Tarleton's Wife (11 page)

“If you will excuse me, ma’am,” Julia murmured, “I fear I don’t feel very well. Would you make my excuses to Mrs. Peters? We were to finish our tour of the house this morning but I must be private to think about what all this means.”

“I shall prepare some chamomile tea and bring it up straightway,” Sophronia declared, adding thoughtfully, “And you are quite right to think on it, my dear. I fear this is a situation which is not about to go away.”

* * * * *

Jack Harding was charmed by the sight which met his eyes as he was shown into the intimacy of the morning parlor at The Willows. Although far from a connoisseur of female fashion, he did not fail to recognize that Mrs. Tarleton’s gown of finely woven black wool was as becoming as it was stylish. Nestled on top of her warm brown hair was a tiny cap adorned with a ruffle of black lace. Seen against the primrose brocades of the sunny morning room, Julia Tarleton was a far cry from the bedraggled damsel he had rescued a scant three weeks earlier at The Bell and Candle.

As Peters ushered in their caller, Julia bounded to her feet, hand outstretched, exhibiting a warmth and courtesy which secretly astonished her caller. “Indeed, Mr. Harding, I did not mean for you to come running at my bidding. I hope we have not stolen you away from more important matters.”

With a deft movement Jack maneuvered her fingers to his lips instead of into the handshake she had offered. “Believe me, Mrs. Tarleton, for me invitations are a rarity not to be ignored,” he returned smoothly before greeting Miss Upton who was comfortably ensconced before the fire with a treatise on knot gardens in her lap.

When he was seated in a chair facing the ladies and Peters had departed to procure refreshments, Jack turned an enigmatic smile on his hostess. “In what way may I be of service, Mrs. Tarleton?”

“You believe an invitation must have some practical purpose, Mr. Harding?”

“For me, yes,” he said flatly, though not so much as the flicker of an eyelash betrayed the extent of the hurts he had suffered through the years.

“I see.” Julia frowned. “In truth, I had not thought of that. If you believe having you shown into the morning room instead of the drawing room is an insult, I am most heartily sorry. That was not my intention at all.”

“It is I who should apologize, Mrs. Tarleton. I fear I am as prickly as a hedgehog today. Invitations to beautiful homes by elegant ladies are a novelty for me. Please forgive my boorish behavior.” The speech was gracious. His stiff manner was not.

Elegant ladies indeed. Evidently, Jack Harding was not as comfortable with his bastardy as she had thought. When she looked at him, she saw the son of an earl who was virtual master of two thousand acres of land and all the earl’s minions who lived on them. She had not stopped to think that in the eyes of the county’s matrons—who ruled the realms of local society—Jack Harding was a bastard, gotten on a village woman by the lord of the manor and completely beyond the pale.

As Julia nodded her acceptance of his apology, Peters brought in a tray of refreshments. She waiting until Jack’s mouth was full of a damson tart before admitting the purpose of her note of invitation. “I had you shown into the morning room, Mr. Harding, because it seemed more private than the drawing room. I wish to discuss a matter of—shall we say?—a delicate nature. Miss Upton and I are of a like mind on this subject, so I assure you we may speak frankly.”

Jack swallowed hastily and reached for his glass of Madeira. “How old did you say you were, Mrs. Tarleton?” he asked rhetorically. “I dare say I could give you ten years or more and yet you hold the stage like a queen at court.”

Julia inclined her head in mocking acceptance of what she knew was not quite a compliment. “You see, Mr. Harding, I wish to discuss frame breaking. And why the Summerton cottages have been spared.”

Jack Harding had thought himself a man of iron nerves. As he slowly lowered his wineglass to the table, he caught a decided twitch in his little finger. “Frame breaking, Mrs. Tarleton?” he murmured, one eyebrow ascending into a decided arc. The sparks visible in his green eyes were anything but amiable.

“I have been considering what you told us that evening at the inn and have been making inquiries of Miss Upton as well. Mr. Woodworthy does not confide in me what our cottagers are paid for their labors or what rent they must pay for their frames but I have formed enough of an opinion of Mr. Woodworthy to believe that the former is low and the latter high. Why then, Mr. Harding, do you suppose no frames have been broken on this estate?”

