The Rogue's Return (8 page)

He couldn't sort out whether he wanted to be married to Jane or not, but he certainly
wanted
her. Perhaps he'd lusted after her for months, but her position here and, yes, her quiet manner and sober clothes, had put her out of bounds.

But now she was his wife. Taking off her cap and releasing her hair had been his
right
. He could strip her naked with the same holy blessing, kiss her, touch her, and handle her in any way he wished. . . .

His thoughts disgusted him even as his animal side growled with desire.

He poured and drank a glass of wine. Even if his honor didn't forbid him to behave like a brute, he absolutely must not take away Jane's chance to free herself. Surely consummating a marriage made it harder to break. It would certainly make it impossible for him to let her go. What if there was a child?

He'd talk to Baldwin tomorrow and to Stephen Ball when they reached England, but he strongly suspected that they were tied for life. And despite all the problems he saw now and in the future, he couldn't regret that.

 

Guilt and grief kept Jancy awake for most of the night, and she had to drag herself out of bed the next morning. In her mirror, she looked sallow and heavy-eyed, but she supposed no one would be surprised by that. Not even if they thought she and Simon had had a wedding night.

She dropped her hairbrush to cover her face with her hands. She had to free him from this marriage, and the fact that she didn't want to was more reason, not less. She was a wicked, deceitful sinner and she carried disaster with her like a contagion.

Martha had died.

Jane had died.

Isaiah had died.

She knew the strange code by which gentlemen lived meant that Simon would feel honor bound to meet McArthur if the man insisted on it. So he might die. She couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear it.

If telling him the truth would avoid the duel, she'd do it immediately. But it wouldn't. She'd gone around and around that in the night. No matter what the original trigger, the duel had ended up being over McArthur's misuse of funds. Her confession wouldn't change that, and here and now it would complicate things horribly.

Weighed down by misery, she completed her dressing and went to sit in final vigil by Isaiah's coffin.

Simon urged her to eat, but she shook her head, unable to imagine touching food. At least he didn't persist and he looked as drawn as she felt. Isaiah's friends and business associates began to arrive, each murmuring condolences. The only other woman present was Mrs. Gunn, who took a place by her side.

Jancy smiled slightly at the old woman in thanks and Mrs. Gunn patted her hand. In some ways she reminded Jancy of Martha, and the kitchen had become a favorite haven. She'd often wished she could confide the truth to her.

Reverend Strachan read the service and then Ross put
the lid on the coffin and nailed it shut. Even though Jancy did truly believe that a corpse was merely a shell, each blow hammered her heart. When Simon put his arm around her, she leaned.

“You shouldn't be here,” he said softly.

“I need to be.”

He had to leave her to be one of the coffin bearers, and Jane was grateful for Mrs. Gunn's support during the procession over to the churchyard.

Through tear-blurred eyes, the sunny day was a crazy quilt of blue, green, brown, and orange. The trees were turning, heralding winter, as did the touch of ice in the air. Jancy was glad of the fur-lined muff Isaiah had given her for Christmas, but also of the cold. It would be wrong for nature to be too pleasant today.

Reverend Strachan began the graveside service, but Jancy said prayers of her own.

Dear God, You know what a good man this is. Welcome him into heaven. Make him young and strong again, and give him seas to sail, lands to explore, and rivers to travel through the glories of Your creation.

But then her focus turned from God to Isaiah.

Dear Uncle Isaiah, by now you know the truth. Are you able to forgive me? I wish I'd found the courage to confess. I know now that you would have understood.

When Jane died, I was so frightened. I was on the seas and we'd both been terribly sick. I'd thought I'd die, but then Jane did. I was alone in the world, going to a wilderness. Aunt Martha always said that you lived where there were bears at the door and savages in the streets. And I'd be going into the power of a stranger who was no relative of mine.

I imagined you turning me from the door. Or even having me thrown in jail for using Jane's money to survive on, for I'd not enough of my own.

So I switched. No one on board knew us well, and we looked a lot alike.

