The Reluctant Bride (12 page)

Emily gazed with satisfaction at the effect created by the morning sun as it streamed through the muslin curtains of her elegantly decorated green and yellow drawing room. She had not yet admitted it to Angus, but three weeks after taking up residence, she truly believed Wildwood Manor was the most wonderful home in the entire country.

‘Major Woodhouse!' Smiling, she waved the handsome soldier into his seat as she breezed through the double doors to greet the visitor she'd been told was awaiting her.

‘Mrs McCartney, you're looking well.'

It might have been mere gallantry, but Emily acknowledged the compliment with a surge of gratification. Today she felt very well. Her health had fully returned and her fears had not been realised regarding unwanted overtures. As long as she and Angus remained congenial housemates she could enjoy her surroundings and his company without the niggling guilt that assailed her whenever Angus got too close. For she was increasingly unable to play the ice maiden which loyalty to Jack required.

After three weeks of deep, rejuvenating rest, Emily had woken this morning refreshed and feeling better than she had in months.

‘This is a pleasant surprise, Major.' She felt the extraordinary power at being mistress of her own home going to her head as she sank into the chair opposite. However, as she saw the awkwardness he was unable to hide she was reminded uncomfortably of his last visit when she had been only a few days married and heavily pregnant.

‘My husband can't have been expecting you as he is away on business.' She forced her gaiety back to the fore. She had nothing to be ashamed of and she refused to feel at a disadvantage. ‘He left several days ago.'

Major Woodhouse raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed?'

‘He's seeing his solicitor on a matter to which he had hoped to attend earlier, before you sent him away so peremptorily.'

Her tone was playful, bantering. Like it had been in the old days when Jack …

She bit back the thought as she noticed Major Woodhouse had not responded to her light-heartedness as intended. Embarrassment washed over her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks and wished she didn't sound so breathless as she indicated the room with a flourish. ‘As you can see, our circumstances have changed. We've been here three weeks now.'

Rather than admiring the décor the major glanced at her flat stomach before saying awkwardly, ‘My condolences, Mrs McCartney.'

She inclined her head, keenly aware that he had not even pretended real sympathy.

‘I hope you will stay for some tea and Madeira cake at least, Major,' she managed. ‘I'm sorry your journey has been in vain.' Signalling to the parlour maid who had come in to replenish the fire, she ordered refreshment.

Since Angus had left she'd had no visitors, other than Caroline who had called yesterday.

The fact that Major Woodhouse appeared about to decline made her even more desperate he should stay. How dare he make her feel embarrassed? She was a respectably married woman and she wanted to play hostess in her fine new house.

‘Are you back long?' she asked as the tea things were set before them.

‘I await orders.' He shrugged, apparently reluctant to discuss the war, though Emily was always eager to hear news.

With a bright smile she began, ‘I hear—'

‘I'm glad to note the change in circumstances,' he said, indicating the room with a sweep of his arms. There was an almost desperate note to his tone. Emily blinked, surprised.

‘Yes.' She swallowed, her awkwardness increasing before anger rose to the fore, making her incautious and trip out the words she'd once used as a weapon against her impotence. ‘My aunt was generous in my marriage settlement, Major Woodhouse,' she said, adding with a smile, ‘I've no doubt my husband has distinguished himself abroad for he certainly knows how to seize the advantage at home.'

She regretted the words immediately they were out. What had possessed her?

Angus was this man's friend. Emily was doing herself no favours belittling her husband with sentiments that no longer reflected her feelings, besides.

She felt both ashamed and deserving of the look he sent her over the rim of his tea cup.

‘A man in your husband's position is unable to reveal the nature of his work. He must, however, be confident of the discretion of his wife who bears her own responsibility towards the security of our country.'

White hot rage surged along her spine at this veiled dressing down, which absently she realised was a defensiveness for the knowledge she'd put herself in the wrong.

Still she could not help herself. ‘Jack Noble was a hero – I know that, Major – but I know little of my husband's exploits.' She shrugged. ‘I am not criticising him. Quite simply, he tells me nothing, you may be assured on that score.'

