The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (140 page)

She laughed. She didn’t know where that laugh had come from, but it was there, and it had burst free and she enjoyed that brief jest from him.

“Women are born wiser than men, particularly brash young men who are more handsome than they deserve to be. You will simply have to accept it, Gray.”

Horace and Dolly rode together in the second carriage, perhaps enjoying each other’s company more than one would
imagine. Georgie spent half her time in each carriage, even Jack admitting with an exhausted laugh that six hours in a closed space with a five-year-old little girl would give her gray hairs before she was twenty. As for Gray, he discovered that any possible gray hairs wouldn’t be all that bad. Georgie now smiled at him. He’d earned that smile. He’d played Chase the Chicken with her for one hour and twelve minutes, without pause, never once succumbing to a headache, as Jack, the weakling, had done earlier. It was Georgie who said she wanted to bird-watch. He’d shown her a black bird in the first three seconds of looking out the carriage window. Georgie had then taken his hand, rubbed it against her cheek, and said, “I like p-p-porridge.”

Gray had stared at his hand, cocked his head to one side, and asked, “My hand feels like porridge against your cheek?”

Georgie laughed. “I l-l-like p-p-porridge with honey.” She never answered his question. After seeing three crows flying just over the trees, she fell asleep, sprawled boneless on his lap.

If it hadn’t been for Georgie, he didn’t know how he and Jack would have survived the journey. If Gray had been Catholic, he would have believed them in purgatory, with no real idea of what would happen to them. One moment he felt blinding hope; the next, he was thrown into shadows, crushed by those shadows, knowing he would never escape them.

The nights spent at inns, Jack slept with her little sister and Dolly in another bedchamber. She didn’t say a word to him about it, just took Georgie’s hand and led her away. Each night he’d been both immensely relieved and angrier than he’d ever believed a man could be. He wanted to strike out, viciously. Horace was there, always there, saying little, but Gray appreciated his presence, his stolid support, his
silent companionship. During those nights at the inns, Gray listened to Horace’s steady breathing in sleep, and it became like the steady beat of a clock, predictable, soothing.

They arrived at Needle House, Gray’s country estate, four days later. It was a small red-brick Georgian house, three stories tall, a long rectangle, only one hundred years old. Gray’s great-grandfather, the third Baron Cliffe, had built it early in the last century.

At least Gray prayed that the third Baron Cliffe had been in truth his great-grandfather, that the third Baron Cliffe had indeed spawned the man who must be Gray’s father’s father. Monster or no, Gray wanted his father’s blood in his veins more than he’d wanted anything in his life.

The grounds weren’t extensive, but they were neatly bounded by hedgerows lining the long drive. Beech and pine trees surrounded the side of the house set along the riverbank.

It was a cloudy day, the air chill. Gray hadn’t been here in eight months.

“You’ve grown very quiet in the last hour,” Jack said as the carriage pulled to a stop before the house.

“Yes,” he said, nothing more.

She took his hand, shaking it a bit. “Listen, Gray. It will be all right. We will get through this.”

He nodded; he didn’t look at her, didn’t smile.

She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered if behind those doors of his home dwelt nightmares he didn’t want to face. She said nothing, but just held his hand and didn’t let it go.

The front doors opened and a very old man with thick, tousled white hair, taller than the birch sapling beside the front steps, took very careful, measured steps outside. Then he stopped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and yelled, “Is that you, my lord? Is it truly you? Or is Mrs. Clegge wrong
and it’s the vicar instead come to gather up old clothes for the orphans?”

“It’s Baron Cliffe, Jeffrey,” Gray shouted back, although he wasn’t further than fifteen feet away from the old man.

He said to Jack, “Jeffrey has very weak eyes. They worsen by the year. As for his hearing, it’s always been very nearly nonexistent. Speak very clearly and loudly. He’s a grand old man, tells stories about the Hell Fire Club, and came with my mother when she married my—” His voice simply stopped.

“We’ll see,” Jack said. She wanted to hug him, but she didn’t, not now. She said to Georgie, “Pumpkin, here comes Jeffrey. He looks nice, doesn’t he?”

“N-n-no,” said Georgie. “He looks like God.”

“Yes, he does,” Gray said, “what with all that white hair. Yes, I’ve always thought Jeffrey looked older than dirt.”

Georgie laughed a stuttering laugh.

