The Rogue's Return (5 page)

She'd phrased it more neatly than he.

“Addicted to opium, but there's hope of a full recovery. By the time we reach home, he might already be his old self.” He turned to Hal. “He's at Long Chart, I assume?”

“He was going there.”

At Hal's expression, Simon grinned. “I'm spinning like a top, aren't I? Perhaps great news after abysmal is too much for the mind. But it will make sense to disembark at Plymouth or Portsmouth and visit.” To Jane, he said, “Long Chart is his family home, seat of the Duke of Yeovil.”

Jane was pouring tea, and she handed them both cups. “Simon, I'm truly happy that your friend is alive, and we must certainly visit him. Now I must return to the kitchen. Death, it seems, requires immense amounts of food, and I welcome the work. May I hope you will join us for dinner, Major?”

Hal accepted, and with a vague smile at Simon, Jane left.

Hal said, “Congratulations, Simon. She's delightful.”

Of course he had to say something of the sort, but it
sounded sincere. There was a lot to be said for having a wife other men found appealing, and she'd handled the awkward situation with sublime grace.

“Yes, she is,” he agreed. “Now tell me more about Dare's revival.”

They moved from there to Simon's affairs. At least he didn't have to explain or justify his intent about the Indians. Hal had fought alongside them. He had known and admired Tecumseh, who'd been a brigadier general in the British army. He knew the promises that had been made.

But he commented, “You can't be the most popular man in York.”

“Most people are at least courteous.”

“Of course they are. You being who you are.”

“Idiotic, isn't it? But you're right, Brideswell and Marlowe do impress those who care about such things, and I've used that in the cause.” He poured Hal more tea. “If anything goes amiss, however, Jane can't stay here. You'll get her back to England, won't you?”

“Amiss?”

“I still have to meet McArthur.”

“Dammit.” Then Hal said, “If he fired, precise adherence to the code gives you a shot.”

“I couldn't demand such a thing. It's a wonder my pistol didn't go off, too. So, you'll take care of Jane?”

“Of course, but I'll be annoyed to do so without you along. Where do I take her?”

“To Brideswell, of course.”

“Will she, nill she?”

“There's nowhere else. She has no family I know of other than a brother of Isaiah's who's a butcher. That's hardly suitable for my widow. I know it'll be awkward. . . .”

“An understatement.”

“But I need to know she'll be safe.”

“I'll see to her comfort.”

Simon understood that Hal was reserving the right to
make his own judgment and appreciated it. “Thank you. There's something else.”

“Just as long as it isn't another woman.”

Simon laughed. “No, but perhaps trickier. My papers.” He explained what he had and what he hoped to do with them. “If McArthur knows enough to want to kill me, he'll want to destroy the evidence as well.”

“Then I'll make very sure they get into the right hands. Stephen will know the best people.”

Simon nodded. He'd followed from afar their friend Sir Stephen Ball's rise in politics.

Hal put down his teacup. “So, what needs doing now? I travel with two servants. Reliable men. Ex-soldiers. It looks as if extra hands will be useful.”

Simon wondered if the phrase “extra hands” had been used deliberately. There must be many things Hal could no longer do for himself. “It feels as if everything needs doing. Right now, I need to buy my wife a wedding ring, but I don't care to leave the house unguarded.”

“Then I'll stay. Is there nothing useful I can do while on guard duty?”

Simon looked around the room. “Would you go through the drawers here? Isaiah tossed anything and everything into them, but there might be money or important items.”

“Very well.” Hal rose and walked closer to the framed picture that hung over the fireplace. “This is a rather a good drawing, and that's your wife, isn't it, when younger? With her mother?”

“Yes.”

Simon had grown used to the picture, but he studied it anew. It had probably been drawn about three years ago, which was a long time at Jane's age.

In the picture, her breasts were smaller, but her cheeks rounder. Her pale dress had a girlish simplicity but enough ribbons and frills to make it completely unlike the clothes she wore here. She wore her hair as she did today, simply tied back.

She stood by the chair in which Martha Otterburn sat in widow's clothing, looking a lot like Isaiah. His strength and kindness showed there, but also a stiffness he'd never had. From all accounts, Martha Otterburn had been a conventional woman. She'd refused to travel to Canada when widowed, even though Isaiah had urged her to, promising her a grand life here. She'd replied that her daughter was a lady and she wasn't bringing her to live among savages in a forest.

