Redeeming Jack (16 page)

Jack nodded as he cautiously felt his way around the solid oak pews. His boots sounded loud on the faded tile. A stone altar sat at the top of the aisle. Despite his lack of faith in any god, Jack took care to pass the altar with all the respect he could muster. A sense of the thousands of worshippers who’d met in this sacred space pressed against his skull with a multitude of whispered prayers.

Did Carys still believe in God? Jack wondered as he tried the ornate iron handle of the vestry door. She had as much reason to doubt God’s existence as he did, after suffering innumerable disappointments to bring a child into the world.

Gareth’s distorted voice from the back of the church penetrated Jack’s musings. “There’s nothing here. The baptismal font is covered over and, by the looks of it, hasn’t seen service for many a year.”

“I’m going to search the vestry,” Jack said. “Perhaps we’ll find something there.”

The door screeched on its hinges, and something scuttled away into the shadows, claws scrabbling frantically on the wooden floor. Jack recoiled from the feral scent, noticing a smashed window and green mold spreading up the wall.

Apart from a table, the narrow vestry contained only a long cupboard against the far wall. Jack moved cautiously over the ruined floor and flung open the doors. He found nothing, apart from the bones of several small birds picked clean.

Green light squeezing through the broken diamond paned window lent the bones a luminous quality. A faint scent of incense drifted toward Jack from the depths of the cupboard. An image of a woman screaming in Spanish and the smell of burning flesh seared through his memory. He hastily turned to leave and collided with Gareth.

“There’s nothing here.” Jack said. “We’ll have to ask at the manor house.”

He retreated from the church and out into the pouring rain. At least he could breathe out here. He found himself facing a small neglected graveyard, yet another stark reminder of his mortality.

Gareth shut the church door and attempted to loop the chain securely through the handle. He glanced at Jack. “Was it the bones?”

Jack swung round. “What bones?”

Gareth made a face. “When I found you in the vestry, you looked as if you were about to cast up your accounts.”

Jack stared out at the deadening curtain of rain. “It was the smell. A hint of incense was all it took to remind me of Spain. It wasn’t only the French army who hated Catholicism and tried to obliterate it. I saw English troops setting fire to more than one church and driving the clergy out from their monasteries and nunneries.” He cleared his throat. “It’s ridiculous that after all these years, I still can’t escape the horrors. Perhaps my father was right and I should’ve pleaded insanity at my hearing.”

Gareth jammed his hat on his head. “In my opinion, any man who didn’t feel as you did should be locked away. I’ve a theory that our sense of taste and smell can trigger powerful memories.”

Jack set off for the trees where he’d tied his horse, Gareth chattering in his wake. “Carys told me she still can’t stand the smell of blood. She panics every time she pricks her finger.”

Jack stopped walking.

“Of course, after three miscarriages,” Gareth continued, “she probably retains as many painful memories as you do.”

Jack’s first instinct was to turn and plant Gareth a facer. Was he suggesting that Jack hadn’t noticed Carys’s suffering? A careful moment of reflection made Jack acknowledge his anger sprang from his own sense of guilt. He hadn’t appreciated Carys’s anguish until he’d been cast adrift and learned what he’d lost.

Jack resumed walking. Having a clergyman as a brother-in-law certainly made life interesting. He was beginning to understand why Gareth made such a formidable minister.

He swung himself up onto his horse. “Do you want to find a place to stay in the village, or shall we brave the gentry at Oxwich Manor?”

Gareth looked longingly at the distant windows of the manor house. “I’d certainly prefer the house to the village. I’m not even sure there is an inn.”

Jack picked up his reins. “I’m confident they’ll offer you a bed for the night. As I recall, Mrs. Mansell is a terrible gossip who thrives on the misfortunes of others. A visiting clergyman will be just her cup of tea.”

By the time they reached the stable yard at Oxwich Manor, Jack was so wet that the prospect of a bed in a stable full of straw sounded positively luxurious. To his consternation, the coach yard was full of people. He glanced across at Gareth but was unable to attract his attention over the rumpus.

