Once in a Blue Moon (29 page)

She stood to the side, half hidden behind a pillar and a pair of tall iron candlesticks. Up until this moment she had not really believed the wedding would take place. It was as if someone had told her she was about to die.

Although she had come, now she could not bear to watch it. She looked up at the twisted face of the stained glass Christ. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Oh, God, I do want to die. Please, God, let me die.

The pastor's voice echoed in the stony, hollow emptiness. "By the laws of God and the British Commonwealth, I pronounce you man and wife."

McCady Trelawny, twelfth earl of Caerhays, did not look at his countess. He turned, his eyes searching, as if he sensed her presence. Across the gray shadowed church their gazes met. Her heart lurched as she saw his face change, saw it become raw and naked with despair...

As if his soul had been stolen.

She walked away from him, down the long nave, the soles of her kid slippers making no sound on the stone floor. She began to run.

She was halfway down the steps when the bells began to toll.

The first primroses of spring were blooming the week she came home to Cornwall.

Jessalyn walked to church that Sunday morning down a lane lined with high hedges exploding with the yellow blossoms. Seeing no one about, she picked up her skirts and climbed on top of the stone wall. She spread her arms wide and tilted her face to the sun, filling her lungs with a deep breath. The air had an applelike smell, crisp and green. Laughing aloud, she spun around and took off running along the top of the hedge the way she used to do as a child, and the wind whipped her hair and numbed her cheeks and carried her laughter out to sea.

The first primroses of the year. It meant that winter would be over soon. It meant a new beginning. She would pick one later, she thought, to show Gram. There hadn't been any primroses in London.

The wind was blowing a gale by the time she arrived at the church, the sea running thick and heavy, presaging another storm. But for the moment the sun shone and the primroses bloomed, and Jessalyn rejoiced in being alive.

The church that served the tinners and fishermen in this corner of Cornwall was called St. Genny's after St. Genesius, an early Celtic saint who had been beheaded for his faith. It was said he haunted the moors with his head tucked like a bread loaf beneath his arm. Years ago Jessalyn and Clarence had once spent a summer night lurking among the gravestones with a fishing net, hoping to catch him. But instead all they'd caught had been a lecture from Reverend Troutbeck, and poor Clarence had gotten another thrashing.

Made of gray stone splotched with moss, the tiny church had a crenellated square tower that looked as if it would be more at home on a fortress. Inside, the squat nave smelled of mildew and of the bats that lived in the belfry. On rainy days one had to take care where one sat, for in spite of numerous grinning contests over the years, the roof still leaked.

Jessalyn brought a great gust of wind into the church with her that rattled the pages in the psalters and nearly snatched the wig from Dr. Humphrey's head. She slipped into a worm-eaten pew just as the Reverend Mrs. Trout-beck's wavering soprano launched into the final notes of "O come, let us sing to the Lord."

The Reverend Troutbeck, wearing a surplice stained with the muggety pie he'd eaten for breakfast, mounted the pulpit. He sucked in a deep breath, his corset creaking like an old pair of bellows, opened his mouth, and held it open as the door squealed and another great gust of wind filled the church.

Everyone turned in unison to stare, and Jessalyn's heart lurched up into her throat. The earl of Caerhays stood within the doorway. The morning sun shone full on his reckless face with its flaring cheekbones and shadowed eyes. In his snuff-colored riding coat and buckskins, he looked as if he'd decided only at the last minute to attend the service. His young wife stood beside him, bundled head to toe in a blue Angola hussar cloak and blushing prettily.

His gaze collided with Jessalyn's. She sat stiff-backed, her chin lifted high, refusing to look away, while the old familiar ache squeezed at her heart. Love was not a matter of will; she couldn't make what she felt for him lessen or go away. She could hate him, and she did, for hurting her, for leaving her, again and again. But she would go on loving him with each breath she took until she died. And even then it would not end. For if there was such a thing as a soul, then hers would go on loving him throughout eternity.

He stared back at her, and his face might have been carved of the same rock as the Cornish cliffs.