I'm so very sorry I didn't trust you. Especially as then you'd not have made Simon marry me. Oh, I wish you hadn't. I wish I'd refused.

You have to help me make everything right. Guide me, Uncle. You don't mind me calling you that still, do you? Guide me as to how to behave, and how and when to tell him the truth. About the switch from Nan to Jane, that is. I'll never tell him or anyone that I'm a Haskett. . . .

“Jane?”

Jancy started and found Simon beside her. People were beginning to move away from the grave, back toward the house for the wake.

“Do you want to throw dirt on the coffin?”

She shuddered. “Why do people do that?”

“I don't know.”

Instead she took out her black-edged handkerchief, damp with her tears, and let it flutter down into the porcupine quill basket that sat on the coffin. “Good-bye, Uncle Isaiah. Happy journey.”

Simon linked arms and led her back to the house. “We only have to survive the wake and the worst will be over.”

Jancy sighed. If only that were true.

The funeral rites did bring some good news. Jancy overheard Lieutenant Governor Gore mention to the room in general that McArthur had unfortunately been obliged to travel west to deal with unrest near Amherstburg. Jancy hoped it was violent unrest and McArthur was caught in the cross fire.

Mrs. Gunn had returned to the kitchen, so when Simon urged Jancy to lie down and rest, she took the escape offered. She'd done her duty by Isaiah, and if the men wanted to get drunk, talk business, or both, she was happy to leave them to it. Except that being alone and idle left too much space for thought.

To escape that she began to go through her room, sorting out what she would take back to England. Nearly
everything she'd brought, of course. Jane's drawings. The locket holding a coil of Aunt Martha's graying hair, to which she'd added a wisp of Jane's rich coppery gold.

Strangely, she'd never prayed to Martha and Jane as she'd prayed to Isaiah today, so she knelt and did so, begging their forgiveness for any sins and asking for their guidance. A sweet feeling of peace crept over her. It was Jane, she knew. Sweet, loving Jane, and she could almost feel her stroking her hair.

It's all right, Nan. Truly. You did what seemed best at the time, and I will watch over you. I suppose you'd like me to call you Jancy—

“No,” Jancy said aloud, startling herself out of a kind of trance.

The powerful sense of Jane's presence fled, but the effect lingered. “Oh, Jane, love, be with me. Help me. But call me Nan. To you, I'm Nan. Always.”

If anyone heard her they'd think her mad. She crawled up on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke, she was crusty eyed and misty headed, but she felt better. For almost a year she'd been confused and afraid, but now everything seemed clear. She would be Simon's helpmeet as he sorted out Isaiah's affairs and arranged their journey back to England. But as soon as they landed, before he took her to his home, she would tell him the truth.

The whole truth.

Even the Haskett part.

The fact that he'd thought he was marrying a different person had to invalidate the marriage, so he'd be free to return to his home unburdened.

She changed into one of her plain dresses and white caps. When she arrived downstairs the house seemed empty except for three of Mrs. Gunn's relatives cleaning up. They were even chattering, though they fell silent when she appeared.

The wake was over. Life must go on. But the transition seemed painfully abrupt. Death one day, burial the
next, and then onward. Perhaps mourners should be offered a formal period to become adjusted, as a married couple was allowed a honeymoon. A “bittermoon,” she named the idea, but that described too well her situation—honeymooning amid grief.

She heard Simon's voice from the parlor and her heart moved. It really did feel like that. Not quite a dance. More like a devoted puppy quivering with excitement at its master's voice. She composed herself and entered to find Simon with Hal.

“We have an offer for the house, with all contents we wish to leave.” He looked braced for objection. “Gilbraith.”

It did feel rather like vultures gathering, but she smiled. “One less thing to do, then. Don't worry, Simon. I've lived here less than a year, and all I really cared about is dead.” Hastily she added, “Apart from you, of course. And you don't come with the house. I mean,” she said desperately, “I don't have the attachment to this house that I had to my home in Carlisle.”

