One More Kiss (42 page)

Did she think she was going to be accused of pushing Lord Crenshaw over the edge of the platform? Beatrice supposed it could have happened that way, but it was, as she had observed at the beginning of this conversation, not at all in Katherine’s nature.

She herself might do it, Beatrice thought, to save her life or her sister’s. Nora Kendrick might, but still only to save someone else. Or to save Finch, who was clearly as important to her as any human being. Even Mrs. Wilson could probably bring herself to do it, if it meant her life or possibly her daughter’s, but Katherine herself would hesitate a moment too long.

Nora drew Beatrice’s attention, and they changed seats. The older woman took Katherine’s hands in hers, compelling Katherine to look her in the eye.

“I must tell Belmont your story, which is what I assume you intended when you invited me to hear it.”

Katherine nodded, looking relieved that she would not have to recount it again.

“I can tell you now that it will make no difference to his inquiry. You were a witness and a completely innocent party.”

“Thank you.” Katherine breathed the phrase as if finally releasing a burden that was growing increasingly difficult to bear.

“What do you want to happen now, Katherine?”

Beatrice loved the way Nora phrased that question and looked at Jess for his reaction. There was a gentle smile on his face which Beatrice read as compassion. It made her appreciate, not love, him all the more.

“Please, I beg of you. Do not tell Mama.”

“Of course not,” Nora said.

“You may rest assured that we will keep this story in confidence,” Jess said. It was the first time he had spoken, and Katherine accepted his male voice as law.

“When this is all settled, I want to go home. I want to see my old governess. She is still caring for my sisters who are not yet out. She will understand.”

They talked for a few more minutes, making plans that might not survive the hour, but Katherine was all the better for it. When the three of them left the girl, her maid had returned with tea. She had a caring air that reassured Beatrice that Katherine was in good hands.

When they were in the passage, Beatrice turned to go back to her room when Nora stopped her.

“Please. Both of you, come with me. Belmont may have some questions and your insights might prove helpful.”

Once again, Beatrice did not hesitate. But for the love of God, let her father be somewhere else on the property. He might not have Lord Crenshaw’s temper, but she did not want to make life more difficult for any of her family.

Chapter Thirty-eight
 

T
HEY FINISHED THEIR
meeting with Belmont just in time to attend the service for Lord Crenshaw in Havenhall’s tiny chapel. Jess watched as the various guests and some of the staff entered and took seats in the short rows that seated four on each side of the center aisle.

The countess took the first row on the right with Destry as her escort. The row behind her was empty.

Across the aisle the Earl of Belmont and Mrs. Kendrick sat in front of Mrs. Wilson and her daughter. Olivia came in at the last minute, trailing a scent of apples and cinnamon that made Jess hope there might be cake this evening. When she saw him sitting in the last row, she slid in next to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I feel a fraud being here,” she whispered. “I barely knew the man, but hated him more than I hate yeast that fails.”

“Lollie,” Jess said, using a childhood nickname that still suited her, “there are times when I wonder how you can be married to a man of God.”

“I am just being honest, which Michael would applaud, and I assure you that I am going to pray for Crenshaw’s soul.”

“Don’t you think it’s too late to spare him the fires of hell?”

“Michael would say he may have repented at the last moment and no prayers are ever wasted.” She wrinkled her nose. “That has burdened me with an image of God, or maybe St. Peter, busy all the time routing prayers to where they are needed most.”

She settled herself, closing her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration. Jess watched her, wishing that prayers were all that were needed to right his world.

Beatrice came in with her father and sister and they moved toward seats in the second row, directly behind the countess as Mervis directed. Beatrice lagged behind her family, turning to look at Jess. She seemed weighed down with a distress that he was sure had little to do with Crenshaw. He nodded to her. It was not pride or some high opinion of himself that convinced him that he was the cause of her upset. It was the ache in his own heart.

She neither turned away from him nor responded to his gesture, but continued to stare at him with a sadness that was painful to see.

He wished there was something he could do to make her curious again, to make her exclaim, “What fun!,” to make her understand that in another world he would have loved her forever. In this world, in the life
he had created for himself, his love would corrupt her until she hated him and he hated himself even more.

Several of the senior staff and gentlemen of the house, like the curator, Mr. Hogarth, filled in the empty rows. The chapel was full when the Reverend Michael Garrett came into the sanctuary, dressed in a simple purple vestment perfectly suited to the occasion.

Jess watched Beatrice’s back. He loved reading her by the way she angled her head. At the moment it was bent low, most likely in prayer, and he could see the sweet curve of her neck, so vulnerable, so untouched.

“Not all of us here mourn the passing of Arthur Crenshaw.”

That drew everyone’s attention. Jess watched as Beatrice raised her head abruptly, angling it to one side as if she was not sure she had heard correctly.

“It’s as though he is speaking directly to me,” Olivia whispered. “I’m not sure if I hate or love the way he can do that.”

Jess nodded absently, well aware that Garrett was speaking directly to him. What did Olivia have to regret? Some unkind thoughts? Had any other person in this chapel wished Crenshaw dead? Thought killing him was the best possible solution? And though it was one more thing that would damn him to hell, Jess felt no remorse.

“We are each created in God’s image and likeness. That may become distorted as we age. But you and I, the living, should find joy in the chance we still have to rediscover that blessing of goodness. The blessing that came with us into the world and is with us always.”

