by Anne Gracie
She closed it behind him and he heard the bolt’s slow slide.
He tramped along the frosty path toward the vicarage where his horse was stabled. What the devil had got into her?
The answer came to him. He had.
She’d been a virgin. That was why she was so emotional this morning. It should have been her bridal morning. Guilt poked at Nash’s conscience with long, spiny fingers as he stamped on his way.
She knew there was no question of marriage. And, dammit, he wasn’t abandoning her. How could he? She was . . . She was the most important thing that had ever happened to him.
Did she think he could just walk away?
He was, in fact, walking away at this very minute. Brooding over what couldn’t be helped. Over the look in a woman’s eyes. Maddy’s eyes.
Damn and blast! He kicked a pebble viciously, and nearly lost his tied-on boot.
What a bloody mess. He should never have stayed the night, never have accepted her invitation to come to her bed. But the deed was done. And done well. So . . . glorious he couldn’t regret it.
But did she?
He stopped, encountering a herd of sheep, and waited as they flowed around him in the narrow lane. The shepherd gave him a laconic nod and touched his cap. Nash returned the greeting absently.
Did she imagine he would abandon her and the children? Dammit, he was fond of those brats. Very fond. The very first thing he would do when he got to his house would be to summon his man of business—not Harris—Marcus’s man of business, and set up a trust for Maddy and the children, so that they need never live on honey and eggs and weed blasted soup again.
How much farther to this damned vicarage? His feet hurt. His boots were made for riding, not for walking miles over frozen ground.
She’d be safe on one of Marcus’s estates. She couldn’t stay here, facing down the gossip she didn’t deserve, but she’d be all right.
So why did the thought make him feel so empty?
The vicarage stood still and silent. At this ungodly hour, nobody was awake. Nash found his horse, saddled it, and left a note thanking the vicar, saying he’d call at a more civil hour to give his thanks in person. He left a bright, new-minted sovereign for the groom.
Then he headed for Whitethorn at a fast gallop. Cold air lanced through him, scouring his lungs as he bent over the horse’s neck, urging him faster and faster, enjoying the speed, seeking some kind of release—from what, he didn’t know. He’d had more releases last night than any man had a right to. He ought to be relaxed and on top of the world. Instead he was a bunch of angry knots.
There were more people out and about now, farm workers who lifted a hand in greeting, as if they knew him. His tenants perhaps. Thank God they were too far away to engage him in conversation.
They galloped until horse and master were breathless, blood singing, cold air stinging, Nash’s brain going over that last little scene in the cottage over and over.
Damn it all, he wasn’t ready to end it yet. Whatever “it” was.
Whitethorn Manor came into view in the valley between the trees, floating in wisps of fog in the bowl of a valley. He pulled his horse to a halt and stared blankly in front of him.
How did he want it to end?
He could have—he should have—made it all neat and tidy. He hadn’t even told her of his plan to secure her future. And if she was too stubborn and prideful to accept his help, he’d find her a position where she could earn a good living. He’d pay for the boys’ education, of course, and the girls would have a generous dowry—he’d find some way that little Miss Stuffrump would accept.
He clenched his jaw, frustrated. The trouble was, such plans were all well and good for some other woman, but she was Maddy. She wasn’t like other women.
The more he thought about it, the more that elusive expression of hers, that last time they’d made love, worried him. A kind of quiet, resigned acceptance.
Of what, dammit? He’d made it as clear as a man could that he wasn’t abandoning her!
If abandonment worried her, God knew she hadn’t clung. He knew about clingy women. Maddy had all but thrust him out the door. And bolted it after him.
As he stared down through the trees, a memory tugged at him. He’d seen that expression before. But when?
And then it hit him. It was with just that resigned tenderness that she’d rewrapped her grandmother’s portrait, that sketchbook, and her girlhood journal.
Dammit, she was mentally wrapping him in faded silk brocade, getting ready to put him away with all her other treasured memories. He stared blindly down at the mellow gold stone of his inheritance, then wrenched his horse around and galloped back the way he came.
