So in Love (5 page)

Sometimes, she’d retrieve her and ask him to tell a story about when he’d first bought the doll. He’d fabricated a
great many stories for his daughter, and the greatest of these had been the lie about her birth. But she would never know that the one woman who should have loved her had tossed her away.

This doll was treated with more care than Margaret had been.

Nor would his daughter ever know how foolish her own father was, unable to stop thinking about the woman he hated.

W
hen she was a child and asked to see her mother, Jeanne was often told that Hélène wasn’t feeling well enough for a visit. To the child, Jeanne, the future was uncertain, an amorphous world that never materialized. “Tomorrow, your mother will feel much better. Tomorrow, perhaps she can sit in the sun. Tomorrow, little one, and she’ll have breakfast with you. Will that not be fun?”

Tomorrow never came. One day, black ribbons appeared on the door and the servants began wearing black armbands. She and her father followed the priest to the chapel and watched silently as the iron grille to the crypt was unlocked. Inside the magnificently carved mahogany coffin lay her beautiful mother, but Jeanne was not to cry. According to Justine and her father, no tears were to be shed on this most mournful of days. Instead, she was to stand straight and tall and be proud that she was a du Marchand. She wept in her pillow at night, and bathed her eyes with cold water in the morning so that her maid wouldn’t rush to tell Justine.

Perhaps because of childhood memories, Jeanne was
diligent about Davis’s morning visits to his mother. She stood when breakfast was over, and thanked Hartley, stretching out a hand to her charge.

“We must visit your mother, Davis, before we begin our lessons.”

Davis nodded. He was a dutiful child, almost nondescript in his personality. His brown hair and brown eyes were unremarkable, as was his manner. He was neither gifted in learning nor too slow. Average would be the label Davis would carry all his life, but perhaps it would be safer than being called headstrong, wild, or evil.

The child reminded Jeanne of herself. Not in appearance or even in temperament, but in loneliness. Davis adored his mother as Jeanne had hers, and both women struggled to get well. In both cases the reason was the same, illness following childbirth.

They left the dining room together, making their way up the stairs to the second floor. At the door to his mother’s room, Jeanne nodded to Davis and the child tapped lightly on the door. A moment later the door creaked open and Barbara, Mrs. Hartley’s companion and nurse, greeted them.

“Is Mrs. Hartley well enough for Davis to bid her good morning?” Jeanne asked.

“The mistress had a good night,” Barbara said, nodding and stepping aside.

Jeanne and Davis entered the room, Jeanne hesitating at the doorway until her eyes adjusted to the preternatural darkness in the room. Mrs. Hartley had not yet recovered from the birth of her latest child, another son born a month ago. The infant was thriving, being cared for by a wet nurse and nursemaid. If Mrs. Hartley ever visited her baby, Jeanne was unaware of it.

Drawing Davis forward, Jeanne urged the boy to come
and stand beside the bed. She didn’t blame Davis for his reluctance. The chamber was overpowering in its excess, from the brocaded bedcover and hangings to the Flemish paintings adorning the walls. Muted colors of burgundy, emerald, gold, and sapphire assaulted the senses.

“Good morning, Mama,” Davis said, sounding faint and unlike himself. Jeanne squeezed the little boy’s hand reassuringly and urged him forward. Davis glanced up at her as if to gain one last measure of courage before dropping Jeanne’s hand and stepping up to the bed. He pulled back the bed hanging and smiled into the darkness. “Are you feeling better this morning?”

The voice that answered him was surprisingly robust. “Yes, I believe I am. I’ve been able to eat my breakfast, which I’m told is a very good sign.”

“Did you have toast and jam, Mama? I did, and Cook trimmed the edges of the bread for me.”

“Did she?” Althea Hartley peeped out from behind one of the bed hangings. Jeanne was startled at the woman’s beauty, as she was each time she saw the woman. Althea was delicately blond, with a frailty that came partly from her youth and partly from having become pregnant three times in the last three years.

“Is your governess taking you for a walk today, poppet?” she asked, glancing at Jeanne with a vague look of confusion.