She turned away from his narrowed gaze to pour her own tea, surprised when he said with a change of tone that was more conversational than was warranted, ‘I believe your mother is French, Mrs McCartney. The events of the past years must have made family relations …' he drew out the pause, ‘difficult.'

Replacing her cup upon the saucer with a clatter, Emily said, ‘I was born in England, Major Woodhouse, and though my mother prefers to converse with me in French, her loyalty is towards England. Unfortunately her relations across the channel did not survive the revolution.'

‘With the exception of her sister.'

Emily felt her jaw drop.

‘I have never met my Tante Fanchette,' she murmured.

In response to the look she sent him, he replied, ‘In the interests of security it was standard procedure to look into your family background, Mrs McCartney. Please do not be offended. Besides,' he added, ‘your father has long been of interest to us.'

‘You insult me, sir.'

‘By speaking plainly? I am sorry, Mrs McCartney. It is perhaps time for me to leave.'

He stood and Emily, caught up in a maelstrom of shock, indignation and confusion, rose also.

‘I'm glad to find you enjoying more comfortable surroundings. A beautiful woman brought up in the comfort of Micklen Hall could hardly be expected to endure soldier's lodgings for long.' He nodded curtly. ‘Fortuitously for you, Major McCartney's late father's bequest was unexpectedly generous, though it was through other means your husband leased Wildwood. I'm surprised he did not tell you. Naturally, though, I'm glad your aunt has done her part in assisting the newly-weds for I've heard your father was neglectful in that regard.'

She stared at him.

‘In this business, Mrs McCartney, it is imperative to keep abreast of such matters, for the safety of all concerned.'

Emily felt herself sway. Major Woodhouse's insinuations regarding her family were deeply disquieting … but Angus's father's bequest? Unsteadily, she said, ‘Angus's father is not dead. Jonathan was here only yesterday. He would have said something.'

‘Angus has not told you?'

To her surprise the major looked disconcerted. ‘My apologies, ma'am. I thought you knew.'

She could not believe the change in attitude. A deep flush stained his cheeks. He cleared his throat while avoiding her eyes. ‘It is in keeping with your husband's character that he would see to the comfort of his wife before attending to what others might consider more urgent matters.' He bowed. ‘I came here, purely to pay you and your husband a social call, and now it appears I have been indiscreet. Pray, forgive me.'

‘If Sir John is dead why was I not told?' she whispered.

‘No, Sir John is not dead.' Agitated, Major Woodhouse ran his hand through his hair. ‘This is something you need to discuss with your husband. I had assumed you were aware of Major McCartney's background …'

He darted a look at the door.

She fixed him with a level stare. ‘It is not indiscreet to apprise me of what you intimate “everyone” – except me – apparently knows.'

The major signalled his defeat by exhaling on a sigh. ‘This morning I was told by your husband's half-sister, Lady Catherine—'

‘Half-sister? Angus has only brothers. At least, so he told me.'

The major hesitated before saying slowly, ‘You should not be hearing this from me, but I have said too much already. No doubt Angus would have told you in good time that it is common knowledge the Earl of Netherfield acknowledged him as his son, though Sir John brought him up as his own. During my ride earlier today I met Lady Catherine, the earl's legitimate daughter whom I have known since childhood. You may recall she eloped several years ago with a subaltern. Now she is expecting their second child.'

Emily remembered the scandal which had riveted the
ton
for weeks. Lady Catherine had been on the verge of marrying the Marquis of Bruton's heir.

This new knowledge regarding her husband's paternity was infinitely more shocking.

The major went on in a resigned tone. ‘Lady Catherine told me her late father had left Angus an enormous bequest while making paltry provision for her.'

Gasping, Emily indicated the lovely drawing room with a sweep of her arm. ‘So that is how he afforded … this?'

‘Your husband is being well remunerated for his work.' Major Woodhouse did not trouble to hide the fact he considered her remark contemptuous. ‘He also sold his commission. I know, Mrs McCartney, that he was very anxious to provide you with a home where you would be comfortable.'

She had not the strength to watch him ride off. Sinking into a chair by the fireside, Emily buried her face in her hands. Each time she expressed criticism of Angus or his actions it was she who was made to feel ashamed.