Fifteen
“It’s all over the village, miss,” Lizzie panted. She’d run all the way from the farm and knocked on the cottage door just after the children had left for the vicarage.
For a mad, delirious moment, Maddy had thought Nash had come back. But it was just Lizzie, racing to warn her. Maddy put aside the letters she’d been writing—trying to write. Trying to make herself write. She couldn’t seem to find the words.
“What is, Lizzie?” Though she knew full well.
“My uncle was having a drink in the inn yesterday and Mr. Harris was tellin’ anyone who’d listen that he caught you with a fancy man in your bed. And plenty did listen and believe him, miss, including Uncle Bill.” She gave Maddy a shamefaced look. “He didn’t at first. He’s never liked that Mr. Harris and so, when he came home last night from the pub, he asked me straight out, did you have a man living with you.”
She flushed. “It kind of took me by surprise, miss, and I told him no, but I’m no good at tellin’ fibs and he knew there was something. And so I explained that your gentleman was an ’elpless invalid, but Uncle Bill didn’t believe that. ‘No helpless invalid gave Harris that there broken nose,’ he said, and that was that.”
“I see.” Maddy sighed. The scandal had spread faster than she’d thought.
“It’s true, isn’t it, miss? I can see you’ve been crying.”
Maddy shook her head. “Mr. Renfrew did nothing wrong, Lizzie, and so you must tell your uncle and everyone else.” Not for her sake—she would be gone and what the villagers thought of her wouldn’t matter once she’d left, but Nash would be the main landowner in the district, and it wasn’t fair that he would be blamed for something that was her fault. Her choice.
Lizzie eyed her shrewdly. “If he done nothing wrong, then why were you crying?”
“He’s gone.” Maddy bit off the words and tried to look unconcerned. It was a miserable failure.
Lizzie’s face fell. “Oh, miss, you’ve gone and fallen in love with him, haven’t you?” she whispered. “Oh, miss.” Lizzie pulled her into a warm hug and the unexpected comfort of it set off Maddy’s tears again.
Stupid to be crying, she berated herself silently, when it was all of her own doing. It was just that she hadn’t known how it would feel, to feel so much . . . and then watch him ride away, knowing it was over . . .
After a moment she pulled back. “Don’t mind me,” she muttered, groping for a handkerchief. “I’m just a fool who fell for a handsome face.” And let herself dream secret, impossible dreams.
Lizzie wiped Maddy’s cheeks with a corner of her apron. “You and me both, miss,” she said. “That’s the trouble with bein’ a woman—we’re built to give our hearts away. I even married my handsome face and it still done me no good. Heart-break on two legs, that’s what my Reuben and your Mr. Renfrew are.”
Maddy gave a shaky laugh. Lizzie’s practical acceptance of her fate was heartening. She supposed all women did go through it. Mama had and so had Grand-mère.
“Uncle Bill don’t blame you, miss—he says it’s what all them fine gentleman are like: ‘Rakes one and all, and built to take advantage.’ But he says . . .” Lizzie screwed up her face in frustration. “He says I’m not to go and be a maidservant now, that if a fine gentleman can rui
n a nice lady like you, then a girl like me, with a weakness for a fine-lookin’ man, hasn’t a hope of stayin’ virtuous.” Lizzie pulled a face. “But there’s no danger of that. My Reuben cured me of fallin’ for a handsome charmer. Plenty of lads have tried to have their way with me, thinkin’ me lonely, now that I’ve tasted the pleasures of the marriage bed—and that’s true enough . . .” Lizzie’s expression grew soft and distant, remembering.
Maddy tried not to think about the lonely nights that lay in her future. Her feelings were too raw and tender to express, but she knew exactly how Lizzie felt. The pleasures of the marriage bed . . .
How long had Reuben been gone? Nearly two years? He was never coming back, that was clear to Maddy. Yet all this time later Lizzie could still look like this at the mention of his name . . .
Oh God.