Despite the fact that Mrs. Hartley had known her aunt, she could never seem to remember Jeanne’s name, a fact that didn’t disturb her at all. The more anyone knew about her, the more vulnerable she became. Consequently, she cultivated an aloofness that kept the rest of the staff at a distance. The half-life of a governess fit her perfectly. She was neither part of the staff nor the family.

“Not until after my lessons, Mama.”

She pushed back the bed hangings and stared at Jeanne. “You’re from France, are you not?”

Jeanne nodded.

“Such atrocities.” She glanced at her son, evidently thought better of what she was about to say, and merely shook her head.

It was just as well. What would she have responded? That, yes, there were horrible acts committed in France in the name of freedom. That people, oppressed for decades, had suddenly revolted and cast off their chains and become the masters. She knew how it felt to yearn for freedom. Yet the aristocrats of France, for the most part, had utilized their power with greater discretion, whereas the mobs had no such sensibilities.

She didn’t want to talk about what she’d seen, or even what she’d experienced. Those recollections were for dark nights when she felt inclined to pity herself.

Jeanne placed her hand on Davis’s head. “Say goodbye to your mother, Davis,” she instructed. “Perhaps this afternoon we’ll take a walk in the garden.”

Where your mother can see you, and perhaps be lured into the sunshine.
The thought was unspoken—governesses did not act as counselors or companions. But she met Barbara’s eyes over the bed and the older woman nodded.

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Althea asked, subsiding against her pillow. “Perhaps you might be convinced to do a few errands?” She turned and smiled at her companion. “I do so miss Barbara when she’s gone.”

“Of course, madam,” Jeanne said easily and bobbed a small curtsy. An irony of Fate that she had once outranked her employer, that she’d dined with the king and played in the gardens of Versailles. Those days were gone now, set aside as if they’d never been.

“Barbara will tell you what is necessary,” Althea said,
her voice trailing off as if she were too weak to complete her thought.

Jeanne took Davis’s hand and turned away from the bed, hoping that Althea Hartley soon improved, if not for her sake, then her son’s.

Douglas exited his home, heading for his carriage, and halted in appreciation for the scene before him. The square was ablaze with blooms, scarlet, coral, and yellow flowers bobbing in the morning light. The air was crisp, but the temperature promised to be warmer with the sun already brightening the sky.

Work, while always challenging, occasionally paled next to a beautiful day.

Winter in Edinburgh had been a damp, messy affair. Rains had pelted the city for the last two months until the inhabitants of the city had begun to fervently pray for the onset of spring. Today, their petitions looked to be granted.

Soon, the work could begin on Margaret’s garden. He’d recently purchased the acreage to the west of his home. A week ago, he’d finished the plans and given them to the son of the man who’d produced miracles at Gilmuir. Ephraim had surrounded the fortress with hedges, softening the lines of the MacRae ancestral home, and creating a strolling garden where once an English fortress had stood. With any luck, his son, Malcolm, would accomplish similar feats of wonder on a terraced Edinburgh hill.

Douglas glanced up at Edinburgh Castle. Even though the structure sat in full view of the sun, there always seemed to be a dark, brooding aura to it. The square, for the most part, was quiet, the serenity interrupted periodically by carriages, but a street away there would be a bustle of activity. He had grown accustomed to the changing flavor of Edinburgh and the varied atmospheres of the city.

His life was different from that of his brothers. They were each, from Alisdair to Hamish, lords of their own domain. If Douglas was master of anything, it was the series of buildings in Leith, the ships he owned, and the countless wagons with the name
MACRAE BROTHERS
painted on their sides.

He’d not slept at all, but he ignored his fatigue. An hour ago, he’d bade his guest farewell somewhat cheered. Alan Manning had agreed to spare a man to watch the Hartley residence and report back to him periodically.

As Douglas entered his carriage he nodded to Stephens and began making a series of mental notes as to which tasks he wanted to accomplish first. Sitting back against the carriage, he watched the view on the way to Leith, Edinburgh’s seaport.

And saw her.

Once again Jeanne was with her charge, the little boy happily walking at her side. She consulted the list in her hand, squinting slightly in the full sun.

Douglas tapped on the roof of the carriage. A moment later the driver’s face appeared in the small window built for just such a purpose.

“Yes, sir?” Stephens asked.

“Pull up to the corner and wait.”

