A Love Laid Bare (20 page)

Halcombe shook his head, his face tight with pain.
“Indeed, her housekeeper, Rose Blount, and Mrs. Blount’s son Thomas
are like family to Frances. They were heartsick, of course.” He
straightened, put down his glass, and shrugged out of his coat
before dropping into a chair.

“I would have sworn Frances had not a mean bone in
her body,” the earl continued. “She was the sweetest girl
imaginable. But her survival, and Flora’s, was her primary concern
for a long time and in ways I don’t totally understand, the
experience has changed her. Yet I find it impossible to believe
that her failure to tell me she was alive the instant they arrived
in Portugal was a deliberate act of cruelty.” His gaze met
Summerton’s and he made no attempt to hide his anguish. “I can more
readily believe that once settled there she planned not to return
to England at all.”

“Surely you are mistaken!” Colin said. “She loved
you. It was obvious to the most casual observer.”

“Perhaps she did. I believed so at the time. So much
so that I took it for granted, I suppose.” He frowned. He still had
not reconciled Frances’ accusations with his own memories. More to
the point, he had not come to an understanding of why she had felt
so wronged. “You know what kind of marriage my parents had,” he
said after some thought. “Theirs was an arranged pairing, and while
neither was opposed, they had little in common and developed only a
mild affection for each other. My father was a countryman at heart,
content to pursue his scholarly studies and manage the estate, in
that order of preference.” Halcombe’s harsh tone lightened and he
smiled at his companion. “You spent enough time with us to know
Father was a great gun when he was enthusiastic about something.
Remember all those times he had us plotting out imaginary treasure
maps?”

Summerton had often visited Halcombe Manor during
school holidays, along with Montford, the third member of their
‘terrible trio’. The viscount laughed. “You were always much better
at the mapmaking, as I recall, while Montford and I preferred the
searching, especially if it involved mucking about in the water or
mud.”

“And now you go about dressed to the nines,” Halcombe
joked. “Montford, I hear, is still slogging about the
countryside.”

“Not dressed to the nines,” Summerton said in a
pained voice. “I profess to a preference for Brummell’s style.
Montford follows no style at all and somehow gets away with it, the
devil.”

No matter how he dressed, Baron Montford stayed in
society’s good graces when he was in England, which nowadays was
not often. Not for the first time, Halcombe wondered what it was
about the baron that people found so charming, when he was not
particularly handsome of face or imposing of body.

“The man has a knack for it,” Halcombe agreed. “My
mother being one of the few exceptions. I don’t think she ever
approved of him.” He frowned. “Leticia did not approve of a great
many things, including my father much of the time. She disliked the
country and cared for little other than fashion, propriety, and
touting the fact that she was a countess. It was not a match made
in heaven,” he added dryly.

Halcombe lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug and
continued. “But you know all this. I mention it merely to explain
why my view of marriage, and Frances’ idea of it, were so
different.” He stared at the glass in his hand. “Frances feels the
only use I had for her was her dowry, and a bedmate. She claims
that we never spent any time together out of bed, and that we never
conversed without my mother present.” His voice dropped. “She is
right. I was totally caught up in restoring the estate and never
gave much thought to what she did all day.”

Richard looked up, his forehead creased in
puzzlement. “I assumed it was the same kind of thing my mother
occupied herself with—following the London fashions so she could
dress well, making and receiving calls with her friends, and
running the household. Even though Leticia did not approve of
Frances, she was conversant with what was expected from my countess
and was too much of a snob to have her daughter-in-law be less than
a credit to her.” He made a dismissive gesture. “That’s what women
do, isn’t it?”

“Some women,” Summerton agreed. “Many women, I
suppose. But why did you think Frances was one of them?” He bent
forward, fists on his knees. “She had never gone about in society,
was raised by a scholar, and she was educated above the average
woman. It had to have been like walking into an alien world for
her.” Colin reached out and laid a hand on the earl’s arm. “We have
been friends for a long time. I know you would never have married
someone you did not care about, no matter how much money was
involved.”