Just then Emily noticed her. The girl's face lightened with a surprised smile, and that was Jessalyn's undoing. She jerked around, dropping her psalter. As she bent over, fumbling for the book beneath the pew, she saw his glossy top boots and Emily's kid slippers walk together down the aisle. Tears filled her eyes. She stayed hunched over for a moment, blinking and swallowing hard, until she could raise her head and look dry-eyed at the Reverend Troutbeck in his pulpit.

Not an inspiring preacher in the best of times, the village parson was so disconcerted to have such an exalted personage as an earl in his church that he grew nearly incoherent. As he rambled through the lesson, Jessalyn sat in breathless tension, watching the sand trickle through the hourglass grain by grain. She didn't look at Lord Caerhays again, but he might as well have been sitting beside her, his shoulder and thigh pressing against hers, his breath stirring her hair, so aware was she of his presence.

The wind gusted against the church, rattling the loose shingles, as the reverend launched into a final prayer. "It seems, O Lord," he intoned, "that you are about to visit us with another storm. We pray thee that no wrecks should happen...." His voice dwindled to a squeak as he began to perceive the chasms opening beneath his feet. It wasn't too many generations ago that the notorious Trelawnys, always strapped for money, had been known to lure ships deliberately to their deaths on stormy nights by lighting false signals on the cliffs above Crookneck Cove.

Everyone—those who hadn't already been gawking at him throughout the service—turned to look at the earl. He had kept his eyes cast downward on the gloved hands folded across the ebony handle of his walking stick. Now he lifted his head and pinned the unfortunate curate with his fierce dark gaze, and his cynical drawl filled the tiny church. "We pray, of course, that no wrecks should happen," he said, "but if by chance a wreck should be ordained to happen, then we pray that God will guide it to happen at Crookneck Cove. Is that not so, Reverend?"

A silence followed this pronouncement, a silence so still Jessalyn could hear the bats rustling overhead. Then someone emitted a smothered giggle, and a second later the entire congregation of tinners and fishermen was laughing. The Reverend Troutbeck flushed and hemmed and launched into another prayer wherein he dropped a broad hint about the need for a new roof.

Jessalyn bolted from the pew before the last notes of the closing hymn had faded into echoes. The sun, pale in a paler sky, dazzled her eyes, and she kept having to blink away tears as she hurried from the church down the stony path. The wind shrieked like a demented witch. It was thick with the coming storm, tasting of sea salt and sand and chilling rain. She had just reached the lych-gate when she heard her name.

"Jessalyn? Miss Letty?"

Jessalyn turned. Emily Hamilton—Emily
Trelawny—
emerged from the shelter of the portico. The wind whipped off the fur-lined hood of her cloak, and her fair hair glittered like a crown. She came alone. The earl had stayed behind to speak to the reverend.

Jessalyn stood beneath the lych-gate, waiting. She would not be a coward. But it had become so hard for her to breathe through the heaviness in her chest, and the sun and wind kept making her eyes water.

"Lady Caerhays," she said as Emily stopped before her.

Emily's smile faltered a bit. "Oh, no, you mustn't do that—you mustn't call me Lady Caerhays. I had thought... well, that we were friends."

Somehow Jessalyn was able to dredge up an answering smile. "Hullo then, Emily."

"We thought you still in London, my lord and I." Emily looked behind her, as if seeking her husband's confirmation. Jessalyn couldn't stop herself from looking as well. He had his back to them; she couldn't even see his face. It didn't matter. He would forever have the ability to make her blood run hot and thick simply at the mere thought of him. More than ever she would have to take care not to let it show. Dear life, she mustn't ever again let it show.

"The country air must agree with you," Emily was saying. "For you are looking splendid. My lord said as much."

"Did he?" This was so unlike the man she knew that Jessalyn could not believe it.

Emily's soft laugh was snatched away by the wind. "Well, I said as much. But he agreed with me. How long have you been in Cornwall? Ourselves we've been at the hall nearly three months now, since after Christmas." She sighed and looked around her, her rosebud mouth curling into a smile. "It is so beautiful here, and yet so wild.... When Caerhays said he wished to take up residence at his principal seat, well, I confess I didn't want to come. But now I don't think I shall ever want to leave."