Stephens closed the window and swerved the carriage out of traffic. Douglas sat back and lowered the curtain slightly so that he might observe without being seen.

For a matter of hours he’d been attempting to reconcile the memories of the Comte’s daughter with that of the governess. Jeanne had been unconventional as a girl, challenging all the boundaries she’d been given, much to his delight. The youthful Douglas had been more than eager to help her explore her sensuality and more than willing to ignore any strictures he, too, had been reared to obey. They’d been wild together, headstrong, and too much in love to re
alize the foolishness of attempting to change society’s rules simply because they seemed too restrictive.

All they’d accomplished was to create chaos around them.

He pushed away thoughts of France. Too much had happened since then for any memories, especially fond ones, to still remain. Instead, he sat and watched her, and wondered how evil could look so beautiful.

J
eanne took Davis’s hand and together they crossed the street, heading for the shops.

“Where are we going, miss?” he asked.

She consulted her list and recited their errands. “The greengrocers to pick up some vegetables for Cook, the cobbler to pick up your father’s boots, and the modistes for Barbara. Then we must have some silverware repaired.”

The moment the staff had learned of her errands for Barbara, she’d been given even more tasks. She didn’t mind; the day was beautiful and she was glad to be spared any thought of the coming interview with Hartley.

Davis nodded, concentrating on the pattern of bricks below his feet. He was a biddable child, almost too acquiescent. For all that he was the oldest of three brothers, he had little initiative of his own. But perhaps he would grow into it.

She rearranged their errands so that they would go to the greengrocers last. After checking that the silverware was in the bottom of the basket, she took Davis’s hand and crossed the street.

Edinburgh in spring was a truly marvelous place. A
bustling city, it had its share of noise—street vendors, carriages, conversation all mingled together. The crisp breeze that blew around the corner was redolent with a perfumed scent, reminding Jeanne of the flower markets of Paris. Every time she’d seen the blooms appear she’d known that spring had come and the damp frigid winter was gone.

This area of King Street was filled with black-lacquered carriages, high-stepping horses, and well-to-do pedestrians engaging each other in conversation. She nodded at the men who tipped their hats to her, charmed with the illusion of being, for a few moments, someone other than she was. For the of time it took to walk the length of King Street, she could have been a prosperous matron of Edinburgh and Davis might have been her child.

And her husband? She pushed the thought of Douglas away, but he returned.

Why had Douglas chosen to live in Edinburgh? What had his life been like? Where had he gone after leaving Paris? Had he seen the rest of the world like he wanted when he was seventeen? All questions for which she had no answers.

She found the goldsmith’s shop without any difficulty, since it faced King Street and looked to be very prosperous.
CHARLES TALBOT, GOLDSMITH
, was etched on the window and on a wooden sign bearing two entwined rings above the door.

A small, tinny-sounding bell rang at their entrance, summoning a man from behind a curtained alcove. His brown hair was tousled, as if he’d threaded his fingers through it. As she watched, he hurriedly dressed in a form-fitting coat. His appearance was rather incongruous, since he was still wearing a red apron. At her look, he glanced down at himself and smiled.

“I apologize,” he said, “but my apprentice is out and he would otherwise have greeted you.”

“I’m here on an errand for the Hartleys,” she said, retrieving the silver from the bottom of the basket. “I’ve been told that these pieces need to be mended. Can you do the work?”

He took the silverware and examined them one by one with great care.

“I can,” he said, when he’d finished studying each piece. “When do you need them returned?”

“Three days? Is that enough time?”

He nodded and smiled, but she noted that his eyes didn’t change expression. They remained carefully watchful as if he were naturally distrustful, even of his patrons.

“I’ll deliver them to you myself,” he promised.

She gave him the Hartley address, and a moment later she and Davis were on their way.

“Where we going now, miss?” Davis asked after they left the shop, the tinny little bell singing them farewell.

She consulted her list, before glancing at his expectant face. “No doubt we’ll find someplace to purchase a sweetmeat or two,” she said, understanding his eagerness. She had a few coins left over from her first quarter’s wages and she’d reward the child’s patience with a treat before returning to the house.

“Are you very sure?” he asked breathlessly.

“I’m very sure.” She smiled down at him, wondering if he would be such a worrier for the rest of his life. With her free hand she tousled his hair fondly, and smiled at him reassuringly.