A magnificent black coach had just deposited its passengers, and the household staff was busy taking luggage into the house. Amidst the bustle, Jack dismounted, took off his soaking wet hat, and looked around for a senior servant or groomsman. His eyes met those of a tall man attempting to organize the chaos.

“Jack Llewelyn?”

With a sense of inevitability, Jack squared his shoulders and turned toward the speaker, a man about his own age. Damnation. He hadn’t expected the Mansell’s eldest son to be frequenting the stables. Jack waited until Richard Mansell approached him, hand outstretched. Jack took the opportunity to return the handshake and murmur his request.

“I need to speak to you privately. Would that be possible?”

Richard’s blue eyes widened. “Of course. We can talk in the head groom’s office. Don’t worry about your horses or your companion. They will be taken care of.”

Jack cornered Gareth and sent him on ahead to the kitchen to dry off. Then he followed Richard into the stable building, a mellow orange-bricked Elizabethan structure with a thatched roof. Richard busied himself providing drinks and blankets, Jack took off his dripping coat and laid it over the back of his chair.

He fought a smile as he studied his childhood companion. “I was hoping not to be noticed, Richard. I didn’t expect to see you in the stables.”

Richard handed him a tankard of ale and sat opposite him at the table. “I heard your father disinherited you, but I hadn’t realized you’d fallen so low.” He gestured at Jack’s filthy clothing, a spark of anger lighting his eyes. “I never believed you were guilty of cowardice. Why didn’t you come to me before? I would’ve given you anything you needed.”

Jack drew in a hard-won breath. It seemed as if he had more friends than he imagined. In his desire to cut his ties with his father, he’d refused to consider allowing anyone to help him. “It’s not as bad as it seems,” Jack said. “There are reasons for my present appearance that have no bearing on my earlier disgrace.” He swallowed hard. “And in truth, I was too proud to ask for aid. My father assured me I would be unwelcome in polite society.”

Richard topped up Jack’s tankard and thumped it down on the table. “Your father was wrong. I still do all I can to protect your reputation, what little there is left of it.” Richard winked, and Jack recalled the mischievous boy who’d gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion.

He answered with suitable gravity. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf and promise I will try and prove more worthy in the future.”

Richard frowned. “How could your father believe you’d abandon your best friend and meekly hand over important information to the French? He should’ve stood by you.”

“He tried, in his own indomitable fashion.” Jack sighed. “He wanted me to plead guilty to all the charges on the grounds that I was mentally unstable.” For the first time, he found himself able to discuss his father without the all-pervading sense of bitterness that usually choked him. “He thought a period of convalescence by the sea would set me back on my feet, ready to kill again.” Jack retrieved his hip flask and added a splash of brandy to his and Richard’s ale. “I refused to plead guilty or admit to any offence, and he washed his hands of me.”

He stared into the fire as Richard shifted uncomfortably beside him.

“Of course, because I refused to resign quietly, I was dishonorably discharged, leaving me without my commission sale money or a pension.”

Richard whistled. “Ye gods, man, how did you survive?”

Jack sat back, unwilling to burden his rediscovered friend with his trials and tribulations. “It’s a long story and one I would be delighted to share with you on another occasion. But first, I’d like to explain why I’m here masquerading as my brother-in-law’s servant.”

CARYS HALTED THE gig beside the massive stone gatehouse of Llewelyn Hall, the Llewelyn family’s main country residence. She smiled with relief when a familiar figure emerged.

“Lady Carys! It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Mairi Roberts, the young wife of Tom the gatekeeper, smiled warmly up at Carys. Two small children stood behind Mairi in the doorway, mouths agape like baby birds. The smell of baking bread drifted out from the house.

Carys remembered Mairi from her brief but tumultuous residence at Llewelyn Hall. The woman had married Tom just before Carys’s abrupt departure. Her oldest daughter appeared to be about Owen’s age.

“It’s good to see you, Mairi,” Carys said. “Are the family still in residence?”

Mairi removed her apron string from the mouth of her youngest child and patted his head. “Yes, my lady, they are. Did you wish to see anyone in particular?”

“I was hoping the duchess was at home.”

“Indeed she is, and the duke.” Mairi opened the gate more fully, and Carys maneuvered the carriage inside. “Tom told me they will be leaving for London in the next week or so, depending on the weather.”

