Tarleton's Wife (32 page)

“Steady, old boy, steady. I’m sorry,” Nicholas cajoled. “I’m not that foxed, I don’t believe. I am not seeing things and there’s no building up there as best I can recall. What’s the date, old boy? Not Guy Fawkes…” Surely he’d recall if it were November. But Guy Fawkes was close. This could be some early mischief. Or…did they follow the old customs for All Hallow’s Eve in this corner of Lincolnshire? He had never been here in October. Whatever the cause, it was certain mischief was afoot on his land.

Aided by the nearly full moon, Nicholas set his horse toward the blazing fire. As he cautiously approached the hill, the glowing mass of red and yellow resolved itself into a bonfire. Black silhouettes moved against the flaming backdrop. Bile rose in Nicholas’ throat, his stomach heaved.
Ah, dios. Carlos
. Sweat rose on his brow. He gulped the cool crisp air and steadied his horse. Gradually, the images returned to rolling English countryside, a hill buttressed by solid gray granite and figures who danced instead of fought. There were no explosions of black powder, no clash of steel, no cries of death. Only the spritely strains of a solitary fiddle pierced the night. A Hallowe’en celebration, by God and a fine time they were making of it.

Never averse to mixing with his men, Nicholas was about to move forward into the circle of light when it occurred to him that his presence would very likely put a damper on the celebration. He was of no mind to spoil their fun. For a few more minutes he watched the dancers. The cluster of figures round a barrel of ale, sparks leaping above the flames, winking out in the blackness above. Not so oddly, Nicholas regretted his position prevented him from joining in the merriment. His life was at sixes and sevens. And bloody lonely. With the possible exception of young Avery, there was no one to whom he could talk. Even Dan Runyon—damn his eyes!—had defected to the other side. Jack Harding was once a friend but now… The major’s pulse raced as Violante’s words echoed through his head. Friendship with Ellington’s bastard was a thing of the past.

Carlos too was gone, Don Raimondo estranged by the insult to his daughter’s honor, Julia as well as Violante, grievously offended. Nor had he been on comfortable terms with his parents and brother for many years. With the high-pitched wail of the fiddle ringing in his ears, Nicholas reluctantly turned his horse back the way he had come. The stallion whinnied, shied, came to an abrupt halt as shadows rose up before them. To the sides. Behind.

“Not so fast, guv’nor,” growled a voice out of the flickering darkness. A hand grasped his stallion’s bridle.

The shadows closed in. Only his long years of meeting strange and dangerous situations kept Nicholas from revealing his stab of primitive horror as the firelight flared to illuminate the grotesque faces ringed around him.

Demons, goblins, skeletons, fallen angels, a devil in red, a nightmarish caricature of Napoleon Bonaparte, all monstrous figments of surprisingly fertile imaginations. Some of the masks were of sophisticated papier-maché, others no more than crude drawings on old flour sacks. But all were sinister, made more so by the broad shoulders beneath the masks and the pitchforks, scythes, or cudgels in each man’s hand.

The major recovered quickly. “Where are you from that you don’t know who I am?” he demanded of the man who had spoken. “None of your concern,” snarled the Napoleon mask. “We be visiting, you might say. And we don’t need no gentry nosin’ round where they ain’t wanted.”

“Got a right to have a bonfire on Hallowe’en, we have,” the red devil asserted stoutly with a menacing swing of his scythe. “Come more’n five mile to have us a little fun, we did. And we plan to have it.” A chorus of agreement ran through the grotesque circle.

“I can see things have changed since I left England,” Nicholas said. “I am as much in favor of a bit of fun as the next man but I’m not fond of being run off my own land by a bunch of addlepated fools with pitchforks.”

“So you be the major,” said Napoleon thoughtfully. “Well, Sir, ’tis said you’re a bloody hero but I’m thinkin’ you’re better known in these parts as the man who pays his workers—whether they be farm or mill—the wages of starvation.”

“Aye,” added a particularly bizarre and lopsided demon, “’tis y’r wife’s the saint, God bless ’er, bringin’ in money for the farm workers.” Pity she can’t do for the mill folk as well. It’s not a pretty sight to know your wife and childer must work fourteen hours a day at a loom or waste away for lack of food.”