Jeffrey couldn’t see the new baroness very well, but her voice sounded bright, and so he grinned at her fatuously and deigned to bow her into the Needle House drawing room himself, calling over his shoulder, “Mrs. Clegge? Where are you now? You must come out to meet her new ladyship. Ah, I think I can smell you. I do enjoy that lavender scent. Don’t forget your special lemon crumpets. The little girl will like the crumpets. I’m sure I heard a little girl, at least some sort of child. His lordship hasn’t spoken yet of a child, so I don’t know. Hurry now, Mrs. Clegge.”

“Actually,” Gray said quietly to Jack, “it’s Mrs. Clegge’s daughter, Nella, who’s now the housekeeper. But her voice sounds surprisingly like her mother’s. Jeffrey has never accustomed himself. He fancied the mother once a
long time ago, but I was told she fancied the gamekeeper.

“Every so often, even to this day, Jeffrey kisses Nella on the cheek and tells her that perhaps someday they will eventually wed. Nella, thank God, is a sensible woman with a very big heart. She laughs and tells him he has far too much hair for her. That and he’s far too smart for any woman with only middling wits.”

Gray paused, stared out a wide window that gave onto the side yard at a deer who was grazing quietly, then added, “She also takes excellent care of my mother.”

Jack wondered at the pain it brought him to see his mother. Did he remember her tears, her screams, her escape to madness, when he looked her?

She looked back at Georgie, who was sitting very close to Nella Clegge, a stout woman with large hands and a kind face. It appeared that Georgie liked Nella’s lemon crumpets. Jack fidgeted the entire time her little sister ate her treat. She wasn’t hungry, nor was she at all thirsty. What she was, in fact, was terrified. She didn’t believe for an instant that Gray was her half brother, but she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to prove it. She knew, she knew it all the way to her bones, that without positive proof, Gray would insist upon an annulment. He would hate it; it would kill him, but he would do it. His honor would force him to do it.

When she couldn’t stand it, she said, “I can’t wait another minute, Gray.”

28

“I
CAN
,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “I could wait an eternity. But you’re right. Let’s go.”

Georgie, a lemon crumpet in her small hand, was quite content to sit on Nella’s lap, and look at Jeffrey, saying every few minutes, “H-H-He is God, isn’t he?”

“Well, little love,” Nella said, looking down into Georgie’s face, “you certainly look like the perfect little angel, so perhaps you’re right.”

The dowager baroness was in the largest bedchamber at the eastern end of Needle House. Actually it was a suite of three rooms, decorated with pale yellows and greens and white.
Lovely rooms
, Gray thought, wondering how much his mother had ever even noticed them. He’d spoken to Nella a few minutes before coming up. Nella had leaned away from Georgie and said, “She’s very quiet, my lord. She frets with the fringe on her various shawls, endlessly she frets. She’s healthy, her color good. Dr. Pontefract believes she’ll outlive us all. He spends quite a lot of time
with her, just speaking of the weather, of places he visited when he was in the Navy, of the towns over in the Colonies. She’s not unhappy, my lord, don’t ever think that she’s in a pathetic condition. I don’t understand her world, but whatever is in it, she’s not unhappy.

“Perhaps she’ll venture out of her world and into this one if she understands that you’re married and her daughter-in-law is here to visit her. Now, I’ll keep my eye on the little girl. Those eyes of hers, they’re incredible, aren’t they? One blue and one gold; it’s marvelous. Ah, I’m going on and on. My husband just shakes his head at me when I chat with him. Forgive me, my lord.

“You and her ladyship go up. I’ll bring tea shortly. Your mother adores tea and my lemon crumpets. Mr. Jeffrey likes them too. They were my mother’s recipe.”

Gray found he was walking more slowly the closer he got to his mother’s rooms. Finally, though, he and Jack were there, outside the thick oak doors to the baroness’s chambers.

“You heard what Nella said. Over the years my mother occasionally speaks, occasionally knows who I am, sometimes even realizes who she is. I don’t know, Jack. I don’t know what we’ll find out from her, if anything at all.”

“I know,” Jack said. “I know. It’s all right.”

He gave her a twisted smile, then lightly tapped on the door before turning the knob and walking in. He kept Jack behind him. “Wait a moment,” he said, then walked over to the row of windows that faced the south, over a small garden, exquisitely planted, some of the flowers just beginning to bloom, and beyond to the home wood, a large area covered with oak and pine trees.

It was a beautiful prospect if one were mad and had nothing else to look at.