Carys found two small coins in her purse and handed them to Mairi. “I’d give them to the children, but I fear for the consequences. Buy them something sweet to eat.”

Mairi dipped a curtsey and the children waved as Carys drove up the long, graveled driveway toward the main house. Monstrous elm trees kept out the light and shielded Carys from the meager warmth of the sun. Beyond the trees there was a large landscaped park, an ornate rose bower and a stolen Greek temple. Jack had always joked that only a man of his father’s immense wealth and lack of imagination could have kept nature at bay so successfully.

The house remained hidden until Carys rounded the last curve of the drive. Rebuilt from the ruins of a Norman castle in thick gray stone and slate, it still appeared ready and eager to defend itself from invaders.

Carys drew up at the main entrance and waited until two bewigged footmen appeared to hold her horse and help her down from the gig. When she mounted the shallow steps, Williams, the head butler, materialized from the shadows. Although his posture remained impeccable, he smiled with genuine warmth when he saw Carys.

“Lady Jack, welcome home.”

Carys managed a smile. “Mr. Williams. I’m glad to see that you are still here to keep everyone in order.”

Mr. Williams held out his hand for her cloak and bonnet. “I do my best, my lady, although the house hasn’t been the same of late.” He lowered his voice. “The duchess is unwell, and the duke is quite concerned for her health. He is taking her to London to consult the finest physicians and then on to Bath.”

Carys waited in the entrance hall, while Williams ascertained whether the duchess would see her. Carys could only hope that her mother-in-law’s curiosity would outweigh her displeasure at Carys’s unexpected arrival.

Williams returned and escorted Carys up the staircase. As they progressed along the marble corridor lined with white sculptures, Carys wondered anew at her mission. If the duchess were truly ill, she’d hardly welcome her estranged daughter-in-law asking awkward questions. She resolved to tread carefully.

The duchess’ private sitting room hadn’t changed. Carys still felt smothered by the heavy mahogany furniture, crimson drapes and stale air. Glass medicine bottles, burnt feathers and pillboxes cluttered the surfaces, reflecting the duchess’ penchant for imagining herself an invalid. Carys glanced at the faded rug before the fireplace, where she’d endured many a lecture about her lack of ability to bear Jack an heir. It was impossible not to recall the frightened girl she’d once been. She and Jack had been so young—
too
young to deal with the problems their unconventional marriage had thrust upon them—and totally unable to withstand the glacial might of the Llewelyn family.

A full-length portrait of the duchess on her wedding day graced the main wall. Carys wandered across to study it. The delicate beauty and wistful charm displayed in the portrait had never been obvious to Carys. She’d often wondered who had robbed the duchess of that shy innocence.

There were no pictures of Jack or Owen in the room, although the other Llewelyn boys and several distant relatives were well-represented.

The bedroom door opened, and Carys turned to greet her mother-in-law. The duchess seemed to have shrunk, her countenance drained of color and emotion. Her olive green morning dress had slipped off one thin shoulder, and she used a cane.

Trying to disguise her shock, Carys curtsied and moved to take the duchess’ arm. Her tentative offer was ignored as the duchess seated herself, unaided, in her favorite wing chair beside the fire. She drew her shawl around her shoulders.

“Did you come to tell me not to meet with Jack?”

Carys took her time settling herself into the chair opposite. “I wasn’t aware that you planned to meet him, Your Grace, although he is the reason I came.”

The duchess sniffed delicately into a lace edged handkerchief. “Robert believes I should see Jack before I leave for London. He fondly imagines I will immediately recover my health with the joy of our reunion.”

The bitterness in her voice made Carys wince. “I am sure your health will improve when the milder weather returns. I understand you will be visiting the best physicians in London.”

“Of course, you would know the gossip better than I do. You are so well connected below stairs.”

Carys managed a cool smile. It seemed as if the duchess felt her illness released her from any attempt to disguise her dislike of Carys. It made her feel less guilty about being direct. “If you are referring to my sister, Nia, your housekeeper, she is far too discreet to share your secrets. I only became aware of the duke’s plans when I arrived here this morning.”