A low growl from the ring of ghoulish creatures drowned the sound of the fiddle and the crackle of the fire. Pitchforks tilted to the ready, not a few cudgels swung clear of the ground. The dancing firelight caught the shining curved blade of the scythe, turning it the color of blood.

At the back of the ring of menacing figures a finely drawn satyr kept his sneering painted features trained on Napoleon, leader of Hallowe’en mob, who had a firm grip on the major’s stirrup, his belligerent gaze fixed on Tarleton’s unconsciously arrogant and powerful stance. The satyr’s left hand moved toward the pistol under his jacket as his right inched toward the knife thrust into his belt. This was the moment things could go either way. If Tarleton had the sense to bend a bit, they might yet get out of this with their skins intact.

Nicholas was scarcely a stranger to blood or battle. Nor ignorant of a tight situation when he saw one. These were his mill workers from Nottingham and not a few of his farm workers as well. Hence the pitchforks and the scythes. He had been a soldier long enough to know when to retreat. No glory could come of Julia waking to find herself well and truly a widow.

“You must have noticed I was leaving,” Nicholas said quietly.

Behind his mask the satyr’s lips drew up in a smile not dissimilar to the painted grimace of his disguise.

“I had no intention of stopping the celebration. I hope you understand I have not been home long enough to learn what I need to know about either the estate or the mill. But if you wish to come to me with your grievances I will hear you out.”

He raised his voice enough to make sure that everyone in the threatening ring of shadows heard him. “But I do not discuss anything with men who hide behind masks. Come to me openly and I will hear you. With no reprisals. But if you continue in the hole-in-the-corner manner you have shown tonight, you will lose my sympathy entirely. Now stand aside. I am leaving.”

Resolutely, Nicholas dug in his heels, ignoring Napoleon and the skeleton at his horse’s head. Napoleon hesitated, then stepped back, loosing his grip on the stirrup. The mob parted, leaving room for the major to ride through the grotesque phalanx of Hallowe’en creatures. Gradually, the night darkened around him. Only the moon and stars were left to guide him home. Nicholas never looked back.

The satyr gave close watch until satisfied no one followed the major into the night. Terence O’Rourke then turned away, slipping into the shadows. Among the large company of masked men his departure was no more noted than his earlier presence.

* * * * *

“Daniel, you shouldn’t,” Julia protested. “It’s much too late.”

“Nonsense,” said Sophy briskly, busy with her own preparations as Daniel struggled up the stairs with two buckets of hot water from the kitchen below. “You can do with a good bit of pampering on your first day back among us. And a hard one it’s been, to say nothing of the smoke from our fire. ’Twill do you a world of good, my dear.”

As Daniel poured the contents of the buckets into a hip bath on the plain wooden floor in front of the fireplace, Sophy finished tying shut a cheesecloth bag of her favorite herbal selections and plunged it into the hot water. “There now,” she declared with satisfaction. “Let that steep for ten minutes and you’ll have a bath fit for a queen.”

“Very well,” Julia acquiesced with a smile, “though I dislike seeing Daniel playing footman.

“And you’d like Jeffries or Harkins comin’ up to this room?” Meg Runyon asked. “I think not. You’ll have Daniel do for you or have to do for yourself, missus!”

Julia laughed. “So I’m a silly fool, I’ll not argue on that score. I’m grateful to you all and well you know it. But, Sophy, I think I must ask what infusion I’m about to immerse myself in.”

Sophy’s smile was lit with the zeal of a true believer. “A fine mixture, my dear. Lavender, rosemary, comfrey root, thyme and verbena with a geranium leaf or two. You’re to soak in it, mind,” she cautioned, “not just in and out. I promise you’ll feel much more the thing. ’Tis plain to see you’re feeling pulled.”

Julia made a wry face and nodded. “Thank you all,” she repeated as Daniel poured two more buckets into the tub. “Friends are a precious gift.”

“No gift,” Daniel growled. “Friends are earned. And you’ve more than just those of us here.”

“Aye,” Meg asserted. “We’re all with you, missus.”

