The Marsh Hawk (13 page)

“Well, I suppose we could make the best of things,” the dowager chirped, wriggling in the chair. “He is titled, and more prestigiously than Rupert, I daresay. And he is a war hero, after all. I shall see to the arrangements, of course. I must have you to Paris at once to complete your trousseau. Yes! And we'll have the wedding in London, since his lordship prefers it to the coast.”

“So it's ‘his lordship' now, is it? What happened to ‘that scoundrel' who has ruined my reputation? Really, Mother.”

“That will save me the bother of refurbishing Thistle Hollow—and the expense,” the dowager babbled on. “And, of course, I shall tack ‘Rutherford' onto ‘Hollingsworth.' Hyphenated names are so in fashion today, and ‘Rutherford' is so much more impressive than ‘Marner'! As soon as I unpack—”

“No, Mother,” Jenna interrupted. “You will unpack at Thistle Hollow. I've already had your portmanteaux put back on the chaise. As soon as you and Emily have finished your refreshments, you will leave. This is my home now, and I will have things my way in it. Neither Simon nor I wish a showy society wedding. We want it to be simple and private. I do not mean to be rude, but you had no business coming here without an invitation. I can see by your expression that you mean to oppose me. I wouldn't if I were you. I would hate to have you put out bodily, but I will if you persist.”

“Well!”

“And one more thing . . . if you ever dare presume to ‘tack' Rutherford onto
anything
, I will take legal action against you.”

“Why, you ungrateful girl,” the dowager wailed, bursting into crocodile tears. “I nearly
died
giving birth to you—two days in labor—and this is my reward? How can you be so cruel to your mother? If your poor father were alive—”

That tweaked a nerve.

“If Father were still alive,” Jenna said with raised voice, “I wouldn't have had to . . .”

“You wouldn't have had to what?” her mother snapped.

“Never mind. Please finish your tea and leave before I say something we'll both regret. And in the future, please remember that when I want you to visit, I shall send you an invitation.” Then, wheeling around, she sailed through the drawing room door intoning, “Good bye, Mother,” without a backward glance.

The dressmaker arrived the following morning, and Jenna was closeted with her for the better part of the day. Her name was Olive Reynolds, and Simon had given her carte blanche in creating Jenna an entire new wardrobe, including her wedding gown.

Miss Reynolds arrived with two assistants bearing bolts and swatches of silk, cashmere, moiré, and lawn. There were trimmings of tulle, and of Mechlin, Matise, Brussels, and Honiton laces, and sheaves of patterns to pore over. Everything from bonnets to ball gowns was represented. Simon had been very thorough; he had even ordered several new dresses and appropriate accessories for Molly that were more in keeping with her elevated status as lady's maid.

The dressmaker was a plain-looking woman in her fifties, with sharp features and a tongue to match, who, at the outset, made it plain that house calls were not her usual practice, but that since it was for the Earl of Kevernwood, she would make an exception. Jenna realized at once that the woman was fishing for an explanation as to why she couldn't have come to her salon like the rest of the populace, but since Simon hadn't given her one, she was not about to do so, either. That aside, the woman possessed impeccable taste and fingers that were almost as skilled as Madame Flaubert's. Jenna was more than pleased.

There was no real wardrobe emergency now that she had her portmanteau, of course, but Simon had given explicit instructions that there were to be dozens of frocks made, morning and afternoon dresses, party, ball, and presentation gowns, lingerie and outer wear, including two pelisses to wear over her new finery once the weather turned colder—one of fur, and one of fine Merino wool trimmed in chinchilla—as well as spencers and cloaks in various colors and weights. He had also left word with the cobbler at the local bootery, who would see to her footwear.

