?

Romell turned from the windows and set her book on a table, atop a slim volume of Ben Jonson's poems. This was no time to read poetry. Even if her behavior was unladylike, she must go after Sir Thomas.

As she opened the door of the sitting room, she heard angry shouting from somewhere in the house, so far away she couldn't make out the words. Not the servants, certainly. They were as well-ordered as everything else at Three Oaks. What, then? Quickening her steps, she hurried toward the commotion.

"Damn the man! He has no right!" she heard Sir Thomas roar as she rounded a corner of the west corridor and opened the door leading into the mansion's immense entry hall. There she stopped abruptly, staring in amazement.

Four men ranged in a semicircle in front of her uncle, who stood with hands on hips in front of the vast stone fireplace. The great hall, two stories high, was always chilly, but it wasn't the cold that made Romell clutch her arms across her breasts. Although the four strangers were well-dressed, in winged satin doublets and tagged breeches, two of them wore the lobster-tailed plumed helmets of the King's Guard.

What were soldiers doing here? In the gloomy light from the stained-glass windows, the strangers seemed sinister, and her uncle's expression was a mixture of rage and defiance. She caught her breath. They couldn't mean him harm!

Her gaze darted from one intruder to another. All were bearded except the youngest who, she saw now, was also less richly dressed than his companions. Although his doublet had long silk lapels, it was made of a muted blue wool. All four men wore swords at their belts. Sir Thomas was not armed.

As Romell watched, her uncle held out his hands, palms upward. "My hands are unblemished. My loyalty to His Majesty is not in question, but I say again—he has no right!" As he spoke, he slowly approached the four men. Behind him on the wall was the great shield with the family crest, a hawk in flight, and next to the shield an ancient sword and scabbard. As Sir Thomas advanced, the men shifted uneasily.

One of the soldiers stepped toward him. "Rights? You talk of rights? There are no bounds to the rights of His Royal Highness!"

Romell choked back a gasp. Was her uncle actually defying King Charles?

The bearded man nearest her, who was about her uncle's age and not a soldier, said now, in a bored drawl: "Here then, Wellsley, make an end to this blathering. You have no choice."

"Damme if I don't," Sir Thomas roared, "when all men know the charge to be unjust! Treason indeed! And I shall thank you, John Burnet, not to patronize me."

Burnet jerked his head at the soldiers, who advanced slowly toward Sir Thomas.

The clean-shaven man held up a restraining hand. "Sir John! Surely force isn't necessary. Why not let me talk to Sir Thomas?"

"Keep out of this, Adrien," Burnet muttered as the soldiers, paying no heed to the exchange, closed in on either side of Sir Thomas, each soldier keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Sir Thomas suddenly leaped forward, felling the nearest soldier with an unexpected blow of his fist, then whirled about and yanked the sword from the scabbard on the wall. He turned to face the foursome, sword in hand.

"Now, you bastards, try and take me!"

Romell clapped her hands together. Her own father could not have done better! For the first time, she felt that Sir Thomas was truly kin to her. Hearing a shocked exclamation behind her, she turned and saw Hamer peering over her shoulder.

"Order the men to help Sir Thomas," she commanded.

The butler shook his head. "Those be the king's soldiers," he said, his voice quivering with fright. "There's more of them in the kitchens, standing guard. It's worth our heads to cross them."

"Coward!" she cried after him as he turned and fled along the corridor.

Clang went Sir Thomas's sword as he thrust and parried with the second soldier, forcing him back. But as he did so, Burnet slipped behind him. Before Romell could call out a warning, Sir John's hand plunged down, striking Sir Thomas in the back. To Romell’s shock, her uncle crumpled to his knees.

"Stop!" she shrieked, running into the hall. She flew at Burnet, her fists clenched. "Leave him alone, you sneaking dog. He's worth twenty of you. Leave him be, I tell you!"

"No, Sir John!" the man called Adrien shouted as Burnet turned toward her. Romell saw Burnet's arm swinging and tried to pull back—too late to avoid the blow. His hand struck her across the side of the head and knocked her to the floor beside her uncle, who lay sprawled on the flagstones before the fireplace.

Half-stunned, Romell crawled away from Burnet on her hands and knees to her uncle's discarded sword. Heedless of her tumbled skirts, she closed her fingers around the hilt, then scrambled to her feet. The sword weighed heavy in her hand, but she raised it as her father had taught her and took up a defensive post in front of Sir Thomas's motionless figure.

"I'll be damned! The wench proclaims herself a swordsman." Grinning, Burnet unsheathed his own sword. "Winner take all," he said, advancing.

"Don't act more of a fool than you have already," Adrien told him. "Let the girl be and come away. The king won't be pleased to hear—"

"I don't interfere with His Majesty's pleasures," Burnet said, "and he's never concerned himself with mine. I fancy Wellsley's pretty little doxie. Why shouldn't I amuse myself before I take her?" With one swift stroke he knocked the sword from Romell's hand, caught her by the shoulder and drew her to him.