A Love Laid Bare (21 page)

“I don’t think Europe is entirely out.” Summerton
braced his palms on his desk and leaned forward. “How would you
feel about undertaking a commission for us?”

Richard hesitated and looked warily at Summerton.
“Who is ‘us’ and what kind of commission are you talking about? I
am not the type of man to skulk around spying on people.”

Summerton appeared highly diverted by the notion and
shook his head. “No, I cannot see you as a spy. You are too
truthful, for one thing. Successful spies must be excellent liars,”
he said with a laugh. “No, this is something different. How you go
about it is up to you.” Summerton was quiet for a time. He then
rose, picked up a small globe from a bookcase and brought it back
to his desk.

He rotated it slowly for a few minutes, and then
said, almost to himself, “The world is changing—alliances are
shifting—sometimes even from day-to-day. Napoleon has swept the old
order away in many areas and information about the new boundaries
is scanty.” Speculation narrowed his eyes. “I’d like you to go over
to the continent and draw up some maps—wander around, find out what
is going on. You know enough of the local languages to pass for a
native. I believe you could pull it off.”

Startled, Richard frowned. “You have more confidence
in my abilities than I do. How the hell do you expect me to hide
the fact that I am an Englishman poking about in a place where I
don’t belong?”

Summerton grinned. “Oh, you’ll think of something,
I’m sure.”

***

Halcombe rubbed his mule’s neck affectionately. He
had thought of something, and he had actually succeeded beyond his
and Summerton’s expectations. People saw what they expected to see
and not once had he been questioned about his identity. That he
would be gone this long a time he had not foreseen, nor could he
have anticipated his father’s untimely death, but otherwise, he was
glad he had done it. And doubly glad that he had swallowed his
pride and made peace with the old earl before he left. For all
their differences, Halcombe had many good memories of their times
together. All the same, he deeply regretted that he had been absent
when his father died.

With an ease that made him acutely wary—for
experience had shown that seldom did events go smoothly—Halcombe
sold Simon to a farmer for what would amount to a few shillings in
England. He could have gotten more. Mules were sometimes scarce,
since they were popular with the military and often appropriated.
Simon’s new owner was a burly, kind-faced man with a well-kept team
hitched to his wagon. The lad with him was clearly delighted with
Simon. Satisfied, Halcombe watched them rumble away. The mule was
in good hands.

He still had to catch a ship to England, preferably
bound for London. Then he must debrief Summerton and meet with his
solicitor. Weeks of travel lay ahead before he was back at Halcombe
Manor, but each day would see him closer to home. With that
heartening thought he went about the business of finding passage
down river to a seaport.

Sussex, 1809

Reminded of another time when he had halted his horse
at the top of the rise that overlooked Halcombe Manor, the earl
compared today’s view with that of his return from Europe. The
season differed, for one thing. Instead of the bare, unplowed
fields of winter, half-grown grain now bent gracefully under the
light breeze, while colts ran in excited circles around the grazing
mares. The orchard’s then-leafless trees now wore the deep greens
of late spring, and while not visible from here, Halcombe knew that
hidden in the thick foliage was the promising fruit that would
grace many a pudding or sweet jam.

Driven by an impulse comprised of a wish to savor his
domain and reluctance to once again face a difficult situation, he
dismounted, leaning against Zeus while the animal snuffled at the
sparse cover with disinterest.

“Picky, are you?” Halcombe said with a smile. “Simon
would have been less discriminating, but then, he had no
expectation that a fine meal awaited him, as you do.”

Idly, the earl wondered how the mule was faring. Well
enough, if the farmer had managed to keep the animal out of the
hands of the military forces that regularly swept up both horses
and mules for their use. The vision of bodies strewn over another,
now distant field, filled his head. Suppressing a shudder, he cut
off the memory. It was over, and no longer his concern. But the
unwelcome thought had spoiled the pleasure he had felt minutes
before, and he swung into the saddle.