“I understand, Jane. Well, back to work.”

Perhaps they all seized eagerly on that sanctuary.

Hal Beaumont tried to excuse himself from dinner, but both Simon and Jancy urged him to stay. She knew why. They didn't want to be alone. After the meal they played a game of dominoes in memory of Isaiah, who'd been fond of the simple game and treasured his ebony and ivory set.

“This must go home with us,” she said and then wondered if she would be allowed to keep it after the parting. Isaiah hadn't left his possessions to her, but to Jane.

She probably looked distressed, for Simon said, “You must be very tired, Jane.”

Hal again rose to take his leave, but she smiled and told him to stay and then left the men together. There was no question of going anywhere but to her own room, but once there, she stood, hands clasped in anxiety. Simon had said they'd wait to consummate the marriage,
but he wouldn't wait forever. What was she going to do if—when—he came to her bed? If they were to break the marriage, they mustn't . . .
swive,
the Hasketts called it.

That was a battle for another day, however, and Simon had been correct. She was unbelievably tired. She undressed, washed, and went to bed.

A
fter breakfast the next morning, Simon said, “I have to attend the inquest, but later, we should deal with Isaiah's room. There are bequeathed items that must be in there.”

Hal hadn't arrived yet, and Jancy could see that Simon dreaded the task as much as she did. “I'll do it if you want.”

“No, we'll do it together.”

“The inquest won't cause any problems, will it? To do with the duel?”

“I don't expect so. Baldwin will speak to Isaiah's health. As for circumstances, Saul Prithy told him about the duel and then left to get Isaiah's horse. By the time he returned it was all over. I'm sorry you had to find him, Jane, but I don't think they'll require your testimony.”

“I'd rather not relive it.”

“Then you won't.” He pressed her shoulder as he went out.

She busied herself with the repetitive task of writing death announcements for distant people, but when Simon returned, she looked at him anxiously.

“Brief and routine. Death by accident. Now we should deal with his room.”

She rose and went to him. He took her hand as they
went upstairs, and the warm touch, skin to skin, was both comfort and torture.

“This is going to be worse than the funeral,” she said outside the door. “A more absolute farewell.”

“Yes.” He opened the door and they went in.

But the cold room felt nothing like Isaiah any longer, not even with the rumpled bed and abandoned nightshirt. Perhaps the absence of his special treasures was the symbol that he had gone. All the same, the room was still full of his belongings.

“Where in heaven's name do we start?” Jancy asked.

“You don't have to do this, Jane. Treadwell and Oglethorpe can help me.”

“No. I want to.” She looked around. “We'll go through the room systematically, emptying all the drawers and cupboards.”

“Very well. Anything bequeathed on one pile. Things you or I wish to keep on another. Anything of value that we don't want on a third to be sold. Other items . . .”

Thrown away
hung in the air.

“Reverend Strachan,” she said. “For the poor. It's surprising what can be of use to the desperate.”

He smiled. “Thank you. Yes.”

She straightened the bed and then started on the chest of drawers. The first drawer, full of breeches, had her at a loss. “None of these will fit you.”

“And are not really my style.”

She looked at him, startled into a laugh that she smothered with her hand. “I suppose not. But what do we do with them?”

“Reverend Strachan, I assume.”

“Yes, of course. I'm sorry. It's just . . .”

“I know.”

They worked steadily and in silence, though Jane frequently blew her nose. Sometimes they'd pause for a memory, so a memorial of Isaiah was woven between them as they worked. Perhaps something else was created, too. Jancy realized that they had never before been
alone for so long, and here their shared love for Isaiah Trewitt was intimate and profound.

Often their eyes met, and she was sure he, like she, knew that no one else could understand these things as the other did. Once, coming across a lock of blond hair in a fold of yellowed paper, they wondered whose it was, what loss it marked. They held hands as they accepted that the only thing to do was put it aside to be burned.

Simon raised her hand to his lips before returning to work. She pretended to move on to the next drawer, but she stroked the place where he'd kissed and tried to calm a rapid heart.