Gray came down beside his mother’s chair. He gently
lifted her hand, kissed her fingers, and said quietly, “Hello, Mother. It’s me, Gray, your son. I’ve come here to visit you.”

The beautiful creature with lustrous thick blond hair plaited atop her head turned slowly to look down at him, on his haunches beside her. He had his mother’s light green eyes, the slant of her eyebrows, the darker color of both brows and eyelashes.

He hadn’t thought to ask Lord Burleigh if he resembled Thomas Levering Bascombe. As for the man he’d believed was his father, he simply didn’t remember if he bore any physical resemblance at all to him.

He squeezed his mother’s hand. “Mother? It’s your son, Gray. I’ve brought you a surprise.”

There was a flicker of interest in her eyes. She said, “A surprise? I do love surprises. Dr. Pontefract brings me surprises occasionally. What a lovely man.”

She was speaking. That was something. Her voice was low and soft. He said, “I’ve married, Mother. I’ve brought you a new daughter. She’s my surprise to you.” He motioned for Jack to come over, and she did, walking more and more slowly the closer she got to the woman who was Gray’s mother.

Only Jack heard the pain in his deep voice. She came down beside him and looked up at his mother. “My lady? My name’s Winifrede. Gray and I were married just a short while ago. We wanted to come and tell you about it.”

Alice St. Cyre, dowager baroness Cliffe, sucked in her breath, and raised her hands to her face, covering her eyes. “No,” she said, her voice nothing more than a die-away whisper. “Not you. Oh, God, go away. I don’t want to see you.”

“Mother? What’s the matter?”

“No! Go away!”

She kept her face covered with her hands. She was crying now, deep, gulping sobs.

Gray slowly rose, then pulled Jack to her feet. “It’s no use. I’ll get Nella.”

Jack trailed out of the lovely bedchamber after him. She looked back once over her shoulder. The dowager baroness was staring toward her, her face filled with—what? Fear? Hatred?

Jack didn’t know what to make of it. She felt herself shudder. She followed Gray from the room.

He wasn’t in their bedchamber. Jack felt a moment of panic, then realized he would be as far away from her as he could. This was the last place he would willingly be.

Jack sighed as she walked to the fireplace and lifted her hands to warm them over the flames. She’d just kissed Georgie good night. She was quite content to sleep with Dolly, particularly with Nella just down the hall and Jack only two rooms away.

Where was Gray?

He’d been so silent after they’d left his mother’s room. It was now ten o’clock at night. Was he brooding? Was he planning how he would annul their marriage?

She simply didn’t know. She began to pace the length of the beautiful bedchamber with its autumn colors. The big downstairs clock stroked twelve long times.

Midnight?

She wasn’t at all sleepy. She wanted Gray. If she but knew where he was, she would have gone to him in an instant. She wanted to hold him, kiss him, even though she knew he would fight that with all his strength.

More time passed until at last she simply couldn’t bear it. She picked up a candle and left her bedchamber. She walked down the dark corridor to the end of the east wing.
She raised her hand to knock at her mother-in-law’s door, then slowly lowered it.

What if she were sleeping? It was after midnight. Then she saw the light shining from beneath the door. She gently twisted the doorknob. If Alice was asleep, with candles lit against the gloom, she would simply leave.

Alice St. Cyre was sitting in the same chair, not moving. There was a branch of lighted candles at her elbow. There was a book in her lap. Her eyes were closed, her head resting against the soft cushions of the chair back.

Jack didn’t know what to do. She just stood there, staring at the beautiful woman who wasn’t moving. She read books? If she did, then surely she wasn’t all that mad, all that unaware of the world.

“Why don’t you just come here?”

Jack nearly jumped a foot off the floor at the sound of that soft, feathery voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come sit in that chair so I may see you more easily.”

Jack brought the chair closer, then sat down.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

“You’re not at all sorry. You’re bristling with energy. What do you want?”

Alice still hadn’t looked directly at her, even though she’d said she wanted to. No, she was looking down at that slender volume of Voltaire.

A madwoman read Voltaire?

“You couldn’t bear to look at me when you first saw me this afternoon. You covered your face with your hands. You said you didn’t want to see me. You told me to go away.” Jack paused a moment, then said something she didn’t want to say, “You recognize me, ma’am? Do I look familiar to you?”

Alice said nothing. She was utterly still. The beautiful
Norwich shawl, all varying shades of blue, fell off her shoulders.

Jack said, “Gray looks a great deal like you. Perhaps you believe I look like someone you know? Perhaps someone you used to know?”