It was all very improper, of course, for him to do such a thing, and she couldn't help but giggle imagining what her mother would have to say about it were she to find out. There was no question that she would be positively scandalized. But Jenna knew Simon's mind in the matter, and what's more, his heart. It was as though he was trying to erase every shred of her existence before him, and she adored him for it, especially because it went against his principles to indulge in the materialistic fripperies of aristocratic pretentiousness. It wasn't hypocrisy on his part, either; it was love, and it melted her heart. As Lady Evelyn had once so aptly put it, Simon Rutherford was, indeed, a revolutionary. Had society done that to him, or was he born that way? Jenna didn't know, and it really didn't matter. She was happier than she had ever been in all her life, happier than any woman had any right to be, except for the one matter nagging at her conscience, the dark cloud spoiling her horizon, threatening that happiness . . . the burdensome secret she needed so desperately to confess.

Jenna was amazed at how quickly that need was to be tested. The dressmaker had scarcely departed, when Horton announced that the vicar, Robert Nast, had invited himself to nuncheon and was awaiting her in the breakfast room. Her head was still a jumble of silk and lawn and Honiton lace, when she got that news. She quickly changed into a demurely correct afternoon frock of dove gray organdy, which was trimmed in the palest of pale pink silk ribbon roses, thanking God that her mother had brought her portmanteau.

The breakfast room had been chosen because it was the only room on the first floor of the house that offered a view of both the courtyard and the garden, from the terrace doors on the south, and from the wide bay window built into the southwest corner, respectively, and because it was the vicar's favorite. It was Jenna's favorite as well. When she'd breakfasted there earlier, the fog had just lifted, exposing the tall hedgerow that formed that segment of the garden wall, where great arches were cut out making visible different vignettes of the garden beyond. They were planted in such a way that the groupings were framed like fine works of art. Even without the sun, the effect was breathtaking, like looking at miniature landscapes inside sugar eggs. She particularly loved the one that displayed delphinium and foxglove, with snowdrops and lilies of the valley at their feet. Their tall, colorful stalks seemed to be resting on clouds. Everything bloomed early in Cornwall. To Jenna it had always seemed a land enchanted, but never had it seemed so magical as it did then, viewing the Kevernwood gardens from that panoramic spectacle of sparkling glass.

It was beside the bay window that a drop-leaf table had been opened up and spread with a creamy lace-edged linen cloth. The footmen had just finished at the sideboard, setting out potted blue cheese, fresh bread wedges, and chutney made of apples, rhubarb, and melon. There was also a flavorsome salad of fresh garden greens, nasturtium, onion, leek, and fennel, dressed with garlic oil and vinegar, and warm vegetable pasties. The footmen carried a tea service to the table and were just setting out the chairs when the quick patter and slide of Jenna's feet on the polished floor announced her arrival.

As she skittered to a halt on the threshold, her breath caught in surprise. The vicar wasn't what she'd expected at all. Her mental image of him was of someone rather plain, older, and dreadfully stuffy. Before her stood a man in his early thirties, tall and strongly built, with hair like summer wheat, and piercing eyes the color of amber. In jarring contrast, he wore somber black, with the crisp white neckcloth of an Anglican clergyman. But he was no cliché. She was standing face-to-face with yet another enigmatic revolutionary.

Her surprise was such that she scarcely remembered extending the hand that he lightly kissed and returned to her. She didn't even realize she was standing in front of the sideboard, until he put a plate in that same hand and nodded for her to make her selection before him. He obviously read her expression, because the first words he spoke came on the tail of a laugh.

“It's quite all right, my lady,” he said, “you're not exactly what I expected, either.”

“I beg your pardon,” she gushed. “Please, do forgive me, Vicar Nast, I didn't mean to stare, but you have the right of it; you aren't at all what I expected.”

“Which was . . .”

“Someone . . . older . . . more, well, sour-looking, actually.”

“Someone infected with ecclesiastical malaise, eh?” he said, tongue in cheek. “Does serving God make men sour, do you think? It's supposed to go the other way 'round.”

“It seems to have done to most of the clergy I've seen,” Jenna said frankly.

“There is joy in God. At least there ought to be.” He smiled, and it was like sunshine breaking through the bleak gray afternoon. “Perhaps I'll start a trend. I sometimes think that is why I've become what I've become; to make a difference. Is that awfully idealistic of me?”

“It's admirable, I think.”

“You are most kind, my lady, but then, I was told to expect that.”