Garrett paused as though he wanted everyone to think about his words. Jess watched Beatrice lean forward
in her pew, seemingly engrossed in what Michael was saying.

“Arthur Crenshaw has no more time to prove himself. May God have mercy on his soul.”

Jess supposed that was as close as the Reverend Mr. Garrett would come to saying that Crenshaw deserved to burn in hell.

“But!” Garrett made the word an exclamation. “There is no rule that says we who are still embracing the joy of life must continue on the road we have chosen so far.”

Beatrice wiggled in her seat, and Jess understood the discomfort those words could arouse.

“We are free to choose another path at this moment, tomorrow, or at the moment of death.” He paused and added, “All those choices are the same to God, who does not measure time as we do.”

To Jess, Olivia whispered, “But what if you think you are on the right path? How do you know for sure?”

“My wife has asked me more than once how we can know if we are on the right path. The answer is very, very simple. Do you love life and what you are doing with it? Are you happy? Do you make others happy? Then you are doing exactly what God wills. If not, then what would it take to make you happy?”

Beatrice
, Jess thought, before he could control his answer. Her sweetness, her love of life, her intensity. All those qualities that made the world new for him when he saw it through her eyes.

He loved Beatrice Brent.

There was no point in lying to himself. And then he marveled at his selfishness. She might be able to save him, but what could he offer her?

He watched her bend her head, resting her forehead on her folded hands, in a pose of prayerful intensity.

Jess could not take his eyes from her, could not hear anything but his heart’s insistence that he loved her, and his head shouting that he had nothing to offer her but a jaded heart.

He did not hear any of the rest of the short service. When it was over, he stood and, before anyone could capture his attention, left the chapel. It was amazingly stuffy and the smell of incense was making his eyes water.

“W
E HAVE HAD
the loveliest weather these past two weeks.” Cecilia made a face at her inane attempt at conversation. She and William should be beyond such commonplace topics.

William turned in his saddle. “Even the rain has come mostly at night. How convenient for us.”

They rode on, not side by side, but with Cecilia following. The groom was almost out of sight. The trail was narrow here and the horses walked languidly, all of them enjoying the shade. There was a reason one rode in the morning like this, especially in summer. It was warm, and would grow warmer still, judging by the angle of the sun and the merest scattering of clouds.

Cecilia could not even
think
an original thought. All her original thoughts settled on one thing. Kissing William. Again. And again.

They had reached the ford, which was now exposed without water running over it, the river at its summer low. There were one or two pools in the shade of the hawthorns with ferns along the edge. The trout would
be there, she thought, waiting for cooler temperatures and stronger currents.

The river as a topic of discussion was marginally better than the weather. But when she raised her head to speak to William, he was watching her with such longing that “kissing William” was the only phrase that she could think of.

“Cecilia,” he began, and before he could say another word, she urged her horse across the ford and up the hill at a pace that would preclude conversation.
Please, do not bring up marriage again
. As much as she might want it, the thought terrified her. She was not ready to say yes, but the last thing she ever wanted was to hurt him.

He followed her, caught up, and paced himself beside her horse, both moving faster than was safe in an open field with which neither was familiar.

“You can run, but eventually I will catch you,” he shouted over the pounding hooves. “Cecilia, stop and talk to me before one of our horses finds a rabbit hole.”

He was right. She did not want to hurt him in any way, but avoiding him was just as bad.

Slowing, Cecilia turned back to the quiet river and one of those pools where they could be comfortable while she ruined his day, if not his life.

“This glade is flawless,” she announced, fascinated. She tried to concentrate on the way the sun filtered through the leaves, casting light but not heat. “I’ve passed this spot once or twice before and never stopped to study it. Do you think these stones and that boulder were moved here deliberately?”

“By some landscape architect bent on creating a
haven even better than nature could?” William asked as they dismounted and let their horses drink.

“Yes, but he did his work too perfectly.” She twirled around, her head raised heavenward. “If the weather was always like this I think I could live here.”

“It would be the perfect setting for you. I should like someone to paint you seated on that rock, surrounded by one of the few beauties that are comparable to yours.”

“No one paints portraits like that,” she said, trying to steer the conversation to something less personal.

“Only because they have not yet thought of it. Or seen you sitting here.” He walked around her as though he were an artist considering the pose. “If I could, I would have such a haven as this created for you, but our gardens at home are not this verdant. The climate is not welcoming. Even in the summer.” He considered the idea for a moment. “There is a house in the Lake District that would suit. We could live there.”

So he was simply going to pretend that he had already proposed and ignore the truth. She was not going to play that game. “My lord,” she said formally, “you have not even spoken to my father yet.”

“Because I listened to you and, on your advice, I am waiting until he is in better humor. And a sound suggestion it was, because it later occurred to me that I should see if the lady is willing before I approach her father.”

She shook her head. “William, I cannot marry you.” Which was not the truth but was easier than trying to explain how she felt.

“You are already married? You are mad for another? Your sister is older and must marry first?”

She shook her head at the absurd questions.

“Then tell me, Cecilia, because I do not believe you.”

“We have not known each other long.” That sounded tentative even to her own ears and, as expected, he waved her excuse away without comment.

“You are impulsive, even your best friends say that, and I am afraid you only think you love me because I am beautiful and you want it to be true.” There. She had told him the truth and it actually felt good to have it in the open so she went on. “Once you have time and distance to think about it you will realize that it was only an infatuation.”