It was hard to see any resemblance between mother and daughter, but then Jane strongly resembled her Scottish father. She had brought an oil portrait of Archibald Otterburn, which hung in her bedroom. It showed similar features and identical coloring, though his hair was thin and receding.

“Drawn by Jane's cousin,” Simon said. “Nan, I think the name was. Some orphan connection of Jane's father who was adopted by Martha as a child. She took ill and died on the way over. Sad case, for she and Jane were almost the same age and like sisters.”

“She had a remarkable gift.”

“Especially as she could only have been fifteen or so when she drew that.”

Hal turned from the picture. “Too much thought of wasteful death. Off you go. I'll ransack the drawers while keeping any other pillagers at bay.”

Simon knew it was a pledge of all-encompassing help and support and gripped Hal's arm briefly before leaving.

He went to Klengenboomer, York's only jeweler, but the portly man was apologetic. “Wedding rings are generally made to order, sir, or sent for from Montreal. I could make one by tomorrow afternoon. . . .”

“My wife needs one before the funeral.”

“I see, sir. Excuse me a moment.”

Klengenboomer went into a back room and returned with a small tray containing six rings. “Sometimes people find it necessary to sell.”

“A pawned wedding ring?” Simon asked in revulsion.

The jeweler shrugged. “Perhaps a loan until I can make a better, sir?”

For some reason switching about revolted Simon even more.

He'd wanted a grand ring to counterbalance the unfortunate situation, but these were all thin and worn. Only a desperate woman would part with her wedding ring, or a desperate man sell that of his dead wife. Some ring was better than none, however, so he chose the one most likely to fit.

What, however, could be more ill-omened than this wedding day?

Except for the news about Dare. That could outweigh all the rest.

He paused to consider other jewelry. He'd never seen Jane wear anything other than plain hoops in her ears and a gold cross around her neck, but his wife should have more than that. Unfortunately, he had little money in hand. He'd been spending heavily on gathering evidence and assisting those Indians who were in the worst state.

Hoping Hal had cash to lend, he bought a pretty silver brooch set with amethysts and a pair of pearl earrings. Sober ornaments, but even so, this wasn't a day for gifts. He'd give them to her at the right moment.

He returned to Trewitt House, preparing for an encounter with his wife.

In many ways he was pleased with Jane, but neither of them had wanted this marriage, and she did not have the background his family and friends—his world—would expect. He could see how it shouldn't matter, but facts don't dissolve because we wish them to. Even in America, with its republican principles and its declaration that all men are born equal, many families wouldn't welcome a girl from a shop.

But Jane was his wife now. Till death did them part. Presumably at some point they must share a bed, join
their bodies, attempt to produce children. That was the purpose of marriage, after all. It created a painful band of tension around his head.

The kitchen only made that worse. It was hot, crowded, and full of the aroma of the baked goods piling up on every surface. The two buxom young women must be Mrs. Gunn's granddaughters. One was very clearly with child.

There were biscuits, tarts, and pies enough for a hungry army.

Jane was lifting small cakes onto a wire rack. Despite the ribbon, hair straggled over her red face and she looked glazed with exhaustion, grief, or both.

His to take care of.

But also as earthy as baking bread . . .

As soon as she'd dealt with the last cake, he said, “Come with me, please, Jane.”

Because he was fighting improper thoughts, he spoke harshly. Her eyes turned wary, which struck him like ice water.

He was careful to speak softly and gently. “You will want to tidy yourself and sit with your uncle for a while, I think.”

He saw her almost sag with relief. “Oh, yes.”

Had she thought he was going to drag her off to the marriage bed?

As she unpinned her apron, he took her dark blue cloak off a hook. When she was ready, he put it around her shoulders and escorted her out. Her cheeks were still rosy, her hair still wild. Was it only his imagination that she smelled like a sweet, spiced bun? Shamefully, he wanted to lick her.

He produced the ring. “It's not as fine as I would like, and it may not fit . . .”

She looked down at her left hand and dusted off flour and crumbs. “I should have washed.”

He hesitated between giving her the wedding ring and putting it on her finger as he had his signet during the
ceremony. Clearly it had to be the latter. He took her left hand and slid the ring on. “A little loose, I'm afraid.”

