Susan Johnson (25 page)

He spoke with an authority as self-assured as Matthew Graham’s, and Elizabeth felt as though an enormous burden were lifted from her. “Thank you, George, so very much,” she whispered, tears of relief welling in her eyes. “You’re very kind.” And she found herself suddenly
crying uncontrollably, her emotions the last weeks unstable and erratic.

Immediately, George went to her and, sitting down beside her, drew her into his arms. “They can’t harm you. I won’t let them harm you,” he soothed, holding her close. “And I love you enough for both of us, Elizabeth.… Please don’t cry.…”

His gentle words only caused more tears to fall as she felt an immense guilt flooding her mind. How could she so take advantage of his affection when she felt nothing in his embrace, not a single spark of feeling? Was she overreacting to her fear and putting herself in a more untenable position? Was she making a terrible mistake to save her child from risk? “Maybe I’m being too hasty,” she murmured, drawing slightly away, wiping the tears from her cheeks with her fingers, desperately indecisive, a wave of inexplicable melancholy inundating her senses. “I’m asking too much of you …” she whispered, “with an audacity you must think ill-mannered … perhaps—”

“I
won’t
let you retract your offer, darling,” he said with a smile. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this day? Since I met you almost a year ago, when you first came here looking for an estate. And at thirty-eight I don’t care to wait when I’ve found the woman I love. So dry your tears, my sweet,” he said, handing her his handkerchief, “and we’ll begin planning our wedding. How soon would you like the ceremony?”

“Soon,” she answered before she bolted from the room, her practical voice of reason repressing her urgent impulse to flee, feeling at that precarious instant not like an independent woman who’d determined the direction of her life, but like a small child deserted by everyone who loved her.

So she dutifully dried her eyes, because there was more yet to explain. Because she wasn’t truly that small child except for rare, transient moments of despair, because she must see that her child’s future was settled to advantage.

Elizabeth decided on a wedding date three weeks hence; it would take that long to have the lawyers draw
up the marriage papers. And the banns had to be posted and the license taken out.

“We can dispense with the formalities if you wish,” George declared. “My cousin is a justice of the peace and would be more than happy to handle the legalities if you’d prefer. We could be married immediately, if you wish. If you’re concerned with gossip.”

No, it’s too soon, she thought, wishing in her heart only for delay, although practicality required a speedy consummation. So she said, “Why don’t we compromise on two weeks? How does October first sound to you? The weather should still be pleasant.”

“Fine.” She could have said now, and he would have concurred. “Where do you wish to be married?”

“I don’t care.” Her kitchen, a closet … it mattered little to her.

“In that case I’ll indulge my numerous relatives who populate this county,” George pleasantly said, “and choose Hexham Cathedral.”

She offered him ten thousand as a marriage dower. “But the rest I need to leave to this child, since I hardly expect you to endow him or her from your estates.”

“Keep your ten thousand, Elizabeth. I don’t need your money. And I’d be pleased to support any child of yours; even my title and entailed property is available, should you wish this child to inherit my baronetcy. No one need know it’s not mine.”

“Thank you, but you needn’t be so generous. Your own bloodlines should inherit. I can’t ask that of you.” He was the most unselfish of men, she thought.

He was also the most selfish of men, and he would have her on any terms. “Nonsense,” he retorted, waving away her remonstrances, “I’ve no great affection for longdead ancestors.” He shrugged. “Nor for those beyond my personal family, and I’ve plenty of property—enough for a dozen children and chief seats in Yorkshire, Buckinghamshire, Kent, Middlesex, and Lincolnshire, if any of them should prefer the countryside outside Northumbria.” He was lounging next to her, his brandy in hand, his spirits buoyant, the woman he thought beyond attainment suddenly his.

The phrase “a dozen children” overwhelmed Elizabeth’s reasonable facade, and for a crushing moment she wanted to hysterically cry out, “No! I only want
this
child … not yours, not ours … only his!” And she wondered for a devastating moment whether she could actually go through with this marriage. But she knew at base she could never put this fiercely wanted child in danger. Too, she understood, a child without a father could not expect a normal life. Regardless of her wealth or remoteness from society, regardless of her own feelings, this child needed George Baldwin’s protection from the Graham threat, and it needed a name.

“Whatever you wish, George.” She heard her polite response as if from a distance and wondered in some equally distant part of her brain whether she could maintain this well-bred facade for a lifetime.

She even allowed him to kiss her when he left—how could she refuse? And she managed to smile as he bid her adieu. She would, she ruefully decided, become a consummate actress in the months ahead.

But her child was safe.

She was satisfied.

On August 29, the day after the session had been adjourned, privy to reliable information that Godolphin had no intention of reconvening the Parliament, Johnnie had sailed for Rotterdam. He was interested in news of the war, and the allied forces were headquartered at The Hague. The continuing progress of the allied offensive against France would have direct bearing on Scotland’s future.

Additionally, he had two ships in port, one recently in from Canton, and some of the goods were being offloaded into his warehouses for sale in Holland. He spent a week in Rotterdam and The Hague with Robbie, who’d been in residence there for most of the month. They saw to the brokering and warehouses and entertained at night, information on the campaign more easily obtained over dinner and cards. The following week saw Johnnie across the lines in the Low Countries tracking down his uncle’s regiment. And on the warm autumn day Elizabeth was offering to marry George Baldwin, he was sharing
a camp mess with his uncle, the Maréchal de Turenne.

Unaware he was about to become a father.

Highly disturbed by the news he was hearing.

The French general staff was in disarray after the disaster at Blenheim, while the King only relied on advice from his current favorite, the Duc de Chevreuse, or his very religious mistress, Madame de Maintenon, both of whom had no official position.