Jack leaned back in the winged chair in which he was sitting and regarded Julia with a steady gaze. “Now, why do I get the feeling you are asking more than my opinion?”

“That evening at The Bell and Candle you left us in little doubt about your sympathies, Mr. Harding. If I am mistaken, I apologize but you seem to be the most likely person to ask about this puzzle.”

Jack’s face settled into an even blander mask of indifference. “I would suppose the frame breakers simply haven’t gotten around to your cottages yet.”

“And here I was supposing it possible we are being spared due to gallantry,” she murmured, eyes wide and innocent. “Perhaps because Nicholas was…is a hero and the house full of defenseless women?” Even more likely, because of boyhood friendship.

Damned clever female.
“Gallantry!” Jack snorted. “What, pray tell, is so gallant about frame breakers?”

“Sarcasm is unnecessary, Mr. Harding. Recall that I am sympathetic to your cause.”

“You can’t be sympathetic to the cause,” Jack retorted. “Broken frames mean no rents from your tenants. No rents and you’ll have to start selling off your pretty paintings. If old Woodworthy would let you,” he added rather nastily.

“Frame breaking may result in a loss of income to Mr. Woodworthy,” Julia countered drily. “Somehow I doubt the estate will be much affected. In any event I am convinced Nicholas would not ignore the needs of his people.”

For some moments Jack studied her queenly figure in silence before turning to her companion. “And you, Miss Upton, have you become an advocate of frame breaking?”

Sophronia Upton adjusted her glasses on her nose, then folded her hands on top of her open book. “I am opposed to starvation, Mr. Harding. That is sufficient cause, I find, for me to embrace at least a flirtation with radicalism.”

“Good God,” Jack breathed with a chuckle. “But have you considered what Woodworthy may do if he finds out what a nest of vipers he is harboring?”

“Hopefully, that will not happen before I reach my majority,” Julia said.

“And if the major is still missing at that time, will Woodworthy not still be your guardian?”

Anger sparked in the depths of Julia’s blue eyes. “The major and my father, so very many of my friends, fought and died for England. I will not stand by and see injustice done in Nicholas’ name. I will take whatever chances I must take, Mr. Harding. I will not tolerate people suffering hunger in the midst of the best farmland in England.”

Jack suppressed a quiver of appreciation. The cause didn’t need the help of romantic young girls. “I admire your sentiments, Mrs. Tarleton but I must caution you that you are courting disapproval of your neighbors and the possible wrath of your husband, should he come back and disagree with what you are doing.”

“It seems to me that I am more apt to court the disapproval of my neighbors if their cottagers are attacked and mine are not,” Julia countered, not bothering to disguise her annoyance. “I am well aware of the importance of appearances. Since I have no control over my cottagers’ low wages, I think it best that our frames not be exempt. I also,” she added with significant emphasis, “was raised on military tactics and I know that he who fights the middle ground will frequently find himself annihilated from both sides.”

Julia noted with some satisfaction that this last remark had struck home. She was not the only one trying to live on both sides of the conflict. From her reticule she withdrew a bag of coins. “I understand there is a fund to assist the families who lose their wages due to frame breaking. I too should like to make a contribution.”

Jack hefted the bag of coins, regarding Julia with a frown. “A weighty contribution, Mrs. Tarleton. What makes you so sure I know where to place it, or that I will not use it to run off to the Americas?”

“I am not. I even suspect you regard me with the amused tolerance one reserves for those of negligible power and influence. You can afford to be kind because I cannot hurt you.”

A gleam lit Jack’s eyes. “Ah, if only that were true,” he murmured wickedly.

Julia’s pulse pounded in a surprising response to his flirtation, even as she severely disciplined her words. “I am convinced,” she stated carefully, “that you believe in your cause. And that you will stick with it until transportation or the noose. So you might very well be better off if you take the money and run. Though somehow I doubt you will be wise enough to do so.”

