The Marsh Hawk (14 page)

“I am twenty-two,” she interrupted. Would no one let her forget that she was practically putting on her caps?

“Eleven years between a man and woman is . . . significant, and I was concerned over the rashness of it all. Simon isn't like that. It's almost seemed as if he were . . . driven. I know he's had several close calls of late, and that can put one in touch with one's mortality, I daresay, but it seemed to me almost as if . . . how shall I put this . . . as if he wasn't acting with a level head, and that is
not
usual for Simon.”

Jenna stiffened, bolting upright in the chair. Another word and he would have gone beyond the pale. Was he friend or foe, this enigmatic clergyman?

“Please don't misunderstand me,” he went on before she could reply. “Simon and I are as close as brothers. I was concerned that he might be . . . following the call of some mad, midlife desperation.”

“You use the past tense. Does that mean you aren't concerned any longer?”

“Of course, my dear. I would hardly be confessing the thing if I were still inclined toward the same opinion, would I? The truth is, I failed to credit what love can do to a man's sanity. You see, I'd seen Simon with women, of course, but I'd never seen him in love before. I couldn't recognize him. Now that I've met you—though I daresay there is no logical reason why it should—it all somehow makes perfect sense.”

Jenna brightened. She stared deeply into the piercing eyes of the man across the table and longed to tell him everything. From somewhere in the garden she could hear a peacock crying; she had since she'd come to Kevernwood Hall, but she had yet to see one. It was a desolate, mournful sound, like that of a melancholy child, and it stole the sparkle from her mood suddenly.

“Is something wrong, my dear?” the vicar said, frowning.

Jenna hesitated. Yes, something was very wrong, and she longed to unburden herself as he had done. But there were questions that needed to be addressed first.

“When someone confesses to the Anglican clergy, are vicars bound to secrecy as the Catholic clergy are?” she queried.

“You aren't churched, then, I gather,” he said, answering his own question.

Realizing her blunder too late, she lowered her eyes, as hot blood rushed to her cheeks. If she were churched, she wouldn't have had to ask that question. What a birdwit she was. Now he would likely take her for a heathen.

“I've had a rather sporadic religious education, Robert,” she recovered steadily, though she was anything but. “When Father was alive . . . things were different.” Her voice trailed off altogether, and she studied her reflection in the rich, amber-colored liquid swimming in her teacup.

“Simon tells me that you are just recently out of mourning,” Nast said, soft of voice.

“Yes, that's true.”

“I'm dreadfully sorry for your loss. Does it bother you to talk about it?”

Jenna shook her head. Maybe if he understood what drove her out on the old Lamorna Road that night, he might not judge her too harshly.

“My father was returning from Truro by chaise, when a highwayman overtook the coach and made him stand down,” she began, reaching for his empty cup to refill it. “Father had a bad heart,” she continued, passing it back to him. “It had been failing for years. He . . . resisted, and the man beat him with his pistol, robbed him and . . . left him lying bloodied in the road.”

“When was all this?”

“A year ago February,” she said, around a tremor.

“You needn't go on, my dear. This is upsetting you.”

“No,” she insisted. “I haven't spoken of it since, and I need to now, if you will allow me?”

Though the vicar nodded, he seemed uncomfortable. His amber eyes had grown dark and troubled.

“Very well, as long as it shan't distress you,” he conceded.

“Lionel, our driver, put Father in the chaise and brought him home. We sent for the doctor at once, but later that night, Father suffered a seizure and died in his sleep.”

“Did he regain consciousness . . . give a description of the bounder?”

Jenna shook her head no. She wanted to tell him about what she'd done—needed to tell him, to tell
someone
and receive absolution before she dared tell Simon. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to speak it. It was too terrible, and their acquaintance was too new. Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back.