Hold your tears
, she berated herself as she heard the maid enter the room to replenish the fire. A megrim, that's what afflicted her, though what did the servants care? They showed far more warmth towards the master and little wonder for it. Emily was the cold and resentful wife he did not deserve, she thought with a self-pity she acknowledged for what it was.

‘Fetch me some chamomile tea, Mary,' she whispered, not raising her head from the cushion upon the sofa arm, knowing with a dull hopelessness that nothing could soothe her disordered spirits.

Indeed, Angus did not deserve her.

At the sound of Angus's boots upon the tiles in the hallway the following afternoon, Emily lowered her head and tried to control the rapid beat of her heart.

Dread borne of shame. Her fingers worked feverishly over the infant's garment she was enlarging for Elizabeth's daughter Jane to wear, while her thoughts were in turmoil. She had wronged her husband, grievously. The time had come to atone.

She recalled the distinctive ring of her father's shoes upon the flagstones that had made her mother visibly blanche. His entrance was always the same.

‘Marguerite,' he'd rasp as if displeased to find her in the drawing room when it was where he confined her for most of every day. So much derision and contempt contained in the one word. Usually he'd not address her again. In earlier days he'd turn to Emily with a smile and ask proudly, ‘How's my little beauty, today?'

When had he stopped saying that? When she was about twelve, on the cusp of becoming a woman. By then he'd fostered in her the fawning desire to please him. If he no longer praised her, she was determined he'd not deride her as he did her mother, though it seemed his displeasure grew with each successive year. It had confused her, for he'd loved her and she tried so hard. ‘The girl now looks like
her
!' she'd once overheard him say in response to some whispered exhortation for discretion from Lucy, who did her best to shield Emily from his angry outburst or snide remarks.

The thought filled her with terror. If she looked so like her mother, could she one day become similarly afflicted? She reasoned her mother must once have been very beautiful and rich to have captivated her father.

‘Beauty,' her father had once told her, ‘is a woman's only defence. Use yours, Emily, while you can, for you have little else to recommend you.'

Now Emily was hunched over her tatting just as her mother had once cringed at her husband's return; though Angus could not be more different from her father.

For one thing her father never spoke cheerfully, either to his family or to the servants, she reflected upon hearing Wallace the butler laugh at his exchange with his master as he divested Angus of his multi-caped coat in the hallway. Then her husband strode into the room, making it seem suddenly much smaller.

His smile was brief, distracted, eye contact maintained only for as long as it took to say, ‘Good morning, Emily, I hope you don't mind that I stayed away longer.' He stooped to kiss her cheek before relaxing with a smile in the seat opposite her. He wore riding clothes, and his face had a healthy glow. Emily drew herself up, murmured an appropriate response, and wondered why he seemed so different today.

‘Thank you, Wallace.' Angus gathered up the accumulated correspondence from the silver salver the butler held out.

Breaking the seal of the first letter, he began to read. Unaccountably, Emily was piqued. She'd been building herself up to meet this moment. She had tormented herself as to how she would offer an oblique apology without having to prostrate herself and leave herself vulnerable. This was an unfair way to look at the matter, she knew. Angus would not take advantage, but she hated being in the wrong.

Now Angus was attending to daily business as if they were a long married couple, with barely a glance in her direction.

‘Major Woodhouse called yesterday.'

He smiled briefly at her over the top of his correspondence.

‘Your sister told him of the bequest from your father.'

That got his attention, she thought, satisfied at last, waiting for him to lose his composure.

Pretending interest in her handiwork, she watched him carefully beneath lowered lashes.

He did not immediately respond, though the studied look on his face as he stared at the page in front of him indicated he was shocked.

‘Why did you not tell me the truth, Angus?' Emily raised her face above her tatting.

‘Would it have made a difference?'

The bluntness of his question made her squirm. Blushing, she dropped her eyes at his inference that she'd have accepted him more willingly had she known he was the Earl of Netherfield's only son and not merely one of Sir John's numerous brood.

He answered his own question. ‘It seemed of little importance when I had no expectations we would benefit in any way. I met my natural father only twice.'

