Tarleton's Wife (19 page)

“Yes, Nicholas.”

Good. She had even managed to sound meek. Acquiescent.

By the time Julia gave up her belligerent vigil anchoring the chest of drawers in place, her mind had cooled and she set about making plans. By the wee hours of the morning four letters lay upon her dressing table, the names written in a firm, deliberate hand.
Daniel & Meg.
Sophy.
Jack. Nicholas.
Her battered leather satchel carried three gowns, a change of undergarments, stockings and shoes. And her precious packet of papers.

Julia turned the key in the lock with great caution, peeking out to examine the hallway. All was quiet. Not surprisingly, Nicholas had kept his word. She tiptoed down the hall, climbed up the back stairs into the attic, feeling unaccountably guilty over what she was about to do. When they had first come to The Willows, she and Daniel had selected an old trunk in the attic to hide their cache of coins. In addition to her original gift to the cottagers who had their frames broken, the money given to her by her father had been spent on setting up Willow Herbals. As she lifted out the top tray of the trunk and set it aside, Julia kept telling herself that Nicholas owed her something for her stewardship of his estate. It was not, after all, the first time she had dipped into the heavy bag of coins he had given her. She had used his money for Daniel’s salary, to pay the cottagers for pruning the ivy and making repairs, for new roofs for several of the cottages. All items Ebadiah Woodworthy had refused to pay for. She knew that Nicholas would not begrudge her the money. Yet she was not comfortable with the sum she knew would be necessary to keep her until she could find a position.

She would repay him.

Idiot! On a companion’s salary? Quite, quite impossible.

Given the choice of taking the money or living in a
ménage à trois
, Julia grimly selected a goodly number of coins from Nicholas’ money belt and slipped them into one of the pouches she had worn beneath her skirts in Spain.

For the past few hours strong emotions had kept her moving. Now, in the glow of a single candle Julia sat on her heels in the silent attic, surrounded by shapes and shadows of the past as ephemeral and abandoned as the life she had led ’til now. Ghosts. All that was left to her were ghosts. Nicholas, her phantom lover. False lover. Nothing more than a figment of her fevered imagination.

A tear rolled down her cheek. Her Dream was shattered, leaving only The Nightmare to haunt her. Slowly, sadly, Julia replaced the top tray of the trunk, closed and fastened the metal-banded lid and made her way down the stairs. Not daring to risk waking anyone in the stables, Julia set a determined pace as she began the five mile walk to Grantley. The mail coach to London passed through at six and she was going to be on it.

* * * * *

Julia had high hopes for the first interview arranged by Miss Spencer’s Agency for Genteel Employment. It seemed the Duke of Marchmont was so taken up by his duties in the War Office that his wife wished to hire a companion. A ducal household, known for its retiring ways, held infinite appeal for a young woman who needed a place to mend a broken heart.

Melisande Trowbridge, Duchess of Marchmont, examined the parchment in her hand with care. A lady of uncertain years, the duchess was as shrewd as she was stylish, only a slight French accent hinting at her foreign origin. From the vandyked hem of her gown to the gems studding her lorgnette, the duchess was the epitome of London’s finest.

“The Reverend Mr. Wedderburn speaks highly of your character, Miss Leyland,” she pronounced as she lowered the paper, “but have you any experience as a companion?”

“If you read the other recommendation, Your Grace…” Miss Leyland ventured, resisting a desire to lick her dry lips.

“Ah, yes.” The duchess perused a second piece of parchment, this one plainly imprinted,
Mrs. Nicholas Tarleton, The Willows, Grantley, Lincolnshire
. “Yes, indeed…Mrs. Tarleton seems to have found your services quite satisfactory.” The Duchess of Marchmont looked up, piercing Miss Leyland with intelligent green eyes. “She does not, however, say why you left. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain.”