“A charming picture,” Douglas said.

She should have been warned, somehow. But her thoughts had been free of him for a quarter hour and no premonition had occurred to her. Had she the power to conjure him up from an unspoken wish? If so, she wanted him to vanish just as quickly. A confrontation was unwise and unwelcome.

But Douglas didn’t look as if he would vanish at any moment.

He was dressed in a formal suit of clothes, a cravat wound expertly around his throat. He wore no hat, but he carried a walking stick topped with a gold knob.

She’d known the boy who’d studied at the Sorbonne, a questioning mind behind bright and shining blue eyes. The man who faced her was almost a stranger, except that she couldn’t forget those months of loving him.

There was something about his half smile, something that made her want to reach out with tremulous fingers and touch the edge of it to see if it was real. Or was it only her imagination once again? Had she only dreamed him here? But the gritty feeling in her eyes proved she hadn’t slept well, and Davis’s hand in hers was enough to make her believe herself awake.

“Miss du Marchand,” he said, bowing slightly.

“Mr. MacRae,” she said, only nodding. A deliberate rudeness, but perhaps it would hasten his departure.

In her tiny cell in the convent, she’d often thought of him, the memory of the touch of his lips against her shoulder a nightly benediction. She’d heard his voice in her dreams, and felt his hand on hers in the morning light. No doubt her life would have been easier if she hadn’t awakened each day missing him again. But she couldn’t bear to banish the memory of him from her mind.

Sometimes it was all she had.

But now he was real, standing before her. Douglas, wearing his most fascinating smile, tender and evocative at once. His eyes tilted down at the corners, giving him an almost slumberous appearance. The skin of his face was pulled tight over his cheekbones, and even this early there was a shadow of beard on his squared chin.

She’d been passionate as a girl, fascinated with his body. “I adore how you look naked,” she’d said once, giggling.

He’d rolled with her until she was under him. Using both hands, he speared them into her hair and threaded his fingers through the length of it. She always spent more time after she left him fixing her hair than her clothes, because despite her hairstyle, Douglas would insist upon it being loosened.

“You do, do you? What is it, especially, that you find entrancing?”

“Your shoulders,” she said, knowing that the answer surprised him. She reached out one hand and traced a path from the well at the base of his throat along the edge of his shoulders. “They’re so broad, so powerful,” she said softly. “You don’t look as though you could be so tender and sweet.”

“Sweet?” He pressed a kiss to the end of her nose. “Is that something you should call a man?”

“Only if he brings me a flower if he hasn’t seen me for a day,” she said, regarding him seriously. “Or wishes to know the contents of my dreams. Only if he writes me poetry.”

His cheeks had darkened, and she knew he was embarrassed at her words.

“What else about me do you love?” he asked, so obviously changing the subject that she smiled.

“Your chest,” she said, teasing him. She pressed her hand flat against his chest. Sometimes she forgot how much larger he was than she and that was because of the care he took with her. Never in their loving had he been coarse or rough. She’d believed, fool that she was, that coupling was always done with tenderness.

“A fine day, is it not, Miss du Marchand?” he asked now.

He was going to pretend that they didn’t know each other, that they hadn’t spent months as lovers, that she hadn’t been willing to give up everything she was or had been for him. Or that she hadn’t been destroyed when he’d abandoned her.

“Indeed it is,” she said, as accomplished at duplicity as he. Or perhaps she was more proficient, since she’d honed her skills at pretense for nine years.

“It doesn’t look like it will rain.”

“Indeed, it does not,” she answered, wishing he would leave.

They had told each other their deepest secrets. She had held him as he shuddered in passion. She had wept on his shoulder and he had wrapped his arms around her, allowing her to express the grief for her mother that no one else had ever wished to hear. They had laughed together, her arms linked around his neck, each of them becoming so weak with amusement that they’d needed the other’s support to stand.

“Have you a moment?”

“Regrettably, no.” There, her voice sounded as calm as his. But not as forceful. She pressed her fingers against the base of her throat, surprised to find that she felt cold. It was fatigue, no doubt, and not fear.

He took another step forward until he stood entirely too close. To a casual observer they might appear as friends who’d met unexpectedly and were speaking of everyday matters—anything but this pulsing silence that stretched between them, interrupted only by her thoughts.