Halcombe jerked and jumped to his feet. “Damn it all,
of course I cared for her! Frances was…she was a breath of spring
air, sunlight dancing on the water, a clear summer sky. I’d never
known anyone as delighted with life as she was.”

Wearily, he grasped the edge of the mantel and leaned
his face on his outstretched arms. “I was obsessed with the estate,
so angry with my father for his neglect, my mother for her
extravagances, I could not think about anything else,” he said in a
muffled voice. It sounded so cold, so unfeeling, but it had not
been that way for him. The hours he spent with Frances at night had
made the long days of hard work worthwhile. She was so loving, so
responsive to every kiss and caress.

“God, Colin. What am I going to do? She has every
right to feel the way she does. I don’t deny I neglected her
shamefully. But I cannot forget, or forgive her for staying
away—for keeping my
child
from me.”

Only the faint snap of the burning logs sounded in
the room for a long time. The mixture of wood smoke, brandy and
leather drifting in the air made him think of the Manor library,
once his haven—and then his wife’s. Why had he never joined her
there and allowed himself to enjoy one of their spirited
discussions? These were questions he could not answer. Hearing
Summerton stir behind him, the earl turned to face him.

“Do you truly feel you are entirely to blame? Frances
also had a responsibility in participating in your marriage,”
Summerton said. “She never struck me as a passive woman. Nor do I
think your so-called neglect is the sole reason she stayed away so
long.” His voice sharpened. “Talk to her.
Ask
her!” He
stood, a faint smile easing the serious expression on his face. “I
cannot tell you what to do, old friend. Only you can make that
decision.” Colin hesitated, grasped Halcombe’s upper arm for a
moment, and added, “When you decide what you want—from her, from
your marriage—you will know how to proceed.” He left quietly,
seeming to sense the earl was beyond further discussion.

His head aching, Halcombe banked the fire and
replaced the screen. What
did
he want? How was he even to
know what he
should
want, when he had only his parents’
marriage as an example?

If you imagine the things they did not have, it is
not so difficult—an amicable companionship, a loving family,
satisfying work. Surely these things are possible, but can you and
Frances set aside your grievances so easily?

Never easily, Halcombe admitted silently, but
imagining years of dissension between them chilled his soul. No,
there was no escaping this union. Nor did he want to.

Halcombe felt more defenseless than he ever had
wandering around Europe during a war. It seemed that dodging armies
was much safer than navigating a marriage. His—
theirs
—at
times seemed a veritable battlefield!

Prussia, 1806

Halcombe heard the cannons boom as he cautiously led
his mule across a field stubbled with the remains of the harvest.
He had no intention of getting caught up in the inevitable
confusion that always surrounded a battle. Although it was unlikely
that anyone would take notice, dressed as he was in the plain
jacket and pants worn by the native yeomen, any information he
could glean at this point was not worth the possible loss of his
mule.

His pack already held a number of maps, painstakingly
drawn as he had wandered the Austrian-Prussian territories—now
mainly occupied by the French—under the guise of an itinerant
scribe. Halcombe had come up with the idea when Summerton suggested
that he travel throughout the area to record major routes and
topographical information for the government. It had not only given
him a reason to travel from town to town, but provided him with
enough income to pay for his basic needs.

Besides, it was not the damn information. In truth,
he simply could not face the carnage again.
Damn the French.
Damn all the fool generals, the stupid officials and the
self-serving politicians who send these men and boys to die while
they remain safe at home on their fancy estates
.