She touched it, sliding it up and down as if it were a puzzle. “String beneath will hold it snug. And perhaps I'll grow plump, eating all those funeral cakes.”

They shared a smile that seemed remarkable, for it did not deny a jot of their shared grief while affirming the universal truth that life goes on.

“This is a strange situation, Jane, but we must give the appearance that we intended this and that Isaiah merely hastened it.”

“I suppose so.”

There had to be words to ease this moment. “I'm not unhappy with our marriage. I admire much about you.” How feeble.

She looked neither disappointed nor amused, but rather stricken. That looming marriage bed.

“Jane, you mustn't imagine that I wish to rush.” This was a damnably awkward subject to discuss with an innocent young lady. “What I mean is, there will be no need for us to share a bed for a while.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Won't people think that strange?”

“How are they to know?”

“Two sets of sheets sent to the laundry woman. Two rooms still in use.”

He wanted to say that was no one's business, but he knew that such things were talked of. “Many married couples use separate bedchambers.”

“Do they? And surely not rooms at either end of the house.”

What was she saying? That she
wanted
to share his bed tonight? Despite his awareness of her as a woman, he couldn't bear the thought.

Then she added, “At least no one will think it strange for us to keep to our usual arrangement tonight.” She
spoke so calmly, he wondered if she understood the physical implications of marriage at all.

But he knew she did. By some instinct he was sure she wasn't that kind of protected innocent, and he was grateful for it. Remembering the comfort they'd found in each other's arms, he drew her close. She tensed for a moment, perhaps thinking he meant to kiss her, but then relaxed.

He had meant only to comfort her, but he found comfort for himself. She was a sweet armful, neither too angular nor too soft, too large or too small, and she carried the soothing aroma of a bakery.

He rested his head against her hair, more at ease now with his mild stirrings of desire. They offered hope that when the time was right, their marriage bed would be natural and pleasurable for both of them.

T
he new Mrs. Simon St. Bride rested against her husband's chest thinking miserably that one should be careful what one wished for.

How many nights had she dreamed of being in Simon's arms? Dreamed even of becoming Simon's bride, bride to the most wonderful man she'd ever met.

To her, he was perfectly handsome, with his lean, vigorous body, his ready smile, and his deep-set hazel eyes that came alive with every vivid emotion. She had often had to resist an urge to touch his thick dark hair that shot fire in the light.

Presumably a wife was allowed to do that. But not an unwanted wife. Simon hadn't wanted to marry her, which was hardly surprising. And she hadn't wanted to marry him. Because if he ever learned the truth about her, he would hate her.

Oh, Lord, what was she to do?

Move, for a start, so she did, separating them.

He adjusted her cloak, a slight smile in his eyes, or at least a look of pleasure.

If only, if only . . .

She pushed straggling hair off her face. “I must look a mess.”

“Somewhat, but it's a pleasure to see your hair. It's lovely.”

For some reason that seemed threatening. She turned
quickly to lead the way into the house. She didn't want him to come upstairs with her—to the bedrooms—so in the hall she said, “I believe I can make my way to my room without help.”

“If you wish to lie down for a while, it will be all right.”

“No, I'll be back soon.”

As she climbed the stairs she reflected on how easy it was to act a part. Once in her room, however, she collapsed back against the door, her knuckles in her mouth.

This was her first real solitude since she'd heard the
boom
of the shot. The memory of finding Isaiah on the floor, clutching his belly, blood already welling between his fingers, made her bite down to conquer a howl.

She hadn't screamed then, however, and she would not do so now. Life, dreadful life, must go on.

Her hair. She hurried to her dressing table, but as soon as she saw herself she groaned. It clung tangled to her forehead and cheeks, and flour and mud marked her gown. She looked like a vagrant.

Like a Haskett.

She ripped off the ribbon and attacked the mess, looking anywhere but at her reflection as she untangled and brushed. Her image stayed in her mind, however. She'd looked like that for her wedding!

So many times she had imagined the perfect wedding. It would be summer. She'd walk to the church in the company of friends and family. There would be flowers and a handsome groom. . . .

She opened her eyes and inhaled. She had the handsome groom, that was for sure, but he thought he'd married Jane Otterburn, and he hadn't.

She was an impostor. She was Nan Otterburn, Archibald Otterburn's misbegotten child taken in by his widow out of charity and raised as Jane Otterburn's foster sister.