Moment by moment she was rebelling against fate. Something powerful existed here. Something glorious. Why should she have to shatter it and live forever in the desert? Why couldn't she respond to the message in Simon's eyes and let him kiss her mouth, let him take her to his bed and seal their union once and for all?

She picked up a bundle of letters absentmindedly but then gasped.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

She wanted to hide the small bundle, but that was impossible now. “Letters. From . . . my mother.”

She'd almost said “Aunt Martha”! What to do? “It's so cold in here. If you'll build a fire, I'll get a light.”

She dashed out and into her room, guiltily aware that Simon would think her crying over sorrowful memories instead of shivering with panic and fear. Her hands shook as she unfolded the first letter to skim the contents. It was an early one, from before Martha's marriage. She put it aside and unfolded the next.

Though the letters covered nearly twenty years, there were only a dozen or so. More had been sent recently than in the distant past. Jancy hurried through them, looking for any sent around the time she'd gone to live with Martha.

What had she told her brother?

There.
Written in September 1808.

As Jancy had feared, Martha had told Isaiah everything. A filthy Haskett had produced a little girl who was so like dear Jane that the woman's story had to be true.

Jancy read through a full half page about Martha's struggle to forgive her dead husband for his sin. She paused to appreciate that her foster mother had never let that struggle affect her kindness.

Martha went on to explain her stratagem. Perhaps her distant brother had been the only person to whom she felt she could be honest.

Even though I detest all lies, Brother, the girl will be known as Nan Otterburn, an orphan of the Otterburn family. Pray God forgive me the deceit and protect us from discovery.

For a moment Jancy thought that Isaiah had always known the truth about her, but then she realized not. He'd thought her to be Jane, and this Nan Haskett dead on the high seas.

She put that letter aside and continued. After that one revelation Martha never again referred to Hasketts, and Jancy was “dear Nan” or more often one of “my dear girls.” Tears flowed then, and she had to struggle not to cry all over the precious sheets. What a good woman Martha had been.

The last letter was the one written in wandering handwriting when Martha was ill, asking her brother's kindness for “my dear girls.” Jancy remembered Jane offering to write it for her mother, but Martha insisting on writing it herself. Now she saw why.

They are both good girls, Brother, and I most particularly ask that you forget what I once wrote about Nan's origins. If I had ever expected to come to this I would not have told you. Nan is a little bolder than Jane, a little more impulsive in her ways, but I promise you there is no Haskett contamination in her soul. She is a good girl and I beg that you will treat her as you do your true niece Jane.

Jancy clutched the letters, hating that she was going to have to destroy them, but she must. Only look how Martha on her deathbed had worried about her Haskett blood.

Contamination.

Then she realized that she didn't have to destroy them all. There was nothing anywhere to reveal that she was Nan, not Jane, and only a couple that spoke of the deeper shame. They would have to go.

She hated to do it. She sobbed as she did it. But she put the two letters on the fire and watched to be sure that they disappeared entirely into ashes.

There. The Haskett contamination was gone.

She slipped the remaining letters into her desk then used the tongs to take a burning piece of wood to Isaiah's room to light the fire that Simon had made. Soon it was burning brightly warming and cheering the room as they completed the task.

He didn't comment on her lengthy absence, but Jancy was wound tight with dread of finding something else that would betray her. She took an opportunity to look inside Isaiah's Bible to be sure he hadn't recorded family there. Nothing, and he wasn't the sort to keep a diary or copies of replies he had sent to his sister.

But when Simon said, “Ah, look,” she started as if jabbed.

He was only handling a cumbersome ancient pistol. He put it on the pile to keep and they continued with their task.

 

Simon hated stripping Isaiah's room, but it was a healing ritual. A final farewell. He was sorry Jane had found letters that opened old wounds, but she seemed to have recovered. They'd both be better away from here, however, and on their way to a new life.

Together.

In England.

That prospect seemed more promising by the moment.