Bile rose in his throat. Once before he had seen the
aftermath of a battle. The memory was raw still—the pitiful cries
of dying men, their voices drifting with a ghostly presence in the
lingering haze from the smoking guns. There was so little he could
do…so little that
anyone
could do, other than load the
living onto the wagons for the agonizing trip to a makeshift field
hospital. Untrained in any kind of medical procedures, Halcombe had
joined a work party detailed to dispose of amputated limbs. The
smell of rotting flesh had mingled with the odors that eddied over
the rows of wounded—blood, gunpowder, and the stench of sweat, fear
and unwashed bodies. He was no coward, nor did he feel himself to
be overly selfish, but guilt racked him as each step took him
farther and farther from the battle.

You are needed at home.
The reminder did
little to assuage his self-reproach, but the letter telling him of
his father’s death was already two months old by the time Halcombe
received it. He had known at once from the salutation, addressing
him as the Earl of Halcombe, that the familial line had once more
passed to another generation. Truly, he
was
needed at
home.

The news of his father’s death was both shocking and
unexpected, for while not in robust health, his father had been
neither elderly nor infirm. Halcombe at once made plans to depart
immediately for England—immediate being a relative term, as travel
through the tattered remains of the Holy Roman Empire was anything
but swift. Now his problems were confounded by what appeared to be
a major battle between the French Army and the Prussian forces.

He did not need to study one of his detailed maps to
determine his location. He knew, more or less, where he was and the
fastest, least dangerous route to take. Fast was another inaccurate
term since river transportation was not swift, but he believed
safety the more important of the two and the Elbe was a major
waterway. It did mean, however, giving up his mule.

The earl looked at the patient animal plodding along
beside him and smiled. The purchase of the oddly named Simon was
one he had soon come to appreciate when he began this trek. Slow as
the creature might be, he was dependable, skilled at foraging, and
so unprepossessing that few were inclined to steal him. Halcombe
would miss the trusty old beast. He would not miss dodging the
soldiers or the ill-kept, bug-ridden inns where he sometimes took
shelter when a stable or barn was not available. Nor would he miss
grappling with the constant fear that someone might expose him for
the Englishman he was. His language skills had stood up to the
task, but he was more than ready to go home. Halcombe wanted
desperately to breathe in the scent of rich, damp
English
earth. He longed to see the morning mist rise over the Manor’s
fields, the tall grass streaked with the golden rays of the rising
sun. He’d had enough of this rut-filled road stretching endlessly
ahead.

Halcombe was not the only traveler headed away from
the battle. Several farmers, their wagons loaded with goods, had
prudently turned back, and there were enough single riders to make
him, and his mule, blend in. He trudged along, absentmindedly
avoiding the worst of the muddy puddles churned up by the passage
of wagons and animals. His mind drifted to the conversation he’d
had with Summerton almost two years ago—it was the exchange that
had brought him here. Still seething from the last argument with
his father, Halcombe had carried his ire to London, where he knew
he would get a sympathetic hearing from the viscount. He had
descended upon Colin in a state of high dudgeon.

***

“Father is spending money like it was manna from
heaven, Colin, and not on the estate! I cannot even blame my mother
this time. She has also remonstrated with him, feeling as she does
that if money is to be spent, it should be on her,” Richard said
with a sarcastic bite. “But she has had no more success than I
have. Father will not listen and any attempt to make him do so ends
with us having the most awful row.”

“Is Halcombe keeping a mistress?” Summerton
asked.

“I wish he was,” Richard said bitterly. “No doubt it
would be cheaper. No, he is buying books and maps for his
collection, and when I tell him the estate cannot support such
expenditures, he sends me packing.” Richard felt his face settle
into the hard, dissatisfied expression he seemed always to wear
these days. “I have no authority, and watching this mismanagement
is driving me crazy. I don’t know what I can do to bring him to his
senses.”

“Perhaps you should go away for a while. Give both of
you a chance to cool down. It may be that if he sees you are
concerned enough to actually leave, he will reconsider,” Summerton
suggested.

“Go where? Europe is out and I am not spending months
on a ship traveling to America. Wherever it is I might conceivably
go, it cannot be costly,” Richard growled.