Julia’s eyes darkened. “Thank you, Meg but I’m not sure this is a matter for taking sides. Right now…right now we all lose. And I see no way to make things better.” Idly, Julia touched the bag of herbs softly swirling in the newly poured water. The fragrance was beginning to drift up from the dark water and waft its way through the room. With a brisk movement she shook the drops from her hand, drying her fingers on her skirt. “Now go to bed, all of you. It’s been a long day for us all. I’ll manage very well for myself.”

They went, taking their thoughts and speculations with them. While Nicholas Tarleton was being confronted by threatening creatures of the night, his stock was not much higher under his own roof.

With a few deft twists Julia pinned her long brown hair high on her head. Stray tendrils teased her forehead, tumbled gracefully to the back of her neck. Beyond the circle of firelight the room was chill. Julia undressed by the fire, neatly placing her garments and a large towel over a ladder-back chair to one side of the fireplace. The deliciously scented water beckoned. With infinite gratitude for her friends’ insistence on this luxurious pleasure, she stepped into the tub, immersing herself up to her chin. Her sigh of contentment drifted through the fragrant air. If Nicholas should come upon her now…

Would he come? As he had last night. Would she deny him?

The scent of burning rose petals overcame the sweet mix of herbs Sophy had added to the bath water. Their bonfire at the bottom of the garden should have been a lark, Julia thought, a bit of light humor to brighten their lives. But no smiles came. The four of them—Julia, Sophy, Meg and Daniel—had tiptoed out of the house—in truth, some might have used the word
sneaked
—finding their way by light of the moon to a sheltered spot in the lower garden. There, in a fallow patch of earth, Daniel had laid a small fire from a bag of sticks gathered earlier that day. “Ye must have fresh faggots from the woods,” he’d said and the women had not seen fit to disparage his belief in his own set of superstitions.

When the fire was burning briskly with the addition of dry leaves and a few twigs Daniel said Julia must find for herself, the four friends stood in a ring around the small blaze. Julia produced the handful of rose petals given to her by Mary Carter. Solemnly, she let them drift down into the fire. As the dry petals caught and burned, Julia knew she could not really smell the sweet scent of roses from so few petals and yet…

With a swift shake to clear her head of fantasy, she picked up the jar of rose petals Meg had taken from the storage shelves and opened it. Julia offered the jar to her companions. Each took a handful and, in turn, tossed the petals onto the fire. Julia was last, upending the remaining contents of the jar over the flames. This time there was no doubt. The sweet scent of roses filtered through the pungent smoke, fleetingly filling the crisp October night.

Rose petals on a bonfire. Good luck. Luck in love. A silly superstition but no one smiled. Silently, they stood in a ring until the bonfire burned to ashes. Julia shivered on a sudden chill wind. Surely not the best omen for what should have been a lighthearted venture into ancient superstition. With a grimace at her foolishness, she turned and led the procession back to the house.

The smell of roses filled the room. Julia came to herself with a start. Absurd! There were no rose petals in the bath water. She had been daydreaming. If she soaked any longer, she’d be a wrinkled old hag. And if Nicholas came…

Oh, dear God, what a fool she was! She had insisted on living in this hidden room to demonstrate that she and Nicholas were living separate lives. She planned to bar her not-so-phantom lover by bolting the door to the upstairs hallway. But she had not done it. She was not only a fool, she was a selfish fool. She was tired of being magnanimous. Sick to death of honor. She did not
want
the Spanish violet to have her Nicholas. In her determination to have him, she had even stooped to pagan nonsense.
Shame, shame, shame!

Julia washed herself quickly, as the water had grown cool and even the fireplace was no longer adequate to keep her warm. In her haste she managed to get some of the lavender-scented soap in her eye. She was vainly groping for the towel on the chair behind her when it was suddenly dangled above her. A brief touch against her hand, then twitched out of reach. Once again, a tantalizing touch. Then gone.

“Looking for this?” inquired a smooth masculine voice.

Chapter
Sixteen

“Jack! How could you?” Julia sputtered. She froze, not daring to look down. Knowing all too well the water, once opaque from its infusion of herbs, had turned translucent. She needed at least eight arms to cover all she wished to cover. “Give me the towel and turn your back. At once!”