“Simon mentioned that you would be stopping by.”

“At the outset, let me say that I do not usually invite myself to nuncheon,” he said, clouding briefly as he spooned a dollop of chutney onto his plate. “Simon asked me to pay a visit and introduce myself, and such things always seem to go much more smoothly over food, I've discovered. It gives the participants something to do with their hands . . . and their eyes. Rest assured, I shan't make a habit of this.”

“You are most welcome any time, Vicar Nast. Is there a Mrs. Nast?”

“No, my lady, not yet.” He chuckled, and quickly added, “So far, I'm afraid no one will have me.”

Jenna laughed, and they made their selections and took their seats at the table. He had put her at ease. She liked him at once, but she couldn't imagine the circumstances that had thrown him together with Simon.

“You were at school with Simon, so he tells me,” she probed, taking his teacup to fill it.

“Quite so,” he said. He took the cup and saucer from her and set it beside his plate. “Simon and I started out in the same social predicament; we're both second sons, he of an earl, I of a baronet. The most useless creatures on the planet, I'll be bound, second sons; nobody seems to know what to do with them. At any rate, I didn't share Simon's zeal for the military life—I'll come back to that—and I didn't have the patience or the inclination to pursue a future in politics or law—”

“And so you took Orders?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Getting back to my conscientious objection, I plumbed the depths of that and found it had roots that were decidedly clerical; hence the seminary. And here I am, the vicar of Holy Trinity out by the quay!”

“Is your tea all right, Vicar Nast?” she inquired, after tasting her own.

“Oh, quite. Simon's cook is a master blender.” He looked off in the distance around a sip and declared, “China, gunpowder, and common green—her traditional ‘house tea' as she calls it. She has a blend for every occasion, has Cook: ‘company tea,' ‘breakfast,' ‘afternoon,' and ‘dinner tea.' Small wonder she keeps the tea cabinet locked, and the key on her chatelaine. This is indeed worth stealing.”

“At home we have to take care whom we send to market,” she told him. “They need their wits about them. The poor folk dry their used tea leaves and sell them back to the tea vendors, who doctor the leaves and then foist them off upon unsuspecting patrons—sometimes at first quality prices. Can you imagine?”

“That sort of thing goes on all over. One can't help but feel for the poor unfortunates who are driven to such lengths in order to survive these days. Meanwhile, the rich in this country run mad with extravagance.”

Evidently he shared Simon's philosophy on the human condition, and she began to wonder who had influenced whom.

“You and Simon think alike in that regard,” she said.

“What is your take on it, my lady?”

“Truthfully, I'd never given much thought to economics until I met Simon. But I have to say that I quite agree with him. Some of what goes on is . . . criminal.” She cocked her head and studied the vicar as he raised a forkful of salad to his lips. “Tell me, Vicar Nast, do you address Simon as ‘your lordship'?” she wondered.

“No,” he said, laughing huskily. “I've never called him anything but Simon, come to think of it.”

“Then, let us please not be so formal. I am to be his wife, after all. It would please me if you would call me Jenna.”

“I should like that,” he responded. “Simon wished it, but the invitation for such a familiarity had to come from you. Simon calls me Rob.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “That is special between you and Simon, from your childhood. I shall call you Robert—with permission, of course.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “Since I hope that means we shall be friends, I have a confession to make. Two, actually.”

“Confession?” The word stuck in her throat and she choked on a bit of the bread she was nibbling.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

“It's just a crumb,” she lied, taking a swallow of tea.

“First off,” he began, “I'm sure you are aware that Simon asked me to keep an eye on you here in his absence. He's made me privy to what occurred at Moorhaven, and on Bodmin Moor. Secondly . . . I don't quite know how to put this . . .”

“I've always found it best to speak my mind,” Jenna said at his hesitation.

“Very well, then, at the risk of having repetition damn me, Simon and I have been close friends practically all of our lives. Simply put, he is not a happy man, and I want him to be. He's spent his whole life thus far living for others. I want him to have a happy life of his own. You are much younger than Simon, and—”