Jessalyn drew in a deep breath, trying to loosen her throat. She had known, for Clarence had told her, that McCady had come to Cornwall with his new wife. He had been borrowing heavily again, to make the hall livable and to build at the foundry in Penzance a new locomotive for competing in the upcoming trials. He was even reopening an old played-out mine, Clarence had added, shaking his head in dismay. "He's trying to save his railway company by starting up a
mining
venture of all things. Only a Trelawny would dare such a risk."

Jessalyn looked now at the woman who had married the man she loved. A serenity softened Emily's face, a quiescence that was at once both steely and gentle and that had drawn Jessalyn to the other woman since first they met. She shouldn't hate Emily or blame her for her own pain. But it was so hard, so hard.

"I am glad you have found happiness here," Jessalyn said.

"Happiness? Yes, I suppose I have...." But Emily's gaze sought out her husband, and an odd sort of anguish darkened her eyes.

A gust slammed against them. Emily swayed, nearly falling, and Jessalyn grabbed her arm. The wind caught the edge of the girl's blue cloak, whipping it open, and revealing a belly swollen with child.

"We are expecting a baby in four months' time," Emily said, color rising in her cheeks.

We...
Pain wrenched at Jessalyn's chest, so sharp she thought it must have cracked in two. For a moment she was back in the Hamilton ballroom, hearing Clarence's censorious voice above the shattering of her heart.
He only got enough upon the betrothal to pay off his brother's gaming vowels. The rest of the settlement won't be his until after the heir is born.

"How fortunate for his lordship," she said aloud to Emily. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she felt small and mean. "Rather, how wonderful that after all these years there is to be a new baby at Caerhays Hall."

Emily blushed again. "The doctors keep insisting my health is delicate, but in truth, I have never felt better. Still, I mustn't ride or walk too far. Perhaps you would come to call on us soon."

Lord Caerhays had ended his conversation with the reverend and was coming toward them, limping heavily. Jessalyn wondered if like Gram's rheumatism, his wound was especially painful in damp weather. His
wife
would know; perhaps she should ask his
wife.
Oh, God, she couldn't bear this.

"Please, I—I must be off," she said quickly. "My grand- mother has been unwell. The trip down from London is so arduous for one of her age."

Emily's face clouded. She patted Jessalyn's arm, offering a sweet and genuine sympathy. "Oh, I am so sorry. Pray, give her my respects."

"Thank you. I shall...." He was nearly upon them. Their gazes clashed again, and his hard face wavered and dissolved as tears filled her eyes.

She whirled, running down the lane. Stifled sobs burned her throat, clogging her breath. She stopped beside the hedge, leaning against it, gasping and swallowing and trying not to cry. She pressed her clenched fists so hard into the rough stones she broke the skin, yet she didn't feel the pain. She told herself not to look back, but she couldn't help it.

The earl of Caerhays and his lady wife stood side by side beneath the lych-gate, not touching. But the malevolent wind, as if to remind her, blew open the blue cloak again. Pain stabbed at Jessalyn, so fierce she nearly cried aloud. She had stood in St. Margaret's and watched them marry, and still a part of her had not believed he was well and truly lost to her.

Until now.

Home,
she thought.
I want to go home.
So badly did she want to be back at End Cottage, where all was familiar and safe and the way it had always been, that she could almost taste it. The way she could taste the sea on the wind. She began to run, the wind making her eyes tear again, turning the primroses, the first ones of the spring, into a yellow blur. She didn't stop to pick one.

They said in Cornwall that the sea had moods. That night the sea was wild and angry.

The storm drew him down to Crookneck Cove. A fierce wind whipped at the sand and waves, throwing up a gritty haze. A pregnant sky loomed, dark and heavy with rain.

The wind snatched at his hair. He had come bareheaded and without a coat, wanting to feel the full fury of the storm, for it matched the wildness surging in his blood. He wanted to roar the way the sea was roaring, to beat and lash at the rocks like the wind. He tasted the rage of the sea in the salty spume that swirled around him.

A movement down the beach caught his eye. His breath stopped; his whole body tensed. Yet he wasn't surprised to find her here. In his memories of this place she was always bare-legged and running free across the sand, her hair billowing behind her like a cinnamon cloud.

Tonight she stood alone at the edge of the wild surf, as if challenging the sea to do its worst. An enormous wave smashed against the beach, deluging her with spray. She stood unmoving still, soaked, her wet dress plastered to her body. She might as well have been naked.