The Lodestone (31 page)

She wanted to refuse and insist on continuing her journey alone, but her exhaustion prevented her from taking such a foolish stand. Besides, she was glad to see him. She was cold, tired and hungry. It would be too much to hope that he had brought food, and she knew there could be an explosion if she dared commit the folly of asking. Perversely, the thought of it brought a smile to her lips.

“I doubt, mademoiselle,” he told her sharply, “that you’d be so amused if this shelter had also been discovered by some rogue eager to share his pallet with you.”

Her face blanched but she retorted, “I do not find this amusing in the least.” She gathered up her saddlebags and grabbed Epitome’s reins. “The cold has set a stiffness in my limbs that caused me to wince. I am sorry if that offends you.”

He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a silver flask. “This will warm you.” He removed the top and held it out to her. “Take a good, long pull.”

Cleome put the bottle to her lips and turned her head back. The sweet liquid burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes, but a warm, tingling somnolence spread slowly through her stomach, her chest and finally to her extremities, where it began to thaw the icy paralysis that had settled there. She took another sip, which went down more easily than the first, and then she returned the flask to its owner. Before he replaced the stopper, Drake took a long drink. As he started to lead the horses out of the lean-to, he discovered that his mount had acquired a limp. After a cursory examination, he announced that Prince Talleyrand had lost a shoe.

“We’ll ride together,” he told her in a tone that would permit no argument. He put his horse’s saddle on Epitome, carefully keeping his eyes averted to the work with which he occupied his hands. Cleome searched his face for any signs of remorse for all the months of betrayal, but if he regretted withholding what she equated with her mother’s dignity, and her own, he gave no hint. His task finished, he wrapped her cloak more securely about her and rearranged her cap, tucking in a stray curl as if she were a small, delinquent child.

When she was cosseted to his satisfaction against the elements, he took her and the horses outside. Giving her Prince Talleyrand’s reins to hold, he climbed onto Epitome and drew her up to sit sideways before him, on his lap. His long arms encircling her slight frame, he prodded the splendid beast into action. The brandy had taken her last bit of strength, and it wasn’t long before the swaying of the horse and the warmth of Drake’s body rocked her gently to sleep.

She relaxed against him, and her lips found their way to the hollow of his throat. Swathed in her own cloak and a great portion of his, she couldn’t hear his sharp intake of breath as she moved drowsily against him. So deafening was the velvet silence created by the thick blanket of snow covering the landscape that she missed his curse when a gust of wind swept her hat away and her hair blew free. He did not stop the horses and attempt to retrieve it. Instead, he drew her closer and tried to deny the increasing hunger in his loins when she sighed and pressed herself more snugly against him.

They reached the Eagle’s Head when the morning activities were at their height. The storm had left a sparkling crust of snow covering the inn and grounds. The sun had appeared but the merciless temperature was so low that any hope of warmth was canceled out. As Epitome trotted into the stable yard with Drake’s horse following, Cleome came fully awake and the loud harangue between Mickey and Old Sam reached her ears like a welcome song. They were engaged in a spirited discourse over the best way to clear the snow from the drive so that the morning carriage could get underway. Old Sam was for shoveling, while Mickey advocated pouring buckets of hot water over the cobblestones, thus melting the snow and saving his back.

“Aye,” Old Sam said. “And when it freezes over again, ye’ll have the whole bloody lot of ’em fallin’ on their arses.”

But for her worry for her mother, Cleome would have been so glad to be home, and to see these dear, familiar faces. She spied Mary, Tibbits and Della watching anxiously from the kitchen window, and there was a great ruckus as they rushed out the back door and waited with outstretched arms while Drake handed Cleome down to them.

“We’re so glad you’ve come, miss,” Mary offered. “That is, your ladyship. Your ma’s took bad this time, real bad.”

“Poor mite,” Tibbits soothed the wayward traveler. “She’s sleeping and Fanny’s with her, so you’ll have a bite and a sup before you go to her. Come along now, milady. You’ll be wantin’ some breakfast and a nice hot cup of tea.”