“Lionel got a good look at the man,” she went on. “He said he was the one they call the Marsh Hawk. The guards from the Watch, of course, would do nothing. I needn't tell you what a sham the law is hereabouts, civilian volunteers paid off by thatchgallows to look the other way while they prey upon innocent travelers. It's shameful! At least in Town there are constables and Bow Street Runners and magistrates to keep the peace, but here—”

“He was certain?” the vicar interposed. “The Marsh Hawk, to my knowledge, has never harmed anyone. His reputation is that of a gentleman bandit. He preys on the rich, yes, but to rob, not to kill. At least I've never heard of it. He's quite the local legend hereabouts.”

“Lionel described a man who looked like Simon did in that costume at Moorhaven, except for the hair,” she told him. “His hair was short, not long like Simon's. He wore no queue.”

“Dressing like that was sheer stupidity. I told him so.”

“It wasn't Simon's fault, Robert. It was a costume ball. He had no way of knowing about Father.”

“You
have
. . . told all this to Simon since, though . . . that your father was a victim of the Marsh Hawk?” he said haltingly.

“No . . . not exactly; at Moorhaven Manor, Lord Eccleston told him that Father was killed as result of a highway robbery, but he didn't go into detail in front of the gathering out of respect for my privacy. Everything's happened so quickly since, I haven't had the chance to discuss it with Simon.”

“You really ought, you know. You need to . . . let it go, and confession is good for the soul, so they say. That reminds me! We've strayed from the path. You asked me about that very thing earlier. Why? Was there something you wanted to . . . confess?”

Jenna stared at him over the rim of her teacup. Inside she was screaming,
Yes
—
God, yes
! But the words just wouldn't come.

“No . . . I was just . . . curious,” she murmured instead.

“I see, well, the answer to your question is yes, we are bound by the same canon. Confessions are private and sacred. If you should ever need to . . . talk to someone, I hope you won't hesitate to call upon me. I sincerely mean that, Jenna.”

“Thank you, but I think you're right. What I need to say, I need to say to Simon. Please keep my confidence—about the Marsh Hawk, that is. I should like to tell him myself.”

“Of course, my dear,” he replied. “In regard to the wedding, Simon wants to waive the banns in favor of a special license. He will do what he will do, but since his business in London is going to take at least another fortnight anyway—three weeks more than likely, I'm going to post banns regardless. 'Tisn't necessary, what with the license, and we shan't have the customary four-week publishing, but it will please me nonetheless, making this announcement, considering the unfortunate past, and I will indulge myself.”

“Another
three weeks
?” She was crestfallen.

“He's buying a naval commission for Crispin, and arranging for Evelyn's come-out after your wedding,” he explained. “Brace yourself. You're going to get drawn into that. Simon has no one else to turn to in that cause.”

“I'd be . . . delighted,” she replied, trying to muster enthusiasm.

“Good! Simon will be relieved.” He set his serviette aside then and tilted his head in a manner that told her there was no use trying to hide from those all-seeing amber eyes. “You do love him very much, don't you?” he observed.

“Yes, Robert, I do.”

“Then talk to him, Jenna. And if you ever feel the need to talk to me about anything, please don't hesitate, my dear.”

Vicar Nast paid several more visits during the three long, dreary weeks that followed. Jenna was grateful for his company, and his cheerful good humor helped her bear her loneliness for Simon. She sent for the vicar herself on one occasion, when Simon's solicitor, Olin Wickham, arrived at the end of her first week at Kevernwood Hall to go over the marriage settlement.

The legalistic jargon concerning such matters as the equity system, Chancery Court, separate estates, and jointure quite boggled her mind. She was wise enough to know when she was out of her depth and sent one of the footmen to bring the vicar, who cheerfully presided over the stuffy little man's visit.

While the vicar reviewed the staggering sum the agreement entailed without batting an eye, Jenna was nearly prostrate from shock learning that she now owned a keep in Scotland, as well as a sizable tract of farmland not far from her family's estate, which were entirely her own to do with as she pleased without restrictions. There were also generous clothing and pin money allowances to be paid to her monthly, and a staggering sum provided by way of a jointure to be settled upon her in the event of Simon's death. She closed her ears to that and fled to the garden while Robert Nast concluded with the solicitor. She simply would not hear of Simon dying. No amount of money could compensate her for that. What shocked her most was that Simon had filed the settlement agreement with both the Chancery and Equity Courts before he had any inkling of the amount the Hollingsworth dowry would bring into the marriage, since the bride's dowry was usually the barometer that governed what the groom's investment would be.