Julia regretted the kippers she ate for breakfast. They were threatening regurgitation upon the duchess’s Aubusson carpet. Drat! The two letters of recommendation had not come easily. They had taken considerable time and effort, costing more than half a day before she dared approach one of London’s better employment agencies. She was not concerned about Randolph Wedderburn. He was, she knew, pursuing his calling with the regiment in Portugal and not likely to discover that he had written a character for Nicholas Tarleton’s erstwhile wife, now masquerading under an assumed name. Nor would Mrs. Tarleton complain about the deception. But in her agitation Julia had indeed forgotten to devise an excuse for leaving her supposed employment at The Willows. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the truth would have to suffice.

Julia forced a wan smile. “It was a miracle, Your Grace, a blessed miracle. After being thought dead for nearly two years, Major Tarleton returned from Spain. It was thought…” Julia’s eyes dropped shyly to the fingers twisting in her lap. “It was felt that a companion was, shall we say,
de trop
.”

“Ah!” The duchess regarded Miss Leyland with some interest. For all the severity of her gray gown and swept-back hair, the girl made a fine appearance. A remarkably handsome woman. Not the companion a wife would care to have in a household with a virile young husband. “Yes, I quite understand,” she murmured.

Julia could not resist a sharp glance at her potential employer who made no effort to disguise the irony of her tone.

“Tell me, Miss Leyland, did you enjoy your life as a companion to Mrs. Tarleton?”

“Enjoy?” Nerves taut, stomach churning, Julia had not expected that particular question. “Mrs. Tarleton was very kind,” she managed. “Most thoughtful. I quite felt one of the family.” She should not have said that!
Encroaching, you foolish widgeon
!

“Somehow, Miss Leyland,” the duchess responded, “for all you sit there trying to fade into the upholstery, I cannot picture you fetching and carrying. Leading a tribe of Amazons perhaps, or a fitting consort to a Viking prince.” She saw the hurt of rejection in the young woman’s eyes and was not impervious to it. “Do not be upset, child,” she added briskly. “I am paying you a compliment. You were never destined for obscurity. You may possibly wish it but it is not for you. Do not try to turn me up sweet, because I know we would not suit. Your strength and vitality would have me seeing myself as an old woman in no time at all. Believe me, I am doing you a favor in sending you on your way. Go find yourself a young widower who will need more of you than fetching a shawl or reading a book in bed.”

At the outrageous double entendre Julia’s effort to maintain her dignity failed, disappointment giving way to shock, which rapidly dissolved into hilarity. She put her hand to her mouth to cover her twitching lips, bit her fingers and, finally, catching the duchess’s twinkling eye, burst into a rolling chuckle. When she had at last wiped her streaming eyes and subsided into a rueful grin, Julia made her farewells. “I hope, Your Grace, that you do not give such advice to all the young ladies you interview,” she ventured.

“Believe me, my dear, you are quite unique. I fear you may have to look far for the right position, as humility is expected in both companions and governesses and I doubt it is a virtue with which you have much acquaintance.” The duchess held out her hand, which Julia grasped. “Do not despair, my dear. Good fortune will find you, I am certain of it.”

“And I am certain,” Julia returned, “that no prospective employee ever received a more gracious rejection.” She made her farewell and went on her way, strangely encouraged by her extraordinary encounter with the Duchess of Marchmont.

Julia approached her fourth interview much wiser but no less nervous. She had been rejected out of hand by a wealthy cit who wished a companion to teach her daughter how to go on in society. Mrs. Hiram Higgins took one look at the statuesque Julia towering over her fubsy-faced daughter like Juno paired with a gnome and dismissed Miss Leyland without a single question.

The Countess of Millbury had, however, treated Julia to a fine display of the manners expected from a leading political hostess. She smiled benignly, examined Miss Leyland’s references with care and asked all the proper questions. There was no doubt that Miss Leyland would manage her two youngest children admirably but her eldest son and heir—at that impossibly impressionable age of twenty—oh, no, quite out of the question. She thanked Miss Leyland for coming. She would make her decision when she had interviewed all candidates. She was certain Miss Leyland understood her desire to be thorough.