Cleome was surprised to find she was not at all tired, having rested comfortably in Drake’s arms; but she could do with something warm to drink. As the older women ushered her into the tavern house, Della took her saddlebags from Drake.

“Has the doctor been yet?” he asked.

“Aye, sir,” Mary whispered, her grief making it difficult for her to speak. “He’s here still. He’s been here all night, sir.”

“See that Miss Cleome has a hot bath,” he ordered. “And get her into bed straightaway. She should sleep until her mother awakens.”

At that, however, Cleome took a stand from which she would not be moved. She would have some tea and then she would go up and sit with Ramona. She refused to take even the time to change her clothes.

**

The room was still and quiet, the only sound the labored breathing of the invalid. Mary sat near the bed and Dr. Harris
was bending over Ramona. When he straightened and looked at Cleome, he only shook his head.

“She’s not with us for long, now,” he said. “You must be strong, milady.”

“Cleome?” her mother’s voice, strange and already otherworldly drifted up from the bed. “Is it you, my heart? Come here, where I can see you.”

“Aye. He’s to call on us when we get to London. He’ll be livin’ but a stone’s throw away, in a manner just as grand. He promised to come and see us.”

“Did he?”

“Aye . . . got to keep tabs on me so he can give a proper accounting to your da, when he comes.”

“Mamma,” Cleome began, wanting more than anything to give Ramona the small estate Jimmy Parker had bequeathed her. “There’s something I must tell you.”

“Lass, I’ve been thinking,” her mother continued feebly. “I’d like to wear me weddin’ dress down to London. Mary will help me try it on. I had not intended to wear it again, save for your da, but this be a fittin’ occasion. What say you, Cleome dear?”

“I think that would be lovely,” Cleome said. The door opened and Drake stepped into the room. Silently, he went to stand behind her chair.

“There he is,” Ramona whispered and Drake moved closer to the bed. “Come to say goodbye then, have ye?”

“I would never miss an opportunity to be near you, madam,” Drake said gallantly and Ramona smiled.

“Get on wi’ ye, now,” she scolded, summoning the last vestiges of her strength. “When ye see Jimmy again, ye must tell him . . .” her voice trailed off.

“Mamma?” Cleome questioned, alarmed.

“Ne’er you mind,” she said, looking for the last time into the face she loved best. Then she turned to Drake. “I think I’ll just go along now and tell ’im meself.”

And it was over. Cleome held her mother’s cold, lifeless hand for a moment and then turned to Drake.

“I will never forgive you, sir,” was all she said to him.

**

Ramona died peacefully, clutching the dried remnants of a spring bouquet and a faded scrap of paper inscribed with plans for elopement and rough terms of endearment, and signed simply,
J. P.
Mary closed Ramona’s eyes and gently wrested the love note and the crumbling flowers from the death grip of her beloved mistress.

“Sent her this letter, he did,” Mary told Cleome. “Lady Adelaide got hold of it somehow. Told me to burn it, but I put it in me pocket. I went straight to the fireplace and burned the market list. What a time we had, Tibbits and me, the next day in Oakham, tryin’ to remember everything on that list!” A chuckle at the poignant recollection escaped from the maid’s constricted throat and her voice broke. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her shoulders heaved. “But for Miss Ramona, I would not have been able to write me own name,” she said, at last giving way to quiet sobs.

Later, while Mary and Tibbits attended Ramona’s body, a new resolve filled Cleome’s heart. She went first to the kitchen and asked Della to have Mickey go for the Reverend Jefferson, and then she got the leather pouch and Jimmy’s music box from her saddlebags. When the two older women had completed their ministrations, she approached the bed reverently. Ramona was far more beautiful in death than Cleome had ever seen her in life. She could not cry, for her sorrow was too great to be measured in tears. Such grief, perhaps, was a private thing. The tears would come later. In the meantime, there was much to be done.