She turned to the mirror again, seeing swollen eyes that at least were honest. She'd come to love Isaiah
Trewitt, even if he was no true uncle of hers. That had led her to agree to this terrible situation, but what was she to do?

It was as if two parts of her argued.

You truly are Jane St. Bride. You married Simon.

In a lie. It's probably not even legal.

You were married as Jane Anne Otterburn, daughter of Archibald Otterburn, deceased schoolmaster. That's all true, isn't it?

It was. Martha Otterburn had made sure that Jane Anne Otterburn was her legal name. But she'd been the result of an encounter between Archibald Otterburn and Tillie Haskett and had spent the first nine years of her life as Jancy Haskett, part of a tribe of itinerant farm laborers. In Cumberland, “Haskett” was a byword for sinners and petty thieves. She'd sometimes heard people say, “He's as bad as a Haskett.”

They'd had a home of sorts—a run-down farm on the bleak edge of Carrock Fell—but if anyone had ever been able to survive on that land, the Hasketts couldn't, so from spring to autumn they wandered like Gypsies. They worked where they could, begged when they dared, and stole whenever they could get away with it.

The women weren't whores, but there'd been nothing strange about Jancy being an outsider's child. Jancy hadn't given a thought about who her true father might be, but when the Hasketts arrived in Carlisle for the annual horse fair in 1806, her bold, brown-haired mother had told her.

“Archibald Otterburn, our Jancy, a gentleman born. A schoolmaster, no less, here in Carlisle. But I hear he's dead, so we're going to see his widow.”

“Why, Ma?”

“Because you're the very image of yer da, ma pretty. You wait and see. There'll be caylo in this at least.”

Later, Jancy had remembered that “at least.”

The next day, Tillie had led Jancy down Abbey Street,
the sort of quiet, respectable street Hasketts avoided. She'd enjoyed the new experience and looked forward to earning “caylo,” or money, for the family. She was already good for pennies at a market because her pale skin and red-gold hair made her stand out among the swarthy Hasketts.

Her “Can you spare a penny, kind sir?” often produced one. It sometimes produced questions, too.

“Who are your parents, dear?”

“Have you always lived with these people?”

“Are you happy?”

“Do you need help?”

This had puzzled her, but Tillie had explained that people thought she might have been stolen. “Though why, I can't imagine, chick, babbies being easy enough to come by.”

Hasketts didn't steal babies, but they'd steal just about anything else and didn't like people paying them too much attention. Jancy had thought later that might have had something to do with Tillie's taking her to Martha Trewitt's house.

That and Uncle Lemuel Haskett. He'd taken to treating Jancy in a funny way. Liking to take her on his knee when she was too old for that. Asking her to kiss him on the mouth. Tillie had warned her not to be alone with him.

These thoughts had come later, however. That September day, she'd skipped along, seeing the outing as a treat. She'd approached the green-painted door of the small house ready to do her begging act to earn some caylo and please her mother.

It hadn't been like that. When the stern woman dressed in deepest black opened the door, Tillie said, “I've come t'talk to you about me daughter, ma'am.” There'd been none of the usual cheek or whine.

The woman had looked at Jancy almost without expression, but all the same Jancy had wanted to slide
behind her mother. But then they were in the house, in a narrow corridor that seemed frighteningly tight and smelled awful.

She'd come to know the smells as the ones considered clean—vinegar, camphor, lavender, and beeswax—but on that day they'd wrinkled her nose. She'd also been terrified of spoiling something. The polished floor looked too clean to walk on, especially in the boots that felt heavy because she went barefoot most of the time.

Martha Otterburn had listened in silence, glancing at Jancy now and then but asking no questions. Jancy understood why when a girl her own age came into the corridor. Tillie had a mirror, and the girl in a pretty white dress with a black sash, a black ribbon in her hair, could almost have been herself.

“What is it, Mama?” the girl asked.

“Go back to the kitchen, Jane, dear.”

After one wide-eyed look, Jane Otterburn had obeyed, but that look had fixed in astonishment on Jancy, clearly seeing the same resemblance.

“Well, now, ma'am,” Tillie said. “You see how it is, and me and me family come often to Carlisle. I'm afeared people might notice me daughter's resemblance—to your husband, and to your own child. Takes after him, don't they? Both of them.”

With a beggar's fine instinct, she'd waited.