It was extraordinary the effect his interested gaze had upon her. She felt the blush rise up her throat. This was not the diffident Angus who had asked for her hand. Now she wanted to claw her way higher in his estimation.

‘It was ill done of him to overlook his daughter,' Angus said, finally, still studying her with neither smile, nor frown. ‘My solicitor in Habersham confirmed the size of the bequest when I visited him.' He transferred his gaze over Emily's shoulder, to the garden which seemed to flow right out of the house. Tapping the thick cream parchment, as if weighing up something of great importance, he said, ‘I made over part of it to Lady Catherine. I hope you don't mind, Emily, for we have more than enough, and she had all but nothing.'

‘Did she approach you?' The question was prompted by curiosity in the light of Angus's altered family relationship, but it sounded calculating, she realised, as Angus looked at her strangely.

‘Of course I don't mind about the money,' she said hurriedly. ‘That's not what I meant.' Taking a deep breath, she galvanised her courage. ‘I'm sorry I misjudged you about accepting Aunt Gemma's funds.'

His expression, as he slowly rose, took her by surprise.

Standing tall and straight in the centre of the room, his dark brown eyes kindled with something she couldn't quite determine. Included was certainly a measure of warmth.

He seemed handsomer, more commanding and for a heartbeat she responded with a smile that came naturally.

‘You were angry.' He shrugged, smiling that curious smile to which she was increasingly far from immune. ‘No doubt feeling helpless, too, and that's not pleasant.' He gave a short laugh, breaking eye contact, turning to gaze out of the window. ‘I know that feeling better than most. I was a prisoner of war for six months.'

Good Lord!
What torture and privations must he have endured that he'd never spoken of? Or had he, but she had not attended him? He'd have had excuse enough to have considered there was little point when Emily was so disinterested. Admiration struck her as she stared at the back of his head, wondering at the fact she'd never felt his close-cropped curls and had no idea if they were coarse or silky; taking in the long, lean lines of her husband's physique and for the first time acknowledging that in comparing him with Jack she did not find Angus wanting.

No, she'd not been interested, before, but now she was consumed by curiosity.

She opened her mouth to frame her question, but the words did not come. Instead, she experienced an extraordinary and unexpected response to her husband's warm smile when he turned, akin to sweet syrup feeding through her veins and into her heart.

Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, she was aware of her greatly altered feelings when he crossed the room towards her.

Her tatting fell unheeded in her lap while her eyes travelled up the length of his top boots, over his Nankeen-clad legs. Impulsively, she raised her hand to touch the sleeve of his well-cut riding coat.

‘Emily.' He tilted her chin up so he could see her face, and as her body betrayed her with that familiar kindling in her belly that should only be reserved for Jack, her mind came to the rescue.

Anger, cold and cutting. Because of this man's actions, Jack had died. Innocent though Angus's involvement may have been, he'd walked off with the prize while Jack now lay cold in his grave. Her loyalty to Jack demanded this of her.

She turned her head from him as she shrank back into her chair, and Angus's hand fell away. She heard him sigh. Heard his footsteps cross the soft carpet until he'd positioned himself to gaze once more out of the window.

Remorse came too late as she picked up her tatting, using the rhythm of the stitching to repeat the litany of Jack's name.

He said, conversationally, ‘Caroline thinks you are in need of some diversion. She fears you are mouldering away in the country and has asked if you've expressed any interest in this tea party she's organising.'

Emily's mind was still on her response to her husband. Her withdrawal seemed petty, an abuse of power in a parody of a childish game.

‘Of course. Caroline is very kind to take such an interest,' she murmured. ‘Tell her I'm in a fever of delight.' Her voice told a different story, but that was the way she was these days. Contrary. She wasn't proud of it.

‘Emily, what must I do to make you happy?'

Shocked that he'd give voice to it, as much as at the desperation in his tone, she jerked up her head to find him towering over her.

‘Nothing.' The beating of her heart terrified her. Her voice sounded thin, puling, unlike her. ‘The house is beautiful. I tried to thank you—'

‘You did not.' His hands came down on her shoulders as he crouched before her. This time there was no warmth or sympathy in his expression as he searched her face. ‘Mere platitudes. Emily, you are my
wife
.'

