Dawn in My Heart (23 page)

Now he, too, bowed his head and studied the lacework on the tablecloth in front of him. “We were thrown together, you and I, by our parents and the customs of our family. Perhaps we were unsuitable. You were more to be pitied than I, I suppose. I could have stopped the marriage with a word to my father. I was long past the age of majority.

“I'm sorry you were forced into a marriage against your will. You probably had little choice, being subject to your mother, the duchess.” He gave a grim smile. “I am not well acquainted with her, but I think it unlikely you could have opposed her wishes. I had hopes during our short courtship that you didn't find me thoroughly distasteful and that we could manage a marriage of mutual regard and benefit.”

He gave a short, hollow laugh. “Unfortunately, I no longer find that kind of arrangement to be enough for me.”

He smoothed the table linen with the flat of his hand, coming to the heart of the matter. “That said, we are married now and cannot undo that contract. I will do my utmost to give you what you want.

“However, I ask something of you in return.” At those words, she looked up and he almost smiled at the alarm in her eyes.

“I need a short while longer to fully regain my strength, no more than a month, I should think. Perhaps a little less, perhaps a little more. All I ask from you is your forbearance for this short period of time. And that you help me.”

“How?” Finally she spoke, although in a low tone, full of suspicion.

“Pretend we are getting acquainted for the first time—the way we played that evening. Let me show you the kind of husband I can be. I'm not the same man I was, Gillian.”

Was he getting through to her at all? Fighting despair that his words were merely hitting an impenetrable wall, he continued doggedly on, knowing only that he must be obedient to what the Lord demanded of him.

“All I ask of you is to be patient for a short while longer. And that you behave like a wife.” He rushed on before she could misinterpret, “Not in the bedroom, but in our daily life. Can you smile and be my helpmate for a few weeks? Can you do that for me, Gillian? You've given me more than half a year of your young life already. Can you give me a few more weeks? Then, I promise you, I'll take you back to London and discuss your future.”

“You give me little choice,” she said at last, when he'd given up hope that she would even answer him. She stood and stepped back from her chair. “Very well, my lord, I shall remain with you until you regain your strength. I shall endeavor not to act disagreeably,” she ended in a whisper.

He stood. “Thank you, Gillian. I ask nothing more.”

When she left, he sat back down, feeling as if he hadn't gained anything but a short amount of time—too short.

 

There followed days of walking the moors, of visiting the tenants, of going to the village church on Sunday and returning calls.

At times Tertius could almost fool himself they truly were a married couple, Gillian acted so pleasantly with him, especially when they were around other people. He began to be acquainted with her, the impetuosity and enthusiasm of her youth and of her own particular character, her likes and dislikes—how she firmed up her mouth but said nothing when something displeased her, or how her eyes lit up when something pleased her.

The more he got to know her, the more he longed for her regard.

But he couldn't fool himself that theirs was more than a temporary arrangement, when evening deepened and she bid him good-night and went her separate way.

No, they were still merely fellow inhabitants of the same manor, and he was still very much on probation.

Sometimes he railed at the arrangement. Why must he continue to prove himself to a mere chit of a girl, who had probably up to now been used to having her every heart's desire? But then he read the Scriptures and understood that he must bow in obedience to the Lord—and submit and trust in the Lord to change Gillian's heart.

Their short walks between the green fields bisected by stone walls and dotted with sheep grew to longer walks. Gillian led him along the paths she had discovered across the
moors where only a lonely sheepherder's hut broke the desolation of the fields of sweeping grass.

Although the days grew longer and warmer, the wind was a constant presence, blowing the meadow grass in waves. With each passing day, he felt himself grow stronger. He always carried the small Bible Althea had left him and he'd lie on the grass and read while Gillian sat dozing or looking for the first wild flowers. Sometimes they sat by a brook and she threw twigs into the swirling water. So often, he wished he could read passages to her—passages that stood out to him and gripped him with wonder. How had he never understood what the Lord was speaking to him before?

But the words died on his lips, knowing she would only rebuff him if he suggested reading a verse to her.

He told her of his childhood and listened to stories of hers. He understood the special relationship she'd had with her father, as he figured most prominently in her narratives, and he came to see how much she still missed him.

“It's not far to go to the most distant stone hut,” Gillian told him one day as they sat on some large boulders overlooking the brook. A narrow waterfall tumbled down into the brook from a gray cliff above them. They sat on a rock formation creating a bridge over the brook.

He glanced at her, wondering if she was as eager as he to see him fully fit. Was her helpfulness due to her desire to return to London? Hadn't she enjoyed these days as much as he?

“When I first discovered this place,” she told him, “I considered throwing myself down into that ravine and crushing my skull against the rocks.” She pointed to the boulders at the base of the waterfall. “I saw how easily it could be managed.”

He watched her profile as she spoke the words matter-of-factly.

“I imagined how sorry you might be then for all you'd done to me.”

“What finally stopped you?” he asked, amused at her childish desire for revenge while simultaneously terrified at how easily she could have caused herself irrevocable harm.

She shrugged. “I decided I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of taking my life while you got off scot-free. There must be a sweeter revenge.”

He chuckled. “I'm glad you came to that realization. Did you come up with a method?”

“No—yes. I mean, your sickness seemed revenge enough,” she added hastily, and he wondered at her confusion.

“And then I went and recovered. What a shame. You could have found yourself a wealthy dowager countess with a chance at happiness with another man.” He threw a pebble into the rushing brook. “But the good Lord has shown me I'm not to die yet. I have a lot of work before me. It won't be easy, He's made it plain.”

“What kind of work?” she asked curiously.

He nodded toward the way they had come. “Down in the valley, for starters. The mill,” he explained to the question in her eyes. “There are too many people starving and mistreated while my father and I grow richer with each passing year, oblivious to their lot.”