Jancy had felt as she did when a magistrate or beadle questioned the Hasketts about missing tools and missing sheep. She'd wanted to curl into a ball like a hedgehog and pretend she wasn't there.

Then Martha said, “If my husband had known, he would have wanted the child to be raised in a decent home. Leave her with me and she will be treated as my daughter. But there must be no further contact with you and your family.”

Jancy had still been trying to take this in when Tillie turned to her. “There, chick. That's a fine offer. You're a very lucky girl.” She kissed her and gave her the wink
that said this was a plan that would do the Hasketts proud. “You be good, our Jancy.”

Then Jancy had been alone in the stinky corridor with the dark, stern woman, who'd said, “First, a bath.”

She shuddered now to think that she'd been infested. Her hair had been so full of lice that Martha had cut it short, apologizing and promising it would grow again, prettier than ever. Jancy supposed she'd been crying or even screaming, but she couldn't remember. She remembered crying a lot in the next days and weeks, desperately missing the rough-and-tumble of Haskett life and wishing her mother would hurry up and come back for her.

Even her name had to change.

“Such a common name,” Martha said. “And of course you can't be Jane. You will be Nan. And you will forget all about Hasketts, child. Never mention them again. When you're fit for polite company we will say you are an orphan from Mr. Otterburn's family. From Argyll. That's a wild enough place to explain some of your flaws, but if anyone asks, try to be vague. Say you lived in many places. That you passed from person to person. We can only pray that it will hold.

“Haskett,” she'd added with a shudder, and perhaps that had been the greatest force in getting Martha Otterburn to take her husband's bastard into her house. Bad enough for anyone to discover that Archibald Otterburn had sinned. But with a
Haskett
?

So what was Simon St. Bride going to think if he ever discovered he'd married a Haskett?

She should tell him the truth before this went any further.

But a little voice counseled against that in tones that reminded Jancy of her mother.

It wouldn't be right to do anything now, though, would it, chick? This is the time for mourning that good man Isaiah Trewitt and seeing him decently into his grave.

Right or not, she couldn't face anything else.

Her dirty dress was easy to remove. She'd arrived with a few gowns hastily dyed black, which were beyond hope after the voyage. As she wasn't used to servants she'd made new ones in a crossover design that let her dress without help. Beneath she wore a soft bodice instead of a corset.

She still had her best black, however; the one made for Martha's funeral. She'd worn it here for church a few times in the early days. She took it out of the clothespress and shook it. She'd stopped wearing it because it had become tight in the chest and deep black hadn't been necessary. She wanted to wear full mourning for Isaiah, however, so prayed she could still fit into it.

Fortunately it was a simple design with a drawstring waist, and her soft bodice allowed her breasts to squash. It was long sleeved and high necked, and when she faced the mirror again she nodded. That was more like it. Funereal propriety.

She dragged her thick wavy hair back, twisted it, and then pinned it up. When she put on the black cap, the one with the mourning drapes on either side, it hid all her hair.

She was Jane St. Bride, grieving lady.

Nothing else.

 

Simon watched Jane go upstairs, but then Ross came to say that all was ready. He went with some reluctance to the dining room, made gloomy by drawn curtains. The glossy coffin sat on a heavy black cloth. The lid was off, so he went to look at Isaiah, still hardly able to believe that he was dead.

Perhaps undertakers used pads in the cheeks or some other trick, because Isaiah looked much as he had the last time Simon had seen him alive. But he was undeniably dead, spirit gone, hopefully to a place where he was young and healthy again.

Ross was standing by, so Simon said, “Excellent. Thank you.”

“You will want mourning bands, sir.” He gestured to an assistant, who came forward to put one around Simon's sleeve.

“I will put one around your hat, sir,” the young man said before he and Ross left Simon with the corpse.

“This marriage is your doing, you old Rogue, so be our guardian angel.” He couldn't help but smile. “No matter how unlikely an image that is.”

He stood there, trying to pray, but he didn't think Isaiah needed many prayers. Instead he let his mind turn to the practicalities of traveling home, which seemed particularly precious now. He had passage booked but had not expected to take much with him. Would Jane want to take many of Isaiah's possessions? He doubted there was much worth the cost, but if she wished to . . .

He heard footsteps and turned as Jane entered the room.

How different she seemed from when he'd seen her last. Different, too, from the Jane he'd grown accustomed to. That Jane had been sober. This one was severe.