The sound of voices, or rather, childish squeals,
came to him when he approached the house. Handing the reins to the
groom that ran out to meet him, Halcombe followed the noise to the
south lawn. Flora and Frances were engaged in what appeared to be
some kind of ‘catch me if you can’ game and, unaware of his
presence, he watched them at play.

For a child her age, Flora was surprisingly fast and
steady on her feet. The habit of looking over her shoulder to make
sure her mother was chasing her, however, tended to send the little
girl tumbling, but she was quick to recover. She screeched with
excitement whenever Frances caught her, wiggled immediately to be
freed, and then dashed off again.

His wife appeared to enjoy the activity as much as
Flora did. Her hair hung loosely in a tangled array, her blouse was
open at the neck, and a faint sheen of perspiration enhanced a face
almost as red-cheeked as her daughter’s. She looked delectable,
Halcombe thought. He was glad that thick hedges shielded the lawn
from any prying eyes. Especially when Frances captured Flora, spun
her around several times, and dropped to the ground to lie on her
back.

“Now I have you, you rascal,” Frances panted, holding
the child straight-armed above her. She was laughing so hard that
Flora wobbled in her grip, making the child giggle wildly.

Unable to stand apart any longer, Halcombe strode
forward and plucked Flora from Frances’ firm grip. “No, now
I
have you!” He held the little girl up in the air. “So you
are a rascal, are you?”

“Pa!” Flora shouted gleefully. She beamed at him,
squirmed to get down, and flew across the yard. Her loud, “Me, me,”
and quick look back was all the invitation he needed. Halcombe shed
his coat and went after her, pretending to almost catch her and
then letting her outrun him. When at last she stopped, Flora
allowed him to pick her up and she instantly slumped against his
shoulder. He walked over to where Frances still sat on the grass.
She was propped back on her elbows, a wide smile on her face.

“I wondered which of you would give out first,” she
said in a low voice, tipping her head toward the child asleep in
Halcombe’s arms. “She does that—just drops instantly into sleep
whenever she is tired.”

“Not surprising, considering the energy she expends,”
Halcombe said. He sank cross-legged to the ground, settled Flora
more comfortably in his lap, and brushed the damp tendrils of hair
from her forehead.

Frances sat up and curled her legs to one side. She
glanced at him from under her eyelashes, almost shyly, and busied
her fingers with pulling apart a cloverleaf. “Flora has been asking
for you. She missed you.”

“I missed her, too,” Halcombe said. He wondered how
Frances would respond were he to say that he had also missed
her
. Had he missed her? Not a question he cared to think
about and he quickly asked another, less disturbing, one. “I
believe Flora has grown these past few days. Has she learned any
new words? Or am I condemned to being Pa forever?”

Frances’ soft laughter was a happy ripple in the air
between them and he grinned at her. For a second, their eyes met in
parental understanding.

“If it is any consolation, I am Ma, and not resigned
to it at all. But it will not be forever, I expect.” She smiled and
cocked her head, her expression one of mild inquiry. “Did your
business in London go well?”

Since he was unsure whether it had gone well or not,
he muttered a “Well enough,” and reached for his discarded coat.
Avoiding her gaze, he spread it on the grass and placed his
sleeping daughter on it. “So, tell me…what have you been
doing?”

Frances gave him an odd look, appearing uncertain of
his interest, which was not surprising given his indifferent tone
of voice. Nevertheless, she answered readily. “I have been viewing
some of the paint swatches and material samples the tradesmen left
with me, and trying to decide what might best suit the house,” she
said, her voice dropping. “I would very much like your opinion.”
She darted a glance at him and then returned her attention to the
mangled clover in her hands.

A peace offering? Halcombe studied her, but the
smooth, relaxed curve of her profile told him nothing.
Assume
the best for a change. Why think her every utterance has a hidden
meaning? Don’t spoil the first agreeable hour you have spent
together
.

“Certainly. Perhaps we can arrange a time this
evening?” He spoke in a casual, offhand manner as
non-confrontational as he was able to manage and was rewarded by a
grateful smile.