“Oh, dear me, don't tell me you are going to become as fanatical as your sister. Will you renounce your title and go live in poverty in the East End as she has done? Do you expect me to go about wearing only gray or brown and hand out tracts on street corners?”

He smiled at the picture she drew but didn't bother to argue against the preconceived image she had of evangelicals. They were detested by the aristocrats and gentry and looked at suspiciously by many of the common people. He, too, had had the same mental images.

“I know the Lord has spared my poor life for His purposes, not my own paltry ambitions. What had I done but squander what He'd given me?”

“I thought you had done quite well running a plantation out in the Indies.”

“At what price? That of forced labor, men and women who have no freedom to choose their lives, because they were born with the misfortune of a darker shade of skin?”

She was staring at him as if he were a creature she had never seen before.

“You can't mean to go against all your family owns?” she whispered. “Like Wilberforce and the Clapham Sect and all those who are fighting slavery in Parliament?” He couldn't tell if it was horror or fascination in her eyes.

He looked back down the narrow ravine they had climbed and spoke above the sound of rushing water. “I know what the Lord requires. I know it will be difficult. He has made it plain I will come up against nothing but opposition. That's why I must be strong in both body and spirit. He's given me His spirit and this time here to rebuild my body.”

“So you propose to give away all your wealth and leave us in the poorhouse?”

He smiled. “You needn't fear. The Lord doesn't begrudge His children any good thing. But He wants us to be good stewards of all He has given us. There's only one thing we can take with us to Heaven—our deeds toward our fellow man.

“I'm sorry in some ways that the Lord didn't take me with Him that night I almost died. He gave me a glimpse of Heaven and its glories. But He has also shown me great mercy by giving me a second chance on this earth—to do better this time around with the talents He's given me.

“I won't leave you in the poorhouse, Gillian. I'll see you always have whatever you desire that money can buy. I deeply regret I left you with nothing when I sent you up here. You'll never be in that position again. In fact, as soon as we return to London, I'll see that you have control of your own fortune, which is not inconsiderable.”

He took a deep breath, knowing the next words were going to cost him. “You may even set up your own household independent of me, if you wish. I hadn't meant to discuss these things with you until we arrived in London, but…” He shrugged.

“I would prefer we make a marriage together,” he added.

“And if we can't?” Her tone was unyielding, as if the past few weeks had meant nothing to her and she had only been waiting for this day.

He reached out his hand but stopped himself before laying it on her arm. “If we can't, then I would do the best I can for you.

“I wish I could give you your freedom, but short of dying, I don't believe divorce is in your best interest. If you remain my wife in name only with your own household, as I said, every door in society will be open to you. Divorce would only lead to ostracism for you. You know society treats the woman more harshly than the man.”

She was silent, looking down at the rushing waters of the brook. He watched her profile, her chin in her hand,
wishing for the hundredth time he knew what would reach her.

She finally turned to him. “And if I would desire children someday?”

The question caught him off guard and made him realize he had never pictured Gillian bearing any children but his own. “I assume you don't mean mine?”

“You assume correctly.” Again that hard little voice.

He looked down at his knuckles. “I realize you are young and beautiful and if you choose to live a life apart from me, it is likely you'll soon meet someone whom you do desire as the father of your children.”

“And what then?” Her tone was taunting.

His knuckles tightened, showing white. “I cannot answer that now.” All the patience he thought he'd gained disappeared in those few moments, and he realized how little he was truly resigned to losing her.

She stood as if all the rest he'd promised her were nothing but chaff to be dusted off her skirt before resuming her walk.

He got up more slowly beside her, feeling as if time were running out and he'd gotten nowhere.

As if by mutual consent, they turned homeward then. When they left the moors and entered the emerald green fields, the day mocked Tertius. The air was filled with the trill of birdsong; clumps of daffodils appeared at the edges of farmhouse yards; everywhere were the signs of recommencing life.

They came upon a stone-enclosed field, and Gillian suddenly turned to it with an exclamation of delight. Tertius followed more slowly, wondering what the attraction was.
Suddenly he saw, and his heart twisted in bitter agony. The enclosed field contained a few dozen ewes with their lambs. Most were seated in groups of three: the mother with her two babes by her side.

Gillian leaned against the gray, lichen-covered stone fence, her face filled with awe at the sight; and he realized with a deep, gut-wrenching understanding that she was born to be a mother. It was only a matter of time before she would no longer be satisfied rescuing pets, but would crave her own offspring.

Would he have to relinquish all honor and self-respect of a man, a husband, and see her bearing another man's children while still married to him?

It happened all the time in their class. Tertius knew that. How many bastards were raised by their “stepfathers” and were afterward given titles of their own and perfectly accepted into society, when everyone knew their illegitimate origins?

Hadn't it happened in his own family? Hadn't his father brought his half sister to live with them under the guise of “ward”?

And now his young wife expected him to acquiesce to the same arrangement.

“Oh, aren't they adorable?” Gillian gushed, reaching out a hand toward a little lamb nearest the stone. “Come here, little fellow, and let me pet you.” She turned to Sky with a wide smile. It was the first smile of pure enjoyment she had given him since they'd been married.

“Yes, they are adorable,” he agreed quietly. The lambs were white with black legs, their fur, still pure and unsullied, whiter than their mother's.

Tertius had a mental picture of his Lord, a lamb led to the slaughter for Tertius's sins.

He had been washed of his sins and set free of his past. What right had he to expect anything more? He turned his eyes heavenward and praised God, and his spirit felt lighter.

“My grace is sufficient for thee…” he repeated the promise to himself as Gillian rose, and they turned to continue their walk homeward.