As Mary and Tibbits watched, Cleome took her father’s treasures out of the bag and carefully placed them on the bed. She slipped the wedding band on the third finger of Ramona’s hand and instructed Mary to put the money pouch, shaving brush and rusted razor in the coffin before it was closed. Then, because she needed something to keep in memory of her father, Cleome took the heart-shaped lodestone on the black ribbon from around Ramona’s neck, where it had been since Drake had given it to her, and tied it around her own. With her embroidery scissors, she severed a lock of her mother’s hair and placed it in the music box with her father’s copper curl. Slowly, she bent to kiss Ramona’s icy lips; then she turned and left the room. She was not able to bring herself to look upon that still form again.

Back in her own room, she changed from her disheveled traveling costume into one of her comfortable old day dresses, still hanging in her wardrobe as if she had never left. Beneath it, she wore the lodestone next to her heart.

**

Drake paid his last respects to Ramona privately and then sought Cleome out. “If you will permit me,” he said, “I would like to stand with you at the funeral.”

“I will
not
permit it, sir. I’ll not deny that your kindness helped my mother at the end of her life, but what you withheld from her—and from me—I cannot forgive. If my presence here disturbs you, I can find lodging at Easton Place.”

“Your presence disturbs me immeasurably,” he whispered, leaning close. “I want to be at your side more than I want anything in this life. Cleome, you were ready to give yourself to me. I know you feel something for me. Let me help you through this sorrow. You must listen to reason—”

“There is no reason I will accept,” she broke in coldly. “Deceiving me is one thing—I’m told gentlemen often practice deceit with their country paramours—but you have done my mother a great disservice.”

“So great that you would throw away our future? You know I’d never do anything I thought would hurt her. Trust me enough to listen, to try and understand.”

“How could I ever trust you?” she demanded, struggling to keep her voice even, although she wanted to scream at him. “As much regard as I had for you, I now have only fear. I would be putting myself at terrible risk by placing my future in your hands.”

**

The Reverend Jefferson was stunned by Cleome’s request. It seemed perfectly simple to her, but he could not understand why she wanted him to post the bans of a marriage that had taken place two decades before.

“Why, Miss Cleome . . . that is, your ladyship,” he said, studying the certificate. “This is highly irregular. Naturally, I would have to make a study of the church records, to make sure both were members of my parish; and then of course, I suppose I really
should
get permission—”

“Perhaps this will speed things along,” Cleome replied. She took a folded sheet of parchment out of her reticule, and handing it to him, she continued, “The amount stated will be in your hands within a fortnight.”

With polite skepticism, he scanned the note, in which she had made a pledge to his church—a pledge in an amount that would set his mind at ease for a year. “Why,” he said again, “this is
most
irregular.”

“If you doubt the sincerity of my pledge, or my ability to fulfill it, I would refer you to my solicitor in London. Mr. Landshire will vouch for me.”

“That will not be necessary, Miss Parker,” the vicar said. “We have all heard of your change in fortune.” He promised to do what he could and by evening, he had posted the bans on the door of the church, as well as the news of Ramona’s passing. Young Sam cleared the snow away from a small patch of land in the grove of plum trees next to the stream and she was buried quietly, next to William Desmond. The only mourners were her daughter, the staff who served the Eagle’s Head Inn, and the master of Stoneham House, who stood a distance away, hidden in a cluster of snow-trimmed cedars.

**

The first thing Cleome did, after a day of resting from her journey back to London, was to call on Lord and Lady Easton. She wanted to apologize for her behavior at Stoneham House during Drake’s opening celebration, but before she could, Elizabeth embraced her and told her how sorry they were to hear of her mother’s passing.

“Drake stopped in when he returned from Oakham,” Elizabeth explained. “How kind of him to see you safely there.”

“Yes . . . but regarding Mr. Stoneham and the scandal we created at his club—I want to beg pardon for any embarrassment I caused you.”