Lizzie continued, “But if I can’t have Reuben, I don’t want nobody.” She winked at Maddy. “Especially not some village bumpkin with sweaty great clumsy hands.”
Maddy managed a smile, but a sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Not a village bumpkin, but a fastidious old man with soft, white, powdery skin and perfectly manicured hands . . . She repressed a shudder.
How could she bear Mr. Hulme to touch her after Nash? But she must, she must. If Lizzie’s Uncle Bill, who had always been an ally, could think the worst of her . . .
She abruptly became aware of what Lizzie was saying. “He says I’m not to come here for lessons anymore, miss, that if your good name has been tainted . . .” She took Maddy’s hands in her own work-roughened grip. “Don’t look like that, miss. I’ll come anyway, you see if I don’t. And I don’t care what Uncle Bill says, I will too become a maidservant. I’m not going to live with cows the rest of my life. Or if I must, I’m determined they’ll be the two-legged sort with fancy clothes and airs and graces.” She winked.
Maddy gave a choked laugh. It simply wasn’t possible to stay gloomy with Lizzie around. “You don’t need any more lessons. And I’ve written you a character reference.” She took it from the mantelpiece and handed it to Lizzie. “Besides, I’m leaving the village.”
Lizzie tucked the precious document in her apron pocket, unread. “Thanks, miss. Leaving the village? Where for?”
“I’m going back to Leicestershire. To where the children used to live.”
“But I thought—” Lizzie stopped.
“Thought what?”
“I always had the feeling you never liked it there.”
Maddy made a rueful gesture. “I didn’t. But I’ve no choice now. I can’t stay here. Mr. Harris has seen to that.”
“The old baskit!” Lizzie muttered, but she made no attempt to argue. Her ready acceptance of Maddy’s leaving only confirmed Maddy’s decision to leave. “When do you go?”
“Tomorrow morning. We’ll take the coach to Salisbury and then change.”
“What did the little ’uns say when you told them?”
“I haven’t told them yet.” She’d sent them off for their lessons, as usual, unable to face their questions so soon after Nash leaving.
Lizzie grimaced in wordless sympathy. “So what’ll you do in Leicestershire, miss?”
Maddy hesitated, but there was no point in keeping it a secret. “I’ve had an offer of marriage.” The fact that it was years old made no difference. Mr. Hulme had waited years for her—the offer would still be open.
“From—” Lizzie exclaimed, but her excitement deflated when she saw Maddy’s face. “Not Mr. Renfrew, then?”
Maddy shook her head. “A friend of my father’s.”
Lizzie screwed up her nose. “Old?”
Maddy nodded.
“Rich?”
Again, Maddy nodded. “I’m tired of battling for every mouthful, and the children are growing out of their clothes so fast.”
“Ah, well, if he’s rich I suppose it’s not so bad. Better than staying here and havin’ all the old biddies whisperin’ and turning their backs on you,” Lizzie said bluntly. She glanced at the window where the sun was burning off the morning mist. “I’d better go, miss. I had to stay and get the milking done with, but there’s butter to be churned, and if I don’t go now I’ll be in even more hot water than I am already.”
Maddy saw her to the door and the two girls embraced. “Oh, miss, I’m going to miss you that much,” Lizzie said tearfully.
She would miss Lizzie, too, Maddy thought, hugging her tight. She was going to be so lonely without—
“Lizzie!” She clutched Lizzie’s shoulders tightly. “Come with me.
Lizzie’s eyes widened. “Where? To Leicestershire?”
Maddy nodded. “As my maid. Mr.—the man I’m marrying can easily afford an extra maid, and it would mean so much to me to have a friend with me.”
A grin almost split Lizzie’s face. “I’ll come,” she said. “In a heartbeat, I will, miss. You really mean it?”
“I really do.”
“Well, then, I will,” Lizzie declared. “Whether Uncle Bill says I can go or not.” They hugged each other again, then Lizzie glanced at the sky. “I’ll get hopping now. I’ll churn a mountain of butter first and see if I can turn him up sweet before I break the news.”