Her neat, graceful movements around the room and even her composure soothed him. Their shared memories were a treasure. With whom else would he be able to talk about Isaiah? With whom else could he hold hands in just that way?

When he'd kissed her knuckles, a wave had passed through him that he might have dismissed as lust but had known was a deeper longing. A dangerous longing, when he was resolved to return her to England a virgin, with some possibility of freedom.

When they'd finished with the room, he arranged for the items as they'd agreed, and she went to summon the servants to give it a thorough cleaning. This became the pattern for their busy days. He sorted out Isaiah's business and property. She helped, but also organized an attic to cellar cleaning of the house. It seemed important to her to leave it spotless for Gilbraith and his family.

He supposed it was important to him to leave Isaiah's business affairs in order.

Even though Gilbraith was willing to buy the furniture and fittings, and Gore had sent a clerk called John Vincent to oversee the inventory, there was still a mountain of work to hide in. Thank God Hal stayed to dine every night. But every night eventually Hal left them alone in the house and Simon's mind turned to lust.

Jane still wore her prim caps, but now that he knew the hair they confined, they were more tantalizing than protective. From a few brief embraces, he knew the shape of her body and its soft, warm allure. Her subtle perfume tormented him with wicked thoughts of meadow pleasures.

He wasted time looking at her, and sometimes she caught him at it. He probably blushed. She certainly did, looking even prettier, and flustered, and shy—and desirable.

Now and then he'd remember the lurking threat that McArthur would return to complete the duel, but he couldn't seem to give that the weight he should. Instead
he lay awake at night wondering why he wasn't making love to his wife.

There was the issue of annulment, but that felt less important every day. Jane was gracious, intelligent, hardworking, efficient, and beautiful. Hal liked her. Hal's menservants seemed to adore her. What more could any man want?

He was not arrogant enough to assume she must want to remain married to him, but the look in her eye, the way she blushed, even the way she moved sometimes suggested that she did. There was certainly no hint of dislike or disgust.

The main reason he didn't court his wife into bed, the insurmountable reason, was that he still wasn't sure that he
loved
her. He wanted her, but was it more than lust?

He was sure it was idiotic, but he needed to love his wife—any wife. To desire her, yes, but also to like her, to enjoy her company, to feel lessened when she was away. And to trust her.

Which was the thorn on this rose.

Despite all Jane's glorious charms, there was something secretive and perplexing about her. He could never pin it down, but it was there. When he turned conversation to her past, to her family and home, she appeared to talk about it, but he realized later that he'd learned very little. She was like a jeweled box, lovely but locked so that he had no idea what lay inside.

He tried to talk to Hal about it. Jane was upstairs making an inventory of the household linens and deciding which to take with them for use on the journey. Treadwell and Oglethorpe were packing up Isaiah's business papers to stay with Baldwin.

Simon took his friend into the parlor and offered him wine. “Have you ever been in love, Hal?” The silence made him wince. “Sorry.”

“I am in love.”

Simon eyed him. “Tricky subject?”

“You could say that. You never asked why I'm here.”

“Escort duty, didn't you say? We've been too busy to get into details. But I did think it odd that you'd undertaken a grueling two-month journey to the edge of the wilderness only to turn around and repeat it in the other direction.”

Hal looked at his drink, swirling it. “I did it because the woman I love won't marry me.” He looked up, smiling wryly. “I decided separation might bring her to her senses, but I knew I'd not be able to stay away. So I put an ocean and half a continent between us. And,” he added, finally sipping, “I miss her more than my damned arm.”

Simon drank, too, wondering if the missing arm was the reason Hal's beloved had rejected him. “Would I know the lady?”

“Probably not, except by reputation. She's an actress. Mrs. Blanche Hardcastle.”

Simon almost choked.

Nicholas Delaney kept him informed on Roguish matters, so he knew that when Lucien de Vaux had married, Hal had inherited his famous mistress, the White Dove of Drury Lane. He'd thought it excellent news—proof that Hal's life had returned to normal.