And memories.

In Paris, when she was young, he greeted her after a separation by tilting her chin up and bending down to kiss her gently on the mouth. She always stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck, gloriously happy for the first time that day. For long minutes they would simply stand there, looking at each other, holding each other in the shaded beauty of the garden, the hours and minutes of separation finally ended as they relished being together once again.

Resolutely, she pushed those thoughts away, fingering
the locket at her throat with one hand while Davis held the other.

“I must leave,” she said softly, hoping that her voice did not sound as choked to him as it did to her. “We have errands to perform.”

He glanced down at Davis, smiling easily. She did not feel as capable of such amusement, or absent fondness. Here she was, standing in front of him for the first time in years, and he acted as if he didn’t know her.

Four months escaped from France, three months a servant. Ten years since she’d seen him. Dear God, a lifetime had passed, but it still wasn’t long enough.

Bending down, he addressed Davis. “Go and tell my coachman to open the secret door inside my carriage. You’ll find some Edinburgh Rock there,” Douglas said, referring to the stiff white candy made by kneading syrup by hand while it was cooling. He pointed to where his carriage stood at the corner.

Davis turned and looked at her for permission. She nodded, then watched him race to the vehicle. Abruptly, she wanted to call him back.

“Do you always keep candy in your carriage?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, surprisingly. “My daughter enjoys it.”

The sudden pain she felt was as unexpected as his words.

“You have a daughter?”

She held herself so tightly that she thought the breeze might break her in two. So he had married. Life had continued for him, it seemed. She thanked Providence for the startling anger, since it was better than indulging in self-pity.

“I do.”

She adjusted the basket on her arm and smiled brilliantly, and falsely, at him.

“Thank you for your kindness to Davis,” she said, “but we must finish our errands.”

She would have stepped aside had he not reached out and touched her arm. Not on the sleeve, but below the cuff and above the wrist of her glove, exactly where her skin was exposed. The touch of flesh to flesh was so shocking that she halted, staring down at the place where his hand rested.

“Don’t touch me, please,” she said, feeling as if she might choke on the words. “Please remove your hand.”

Please, dear God, please step away. Turn away, leave. Get in your smart carriage and return to your wife. Your child. Leave me before I allow pity to take hold and weep in your arms. Or beg you to love me as you once did.

She lifted her gaze to his. “I must insist,” she said, and the miracle was not that she was able to speak the words but that they sounded so distant, so unaffected by his touch.

“Forgive me,” he said, removing his hand. “I’ve been intrusive. But then I’m not Hartley, am I?”

“What do you mean?”

She placed her own hand on the place he’d touched. Her arm still felt warm. She rubbed at the spot, a gesture that did not go unnoticed. His smile turned sardonic.

“Forgive me,” he said again. “I only thought to offer you a solution to your dilemma.”

“What dilemma might that be, Mr. MacRae?” she asked and then cursed her curiosity.

“Your employer has plans for you that do not include caring for his children.”

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated for a moment and then spoke. “If you aren’t his mistress now, Miss du Marchand, you soon will be.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, startled not only that he was privy to Hartley’s intentions but that he would speak them aloud. Evidently, the rash and reckless young man had not disappeared completely.

“Hartley bragged of it.”

A shocking answer, and one for which she had no quick rejoinder. But then, she’d been cured of that habit in the convent. Speech was not only restricted, it was forbidden her for many years. She’d grown accustomed to her own thoughts but had lost the skill of conversation.

He did not seem to notice her lack as he waited patiently for her to answer him. She glanced to her right, to see Davis talking with the coachman, one cheek stuffed like a squirrel before winter.

“I escaped France on my own, Mr. MacRae,” she finally said, the words evoking too much recall. “I am capable of rebuffing such offers.”

“And if that isn’t enough?”

“Then I shall endure the situation.”

His face abruptly shuttered, the expression in his blue eyes flattened. There was nothing in his look that revealed his thoughts. How adept he’d become at hiding himself, almost as talented at the task as she. “You would consent to be Hartley’s mistress?”

“If I must.” Would he please leave? She was beginning to tremble, and if they remained there much longer he was certain to notice.