The following day Julia—determined on a course of humility and self-effacement—fairly slunk into the spacious bookroom of Albemarle House, London residence of James Blessington, Viscount Albemarle. Eyes downcast, heart pounding, she followed the butler across the room and sank into a curtsey before raising her eyes to discover that her interviewer was male, not female. Was there hope then? Perhaps, raised as she had been in a world of men, she had more chance of establishing rapport with the handsome smiling gentleman who was acknowledging her curtsey with a gracious nod. Not more than thirty-five, he was, according to Miss Spencer, the father of two small children just reaching the age to graduate from nurse to governess. A not onerous position which both Miss Spencer and Julia felt she could manage more than adequately. This was not, however, the widower of the duchess’s imagination. Miss Spencer had described Lady Albemarle as a darling of the
ton
, a leading luminescence in London’s social swirl. More plainly, a woman who had fulfilled her duty to her children and her husband on the day they were born.

Julia sat in the chair indicated by a cavalier wave of the viscount’s graceful hand. She forced her whole body to wilt into a slump so meek she appeared round-shouldered. Instead of her usual brilliant smile, she favored the viscount with a tentative upward curve of her generous lips and fixed her eyes on his face with utmost intent. She would not fail this interview. She would not!

When, sometime later, Viscount Albemarle rose and offered his hand in an obvious end to the interview, a dazed Julia was almost too immersed in the role she was playing to realize the viscount was assuring her he was looking forward to Miss Leyland joining his household on the morrow. Reality, however, snapped back with a sickening start as she became aware he was still holding her hand, the firelight dancing on his golden hair and tawny amber eyes which were level with her own. With awful clarity she saw the sudden flare of male appreciation give way to a gleam of pure speculation.

Julia ruthlessly shut out the flutter of disquiet occasioned by Viscount Albemarle’s assessment. She would have a roof over her head, a place to hide. Relief lent wings to her half boots as she glided back to her modest room and set to the immediate packing of her few belongings.

* * * * *

The long gallery stretched into infinity, its yawning rectangle dwindling into a distant pinpoint of blackness. There was no light, yet everything was clearly visible. The ghostly mists parted, as they always did, to reveal a full-grown Nicholas hanging on the wall. The arm stretched out in greeting was firm and strong, covered in the fine wool of rifleman green. He smiled. Not at her but beyond. Toward the great looming catafalque crashing through the glass. To the figure laid out upon it, black hair streaming over the white velvet covering the bier, the porcelain skin gently warmed by the Iberian sun, long sooty lashes, a soft rosebud mouth, hands too delicate to have ever done a day’s work. Doña Violante. The death knell of Julia’s hopes.

The mists closed round the catafalque, obscuring its exquisite burden. It would end now, this hideous nightmare. The Spanish violet had replaced the mother and child. It was over. Time for tears and anguish. Time to wake up.

The ice cold mists swirled through her head, refusing to depart. They shot through the infinity of the gallery in great swirls of white, thinning, coalescing into whirlwinds of ice crystals, dissipating, dissolving…

The gallery became an oven. Warmth, blessed warmth suffused her body, driving out the cold. The mists melted away, the catafalque remained. The covering was red velvet. Resting on it was the form of James Blessington, Viscount Albemarle. And next to him, herself. His eyes flew open. He turned on her a predatory smile. She tried to scream, tried to run. In the manner of nightmares, she could do neither. In one fluid movement he turned and seized her in his arms, his lips scalding as he pressed them to hers.

Around them, the remaining glass windows shattered, the pieces clinking against each other as they fell. The catafalque exploded in a shower of wooden splinters. For a fraction of a moment their bodies were suspended in air. Then they too shattered into a thousand shiny fragments, falling, burning to black ashes, which drifted down onto the red velvet.

Released from her nightmare at last, Julia screamed. Gasped. And finally sobbed, clutching her knees to her chin and rocking back and forth in her bed while the other residents of the rooming house beat vainly against her locked door.

Julia took a frantic gulp of air and forced herself to a semblance of normalcy. “It’s all right,” she called. “Only a nightmare. I’m very sorry. Please go back to bed. I’ll be fine now.”