Jack rose to his feet, tucking the leather pouch inside his jacket. “If you found me patronizing, I abjectly apologize.” He sketched a respectful bow. “It is a privilege to know you, Mrs. Tarleton.”

Julia was never sure why she didn’t leave well enough alone. Even a few minutes with Jack Harding left her feeling she’d been toying with a powder keg. But as he took his leave, she found herself saying, “You are welcome to call at The Willows at any time, Mr. Harding. With or without an invitation. You will not be shown into the Estate Room and we will not discuss business.” She favored him with the brilliant smile which had so charmed him that night at The Bell and Candle. “Unless, of course, it concerns ways in which we might aid your cause.”

He searched her face for some sign that she comprehended the danger of her offer. As appealing as it was, he could not let her make an error of such magnitude. “Acknowledging me may well be social suicide,” he pointed out with stern resolve.

“I am firmly convinced Miss Upton has enough credit for us both,” she assured him lightly. A deliberate evasion and well they both knew it.

In spite of his misgivings, Jack was tempted into a wicked grin. “If I am not hanged or transported, I shall undoubtedly be shot by Nick Tarleton when he comes home.”

Julia sobered on the instant. “I am not inviting a romantic attachment,” she stated coolly.

“As if I could doubt it,” Jack returned. “I was referring to your reputation, not reality.”

“Then that also is a chance I am willing to take,” Julia asserted.

“Friends, Mrs. Tarleton?”

“Friends, Mr. Harding.”

Chapter Six

Spring 1809

Icy wind swirled through the dark shadows of the long gallery. Billowing whorls of mist drifted up to obscure the leering portraits of Summerton ancestors. The looming darkness beyond the tall windows was lit with eerie luminescence. Tendrils of ivy swayed, danced and tapped upon the glass. The swirling mists parted, rolling back like the Red Sea before Moses. Nicholas—the man, not the boy—glared down with blazing eyes that scorched everything in their path. His body dissolved into a skeleton with bony fingers, reaching, reaching…

She turned and ran but the gallery stretched into infinity. The mists congealed into myriad icy crystals. Drifts of snow rose up on every side. Throat constricted, she ran on, panting, turning blue. The towering panes of glass shattered, a groaning lumbering monster bore down on her. She could not move, could not escape. She welcomed the black nothingness of annihilation as a blessed release from terror.

Not yet, not yet. The unearthly light crept back, revealing the ultimate horror. She was lying in the monster ox cart, stretched full length gripping… Oh, God! gripping… She tried to scream and couldn’t. Nestled in her arms lay the frozen mother, long black strands of hair trapped among glistening sheets of ice. At the mother’s breast the baby flailed its tiny fists, beating at the stiff resistless mass that had given it birth. One liquid brown eye, terrified, accusing, focused on Julia. The miniature mouth opened, a wail came forth. A high-pitched keening, echoing on and on…

A scream. A ululation of grief and terror. Her own.

Julia was freezing. Sweat beaded her brow. The ghostly luminescence brightened into flickering candlelight. Anguished brown eyes faded into the anxious gaze of Sophronia Upton.

“A nightmare, my dear,” she said. “A nightmare, nothing more.” Miss Upton squeezed Julia’s hand, her tone low and soothing. “Truly, my dear, you are all right. There’s nothing to fear.”

As Daniel Runyon and Meg O’Callaghan burst through the door, Julia struggled back to the world of reality. To her own bedchamber at The Willows, now lit by three wavering candles and to the troubled faces of her friends. “I’m sorry,” she choked. “A nightmare, that’s all.” Julia offered an apologetic glance to the three figures ringing her bed, each face wavering between the warm comfort of familiarity and the grotesquely distorted shadows cast by their flickering candles. A twinge of terror clawed at her as the nightmarish images threatened to return. She drew a deep breath, calling on Nicholas’ strength to see her through.

“I haven’t had a bad dream since childhood,” Julia gritted out as nausea threatened to overwhelm her. “Why this should happen now when we’re safe I’m sure I don’t know. Go back to bed, all of you. I am quite mortified to have disturbed you.”