“Thank God he left.”

“Who left, ma’am?”

“Lev. He left. I will never forgive him. He was a monster. Not like my dearest husband. Why did Gray have to kill him? Why?”

“He shot your husband because he was beating you, ma’am, viciously. Gray was afraid he would kill you. He had to do something. He had to protect his mother. To my way of thinking, he saved both of you.”

“I didn’t need to be saved. All I needed was Farley. He loved me.”

Gray was right, Jack thought. This was a sort of madness that was beyond her ken. How to regain any sense in all this? She said, “Ma’am, who is this Lev? Did you love him?”

For the first time, Alice looked at her squarely in the face. “You’re very young. I haven’t been young for longer than you’ve lived. Has he struck you yet, my dear?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Ah. You’ll know he loves you truly when finally he feels free to punish you as well as reward you. I learned so much from my dearest Farley. Dr. Pontefract says that Farley wasn’t sane—that no sane man would strike a woman—but what does he know? Yes, Farley tried and tried to teach me to please him, to please myself. But Gray murdered him. Is Gray trying to teach you?”

“Yes, he is. But he hasn’t ever struck me. He agrees with Dr. Pontefract. Gray would never strike a woman.” She wondered what Gray would be thinking were he to hear
what his mother was saying. What memories would her words resurrect?

“Do you recognize me, ma’am?”

But Alice, dowager baroness Cliffe, turned away from Jack. She pulled the shawl back up onto her shoulders and knotted it between her breasts. She picked up the thin volume of Voltaire from her lap, looked at it dispassionately, and tossed it to the floor. “I’m tired,” she said. “Finally, I believe I will sleep. Go away. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Jack slowly rose, not knowing what to do.

“Take that boy with you, the one who murdered my dearest Farley. I wish he would stay gone from here. When he leaves I hope that he’ll never come back, but he always does. I rarely even speak to him, but still he returns. He’s stubborn. But it doesn’t matter. He stole all that I loved from me.”

“He’s your son, that boy. He loves you. He loved you then and that’s why he shot Farley. He was protecting you. He did the only thing he could think of to save you. He shot the man who was beating you to death. Why won’t you remember it as it truly happened?”

“My dearest Farley beat me to death? What utter nonsense—lies, complete lies. I didn’t need to be protected!” Alice jumped up from her chair and hurled herself at Jack. Her thin hands went around Jack’s throat. God, the woman was strong. But Jack was much larger and much stronger. However, she wasn’t as enraged as Alice obviously was.

Finally Jack managed to pull Alice’s hands away. They remained curled inward, ready to strike again, ready to rip the flesh from her throat.

“Stop it,” Jack said low, grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard. She struggled, but Jack held firm.

“Stop it,” she whispered now right in her
mother-in-law’s face. She shook her again, snapping her head on her neck. “Just stop it. Damn you, do you recognize me? Who is this Lev?”

Alice sagged against her. Jack clasped the woman close. She whispered against her soft, beautiful hair, “Tell me if Gray is your son. Tell me if you ever loved Thomas Levering Bas—oh, my God, that’s Lev, isn’t it? You called my father Lev? Oh, God, you said he was a monster. What did you mean? You said he left? Please, you must tell me!”

She stared helplessly down at Gray’s mother, whose face was pale as a winter’s day. And just as empty, no hint of feeling, or pain, of memory. Just a beautiful face with no person behind it.

Jack had nothing to lose. She drew a deep, steadying breath. She said, “If you will but tell me about Thomas Levering Bascombe, I will keep the boy away from you forever.”

“He murdered my Farley.”

“Yes, I will keep him away from you, if you will just tell me about Lev.”

Alice fell utterly limp against Jack. As gently as she could, Jack eased her back down into her chair. She waved her hand in front of her face. Soft tendrils of blond hair lifted off her cheek. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

“Lev wanted to marry me,” Alice said in a low monotone, not looking at her or anything else for that matter, as far as Jack could tell. “He begged and begged me, but I had met Farley and he was the one I wanted. We were alone one evening, Lev and I, out in my family’s garden. It was a warm evening, thin white clouds trailing over the moon. Lev pleaded with me again. Then he kissed me. I told him to stop, but he didn’t stop. Lev took my virginity that evening. He raped me. Then he told me, even as he stood over me, his legs spread, his hands on his hips, that I would
have to marry him, that I was ruined now, and there was no choice. I was his.”