A fortnight later, Olive Reynolds brought her bridal gown for the final fitting. Jenna had insisted that it be simple, since it was to be a quiet wedding, and it was—elegantly so, of ivory silk embellished with Honiton lace, with a veil of the same delicate fabric, and slippers custom-made by the cobbler of the same ivory silk that the dressmaker had used for the gown. She was to wear a dainty wreath of moss rosebuds and wildflowers from the Kevernwood gardens in her hair, and carry a matching bouquet.

It would be some months before Miss Reynolds would be able to complete her wardrobe. However, the dressmaker was able to supply her with enough of a selection to add to her own that would suffice for the wedding trip, which was to be a month-long stay at Lion Court, her new holding on the verge of Roxburghshire in Scotland, an older, more venerable, though smaller structure than controversial Floors castle across the Tweed River.

A missive arrived that morning from Simon, and as soon as the dressmaker's coach rolled away down the drive, Jenna took it into the garden to read in private. Having managed to elude Phelps, whose hawklike surveillance was driving her mad, she stole to the gazebo at the east end of the garden. The sun had finally chased the flaws, and the air was warm with the promise of kinder days. A gentle wind rippled the parchment in her hands as she read, mildly distracted by the two peacocks that had joined her and begun to circle the structure, strutting and preening and raking the rolling green lawn with their great sweeping tails. She was proud of herself for having won them over. When they followed her to the stable on her way to exercise Treacle earlier in the week, even Barstow remarked that the elusive, unsociable birds had never warmed to anyone else on the place since Simon bought them.

He was coming home. Two more days and they would be wed. She could scarcely believe it. Those words were all she really saw, or wanted to see. She gave only passing notice to the rest of the letter, and hardly any at all to the paragraph explaining that Evelyn and Crispin would be coming home with him for the wedding.
Simon was coming home!

She folded the parchment, slipped her hand through the side slit in her frock that gave access to the flat little embroidered pocket she wore on a silk cord about her waist, and tucked the missive inside. The sun was warm, laying slanted rays of brilliance at her feet in a checkered pattern through the whitewashed latticework. Its heat married the many garden fragrances around her into one exotic perfume, and she wished she'd brought a book from the library to read there and would have done but for her haste to avoid Phelps. She had just about decided to go back inside and choose one, when the birds suddenly fled in a rush of displaced feathers and irate screeching. As she stepped out of the gazebo to see what had frightened them, a man's strong hands seized her. To her horror, it was Rupert. She screamed, but his hand clamped over her mouth cut it short.

“What? You didn't imagine I'd just leave you here—give you up without a fight, did you, Jenna?” he said, tethering her close. She bit down hard, and he pulled his hand away, examining the teeth marks on his fingers. “Bitch!” he spat, lowering the flat of his wounded hand across her face. “You are my betrothed!”

“I
was
your betrothed, Rupert. No longer. You showed me a man I could never marry on Bodmin Moor. I'm only sorry I didn't see him sooner. You came at Simon's back, and then ran his side through before he could arm himself. I
saw
you! How dare you come here? I am Simon's betrothed now, and you had best leave at once!”

“Or what? He'll come to your rescue and save your honor? Don't be ridiculous. For one thing, he isn't even here. For another, you have no honor to save, m'dear. It was lost the minute you set foot into that man's house unchaperoned.”

She struggled fiercely, awarding his shins a healthy drubbing with the pointed toe of her slipper, and clawed at his arms; but his grip was strong as he dragged her toward the orchard.

“Where are you taking me? Let me go!” she cried.

“You don't think for a moment that I'm fool enough to come by way of the drive in broad daylight, do you? I've a carriage waiting in the orchard. I've been watching the place for days.”