“You have to reach the King’s ear through a damned Mass; Madame won’t even let anyone in to see the King unless they share her religiosity,” his uncle muttered. “Tallard, who lost us Blenheim, is done as is Marsin; young Berwick, James’s bastard, on the other hand, has been winning gloriously, but Chamillart, Louis’s crony at billiards, wants his friend’s brother, the Comte de Gace, to advance to maréchal.
Merde!
It’s going to be damned hard to win this war with the aristos scrapping over the maréchal batons. While Marlborough simply overlooks his allies and does what he pleases. Which would be a pleasant conceit here, if one dared risk his head at Court.” He frowned, swearing in an impressive number of languages until his frustration had been momentarily appeased. “To hell with them,” he said then with a sigh. “I’ve my pension, my château, and there’ll be other wars.…” He smiled at his nephew. “How long can you stay?” The fruitless discussion of the fate of nations was dismissed for more pleasant conversation.

“A day or two. I’m on my way to Ostend to gather news from my factor there.”

“So tell me of Scotland’s new independence,” his uncle said with a grin. “It might bring me home again, if the filthy English can be driven out.”

“Keep your French estates, from the sounds of it. If Marlborough wins all, there’s no more reason to placate Scotland. London will have time then to turn its full attention on bringing us to heel. With Marlborough’s victorious returning army as its bludgeon.”

“It’s a fearful thing to be so small in the world of nations.”

“It’s damned depressing at times.”

“But you manage to make yourself rich at England’s expense, I hear.”

“Moderately so,” Johnnie replied with a faint smile. “I look on it as my own small measure of retribution. My frigates can outrun any English ship on the seas.”

“Watch your back, Johnnie. The politicos will be out to get you for your show of independence in Parliament—or more likely for your flouting of the Navigation Acts. The tradesmen run Westminster, and they dislike those who take money out of their pockets. Although you’re always welcome with me in France.” His uncle knew whereof he spoke, for he’d been outlawed as a young man for unwelcome political views, and he’d emigrated to France like so many Scotsmen over the centuries, making his fortune in a more hospitable land.

“My ships carry a large portion of Scotland’s trade.” Johnnie gazed at his uncle over his wineglass. “It’ll be a consideration in chastising me. My warehouses abroad hold stock for many of the traders in Scotland.” He smiled. “And more pertinently, I handle most of their bills of exchange. But I’ll keep your invitation in mind, should it come to that. Now tell me how Aunt Giselle does, and your daughters.”

Two days later Johnnie was in Ostend, and six days after that he sailed into the roads at Leith. He spent a restless evening with Roxie, apologizing profusely when he climbed out of her bed in the middle of the night, making unsatisfactory excuses as he hurriedly dressed and left. Surly and ill-tempered, he stopped at several taverns on his way back to Ravensby House, but even the liquor tasted sour in his mouth, like his life of late, he petulantly decided. And leaving his last drink untouched, he walked through the dark streets to return to his solitary bed at Ravensby house.

His busy weeks away from Scotland had allowed him fitful respite from the recurring images of Elizabeth that filled his brain, interrupted his daily activities, permanently
tempered his peace of mind. But once he returned to Scotland, she seemed too close, too accessible, and he found himself craving her with a covetous, foolhardy indiscretion.

Although he had no intention of acting out his desires. A strong-willed man, he knew how to master impulse, how to curb susceptible feeling. But society in Edinburgh had paled, it seemed, Ravensby House had become too quiet; he found the modish world of Edinburgh banal. If he stayed, some reasonable explanation of his unorthodox behavior would have to be given to Roxie—and at the moment he couldn’t muster one. Toward morning, as the birds began waking in his apple trees, he decided to go down to Goldiehouse. Although too many memories of Elizabeth faced him at Goldiehouse as well, he discovered in his journey south. So he deliberately delayed his passage home, stopping at numerous country estates of his friends, putting off confrontation with the past. Avoiding the overwhelming memories of Elizabeth waiting for him there.

But he finally rode through the gates five days later.

It was the afternoon of September 30.

And when the staff came out to greet him, Dankeil Willie said, “Welcome home, Johnnie. You’ve been away a long time.”

“Business and Parliament kept me away,” Johnnie dissembled, already feeling Elizabeth’s presence on his own grounds. “Where’s everyone?” he quickly asked, handing his reins over to a young groom, wanting to deflect the unnerving phantoms.

“Most of the men are down at the stables. The new foals are half-grown already. Adam and Kinmont went into Kelso this morning. Munro’s at the new wing, as usual. Will ye be wantin’ to see Red Rowan?”

“Later … I’ve been on the road for days. I think I’ll have a drink first.” And turning to Mrs. Reid, who stood beside Willie glaring at him, he said with a hesitant politeness, “Hello.”

“What are ye doin here?” she indignantly replied, looking daggers at him.

“I’m home for a visit,” he warily said.

“Humpf. Men!”

He debated asking for an explanation, not sure he actually wanted one, but she’d practically raised him after his mother died when he was twelve, so he gently said, “There’s some problem?”

“You might say so if ye have a conscience at all.”

He cast a glance at the score of servants drawn up on the drive, looked again at Mrs. Reid’s offended expression, and said, “Why don’t you join me in the library for a moment?”

“I suppose ye don’t wish yer vices exposed to all the world,” she huffily retorted. “Just like a graceless man!”

He immediately knew he didn’t—at least not in her current frame of mind. “Dismiss the staff,” he quietly said to Willie, taking Mrs. Reid’s arm, which she indignantly took exception to, dashing his hand away. And as she stamped off in a huff, Johnnie turned back to Willie, his brows raised in query. “Do you know the reason for that?”

Willie’s fair skin turned red to the roots of his carrot-colored hair. “Ye best ask her, sair.”

“And everyone knows about this but me?”