She wriggled out of his grasp and struggled to her feet. Taking a faltering step backwards, her hands went to the locket around her neck. Jack's locket which contained an inky black curl belonging to the hero who'd died some six months before.

‘Yes, your wife, your property. I feel forever under siege.' It's what she'd felt when he'd married her, but she was not prepared to think too deeply on her response to him only minutes before. She took a shallow breath, pressing on with her denials, her self-justifications, even though they sounded old and tired and no longer relevant. ‘Do you not realise that every moment in your company I am reminded of your rights over me? Do you know how that makes me feel?'

She saw the tightening of his lips, the bleakness in his eye, but still she went on, trotting out the lines that had once run endlessly round her head but which now sounded hollow; she was unable to stop now that the floodgates had been released. ‘If you smile at me, I wonder, will it be tonight? I can't bear it. I am your wife, yes, and I have no choice. We made a bargain.
I
made a bargain. We have been at Wildwood three weeks and as the sun sets each day I cannot breathe for fear of what the night will bring. I cannot expect you to wait forever so for God's sake, let's get it over with.'

‘Excuse me, ma'am,' Mary interrupted, hovering in the doorway. ‘Mr and Mrs Micklen have arrived.'

If the previous conversation had destroyed her composure, Emily felt completely undone as the blood drained from her head in a physical reaction only her father could produce.

‘My father?' she repeated, looking at Angus as if he would refute it. For how could her father be here when he had cast her off? Bartholomew Micklen did not forgive.

‘Your mother, also.' Angus had taken her arm, obviously for fear she might fall, so obvious was her distress. She felt the tenseness in his grip though his tone was conversational for Mary's benefit, while his eyes searched her face. ‘You did not receive my letter telling you of their visit?'

‘You invited them?' Oh, how she wished he hadn't, but there was no opportunity to say it for now the tall, white haired old man was waving through the servant who carried her mother like a child. Directing him to the chair closest to the fire, Angus moved forward to assist.

‘Good afternoon, Emily. You look surprised to see us.' Her father's thin smile barely reached his eyes.

Emily did not know what to say. She'd expected never to see her father again. Her mother she'd intended to visit clandestinely. What could Angus have said to induce the old man to relent? Her mind churned with mixed reactions. She should be overjoyed, yet she was not.

‘Mama.' Bending, she kissed her mother's cheek before crouching to wrap her useless feet more cosily. Just as she'd done a thousand times.

After greeting his in-laws Angus turned to Emily. ‘Mary has already prepared the blue room. I hoped your parents' visit would be'—he lowered his voice as the Micklens settled themselves—‘distracting. Mrs Micklen,' he crossed the room to his mother-in-law, ‘are you too close to the fire? Yes? Certainly I shall move you back a little.'

It was strange hearing him enquire after her mother's comfort when she'd never heard her father do so. She was even more astonished when that evening Angus took a seat at right angles to his mother-in-law and carried on a lengthy and lively discussion ranging from fox hunting to the war with France. Patiently, he awaited her slurred answers, his look interested, before adding his own response. This left Emily facing her father, wondering, awkwardly, what she could talk about. She could not remember having dealt with him in such a setting.

She certainly could not remember him having ever relented on a punishment when she'd transgressed. The last time she'd seen him was moments before she'd been dispatched in a dog cart with one trunk. His parting words still rang in her ears: ‘This house is forever barred to you for you have proved yourself beneath contempt.'

Now he smiled at her as he never had, and enquired after her health. Having her parents as guests in her lovely, grand new house, was extraordinary. She just wished she felt less like a trapped rabbit, and put it down to the conflicting emotions she felt at the change in her relationship with her husband.

Emily was up early the next morning, leaning over the railing of the jetty by the ornamental lake where Angus found her. She'd spent a fitful sleep in her own apartments and had risen with the sun to seek solace for her disordered thoughts.

Terrifying though it had been to face her father again, he'd gone to pains to make it clear she was forgiven. This gave rise to the most unexpected relief and gratitude on her part. Gratitude that extended towards Angus. He had, carefully and consciously, worked towards a reconciliation, recognising it was an important step in her recovery.