“This evening is fine.” She tossed aside the clover,
drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. Seeming to
feel a different subject was in order, she said, “I made the
acquaintance of one of Lady Merton’s houseguests whilst you were
gone. It was quite accidental, but he has since called and expects
to be at her dinner party next week.”

“Accidental in what way?” Halcombe asked. He changed
his position so he was stretched out on the grass with his arms
folded behind his head. His interest in Victoria’s houseguest was
minimal, but he was enjoying the play of emotions that danced over
his wife’s face. As such, he was willing to discuss almost anything
if it served to prolong this rare interlude.

“Oh, he was riding along the path that runs through
the woods, near to our boundary, and his horse’s shoe came loose.
Jim and I were also riding there and came upon him walking back to
Merton House. I felt sorry for the poor man and offered to lend him
one of our horses, since the Manor was much the closer.” Frances
looked at him, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. “I did not
believe you would object, and I can assure you that the horse was
returned promptly. I hope I did not err in my judgment.”

Halcombe nodded his agreement. “No, I would have done
the same.” Did she think him so petty a man as to expect censure
for so minor a thing? That she might believe so nettled him and he
hastily added, “You say this fellow called on you?”

Frances’ worried expression faded, and she smiled.
“Yes, the following afternoon, to thank me again. I admit I was
initially annoyed at the interruption, but it turned out Mr. Jensen
has a fondness for rare books and we had a diverting conversation.
He seems nice enough, for a guest of…” She broke off and then
swiftly continued, “He is not English and has an unusual accent,
but I never did find out where he is from.”

Halcombe swallowed a grunt of surprise at what he
suspected she had left unspoken. This gentleman seemed nice enough
for a guest of Lady Merton’s? Had Frances even met Victoria? If so,
from the tight look on Frances’ face, it appeared that she had not
been favorably impressed. Should he ask? No. Better to leave it
alone. The less mention of Lady Merton, the wiser.

“We can ask him when we see him next week,” Halcombe
said. He sat up and suddenly realized Flora was eyeing him with an
odd fascination. He looked at Frances in question.

“She does that too at times,” Frances said, sounding
amused. “Stares at one as if she has never seen you before when she
first wakes up. It never lasts long.”

Flora stirred and proceeded to clamber into her
father’s lap. “Up, up,” she ordered, with a decisive bounce that
pulled an “oomph” from Halcombe.

“Up, is it? I’m afraid we’ll need to rearrange
ourselves a bit first.” Halcombe removed Flora from his lap and
deposited her on a patch of grass. After getting stiffly to his own
feet, he held out a hand to Frances. “The ground is harder than I
realized,” he said with a grimace. “Or I am getting too old to be
sitting on it so long.” Frances laughed and bent to pick up his
coat.

Halcombe felt a tug on his pant leg.

“Up, Pa!”

“Up,
please
,” Halcombe said, not scolding, but
with a serious enough look that Flora, after a brief inspection of
his face, repeated his request.

“Up p’ease.”

Halcombe lifted the child and settled her in his
arms. She clung to his neck and softly chanted “Pa…pa…” as they
walked to the house. Once more, Halcombe delighted in sharing a
smile with his wife, given only to a parent to understand.

While their discussion regarding improvements to the
house had been both amicable and productive, it was the one time
Frances had truly been alone with Halcombe since his return from
London. Aside from their private evening meals, he continued to
avoid her. Nor had she made little attempt to put herself in his
way. Since they were at least conversing on non-controversial
subjects while they dined, she was disinclined to upset this period
of
détente
. It could not last, she knew. Too much was
unresolved.

Frances buried her face in her pillow, unwilling to
face another day. She felt so disheartened at times and feared that
returning had been a terrible mistake. But then she saw Flora with
her father, or Halcombe said something that encouraged Frances to
think that his attitude toward her had softened. She felt caught
between one extreme and the other and now she had this dreaded
event at Lady Merton’s to suffer through—unless she pretended to
some sudden mysterious illness and had an excuse to stay home.