She started running toward the farm, then stopped, and tuned back with a grin. “No more of them bloody cows! Hooray!” And in a series of joyful little skips, she sped off.
Maddy watched her go, but slowly her smile faded. If the villagers were reacting as Lizzie said, she’d better go and face the vicar. She needed to explain, and to say good-bye to him and Mrs. Matheson. And a few other friends.
She put on her cloak and set off for the vicarage.
Nash dismounted, tied his horse to Maddy’s gate, and knocked. No answer. He tried the door and found it latched, but unlocked. “Maddy?” he called, but there was no answer. She’d probably taken the children to their lessons.
He stepped inside. And came to a surprised halt. The normally neat cottage was cluttered. On the table, in the center of the neatly made bed, and on the floor, were piles of clothing and other items. Small piles—the sum total of what they owned was pathetically meager, but it was clear to Nash that everything Maddy and the children owned was assembled here.
Two large, shabby leather portmanteaux sat beside the bed. She was packing to leave.
She wasn’t worried about being abandoned—she was abandoning him!
When had she planned to tell him? he wondered savagely. She’d worked bloody fast! He’d left only an hour or two ago.
He prowled around the room, glaring at the neat little piles. Two piles for each person, things to take on the bed, and on the floor the things they would leave behind. Clothes—a pitiful pile—and a few treasures of childhood; Susan’s sketchbook, their handmade books, the Luciella book on top, and the kind of treasures Nash remembered from his boyhood: a bird’s skull, a curious stone, a horse shoe, a cricket bat and ball. Maddy’s pile contained a few threadbare dresses, a couple of battered books, and the small leather case containing her treasured memories. Wrapped in faded blasted brocade.
Dammit! How could she plan to leave just like that without telling him? And where the hell was she going?
Writing materials were scattered on the table. One letter, addressed to him but only just begun; she’d got as far as Dear Nash, I was not able to say this when you left, but . . .
Say what? His mind was a boiling stew of questions, but no matter how many times he read it, he was just as much in the dark.
He picked up the other letter, lying open on the table, a draft, with many scratchings out.
Dear Mr. Hulme, I hope you are in good health. . . . I will accept the conditions you laid before me last time . . .
Offer? Conditions? Not so willing, if the scratched-out lines were any indication. He turned the letter over.
It was addressed to someone called Mr. Geo. Hulme, Esq. of Fyfield Place, in Gilmorton, Leicestershire.
Who the devil was Mr. George Hulme, Esquire?
And what was he to Maddy? Whatever offer he’d made before, she’d obviously refused it. Was she now reconsidering? Because of Nash?
“Did you forget something?” Maddy’s voice came from the open doorway.
He swung around. “Who’s George Hulme?”
Her eyes were immediately shuttered. She closed the door behind her before saying, “My father’s neighbor.” Her gaze dropped to the letter in his hand. She swung her cloak off and plonked it roughly on its hook. “I cannot bear it when people read other people’s letters,” she told him roundly. “It is the most dishonorable, most intrusive, despicable—”
“George Hulme. What sort of neighbor?”
Her eyes snapped with irritation. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but he was a good friend of my father’s. He is executor of Papa’s will and co-trustee of the estate Papa left, such as it is.”
“Co-trustee?”
“He is responsible for the purely financial matters—Papa’s debts, in other words. I have complete control of the children.”
“This”—he brandished the incomplete letter—“this mentions he made you an offer. What sort of offer?”
“Have you no shame, to quote my private correspondence?”
“It was open on the table. What offer?”
She did not respond. Instead she began to gather up the clothing discarded on the floor. The prosaic action infuriated him. He caught her by the wrist. “What offer?”
She pulled away. “A very respectable one.”
“Marriage?” He blinked. “How old is this Hulme fellow?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A couple of years older than Papa, I think. Past sixty?”
“Past sixty? The lecherous old goat! You will refuse him, of course. You did in the past, I collect.”
She gave him an opaque look. “When a man takes good care of himself—and Mr. Hulme is very well preserved—sixty is not that old.”