Читать книгу Reunited with the Major - Anne Herries, Anne Herries - Страница 8

Chapter One

Major Harry Brockley, known as Brock to his friends, stood outside the convent and stared at the forbidding grey walls. He had visited this place for the last time and the empty feeling inside him seemed to engulf his whole self.

‘Sister Violet died peacefully in her sleep last night, Major,’ the Abbess had told him gently. ‘Her fever came quickly and gained a hold before we had any idea of how ill she really was. I am truly sorry to give you this news, for I know you were fond of her—my only consolation for you is that she is at peace in the arms of her Maker.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Brock had answered. ‘Peace at last, but at what cost?’

‘You are still so angry and bitter,’ the gentle nun said. ‘Sister Violet was not bitter. She forgave the man who destroyed her life—and I know she would wish you to do the same.’

‘That man is now dead,’ Brock said coldly. ‘Had he lived still, I should have killed him with my bare hands. He took a sweet perfect girl and hurt her so badly that she could not go on living in this world, but came here to die in this place. That is the man you would have me forgive?’

‘I fear that you will have no peace of your own until you can forgive him, and yourself, Major Brockley. Forgive me, but it hurts me to see a soul in such torment when there is really no need. The girl you loved was lost long ago. The woman who lived here with us has been at peace for some years now. Her only desire was that you would learn to forgive her for causing you such pain.’

‘Her name was Mary and she had nothing to be forgiven for,’ Brock cried. ‘I was the one that let her down. I am the one who hoped for forgiveness.’

‘Then let me tell you that she never blamed you, not for one instant.’

Brock cursed aloud, knowing that he’d been rude, and left the good woman without so much as a thank-you for her kindness. He’d been furious with her for mouthing words that meant nothing. Who was Sister Violet? The girl he’d cared for deeply as a beloved sister had been Mary, the friend of his youth. How could the Abbess ever hope to understand that Brock blamed himself for what had happened to the innocent young girl whom the Marquis of Shearne had beaten, raped and left for dead?

‘May you rot in hell, Shearne!’ Brock cried aloud. ‘Death was too good for you.’

The Marquis had almost managed to kill Brock, too. Had it not been for the quick thinking of Phipps’s wife, Amanda, he might have died from loss of blood or a fever, but she and Phipps had brought him through and the thought of his friends relaxed his stern features. It had seemed an unlikely marriage at the outset, because Phipps was a tall lean soldier and Amanda a plump little darling, but rather pretty. Of course, she had lost much of that puppy fat before her marriage, but Brock knew that his friend hadn’t even noticed. Phipps loved Amanda for what she was—an attractive, kind, generous and loving woman—and a wife that Brock envied him.

The shadow of what had happened to the girl he’d loved had lain over Brock for years, haunting him, deciding him against marriage. He wasn’t a fit husband for any woman. He’d let down the girl who had trusted him, but she had never blamed him.

Of course she wouldn’t. She was too fine and sweet and gentle to bear a grudge—even against the man who had ruined her.

If Sister Violet had let go of the grief of that terrible day, perhaps it was time that he did, too, Brock thought as he walked to the waiting curricle. Perhaps it was time to do as his father was continually asking him to do—marry, put the past behind him and start a family.

Brock had many times regretted his hasty decision to offer for Miss Cynthia Langton, the only daughter of Lord Langton, and an heiress. Brock had rescued her after she managed to escape from Shearne, who had kidnapped her in an effort to secure her fortune, but Cynthia had given Shearne the slip and Brock had found her wandering down the road. She’d had no money and was faint and ill, having been drugged by that fiend. They’d put out a story about her having fallen in a ditch and lain there overnight until he’d found her, though it wasn’t true—but it saved her reputation for she would have been ruined had it got out that she’d been in Shearne’s company all that time. Because he’d failed the girl he loved, Brock had out of chivalry offered for Cynthia’s hand in marriage. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, on her part as well as his, and he believed that she had also regretted accepting him. At the time it hadn’t seemed to matter, but since then he’d cursed himself for being a fool.

Climbing into the curricle, Brock told his groom to drive back to London. He saw the surprise in the man’s face for he normally chose to drive himself, but this particular afternoon he was in no mood for it.

Lost in his thoughts, his eyes closed, Brock brooded as the miles melted away and his mind wrestled with his problem, but came up without a solution. If the marriage were to be called off, then the decision must be Cynthia’s. He could not—would not—jilt her. She’d been very subdued since that day, unlike the sparkling girl who had had half of London at her feet in her first Season. Brock could only think that she was unhappy, regretting her decision, as he had his—but he did not know how to broach the subject of breaking their engagement.

Perhaps he should simply ask her to set the date of their wedding. Cynthia had hinted that she wished to wait until the summer, but it was spring now and they ought to start thinking of making the arrangements. If the wedding was to happen, it should not be much longer delayed. Nine months was sufficient even for her mama. Any longer would be ridiculous, yet he knew that something inside him was protesting against a loveless marriage.

Brock frowned, because his bride-to-be was beautiful, and could, when she wished, be extremely charming. He was not in love with her and he was pretty sure that Cynthia felt no more than gratitude and friendship for him, but perhaps that was enough?

Brock knew that many friends of his family had made arranged marriages based on property, rank or necessity, but quite often as successful as any other. He also knew that the marriage of a friend, purported to be a love match, had hit the rocks only two years after it began, simply because the young woman became wrapped up in her child and the husband felt neglected. He’d been unfaithful to her and she’d thrown a tantrum when she discovered it and had taken her child and gone to stay with her father, refusing to come back even when her husband begged her.

Brock felt sure that Cynthia would not require him to sit in her pocket when they were married. She would have her circle of friends, entertain and go out as she pleased, and he would do the same—obliging her with his presence whenever she requested it. Since they both wanted a family it would be a proper marriage, but that should not be difficult; she was a beautiful woman and he did not dislike her.

Indeed, there were times when he felt he could like her very well—if she would let herself go a little, smile more. She was polite, gentle in her speech and grateful—and somehow that irked him. Cynthia never complained if he did not go down to the country to see her for weeks at a time. He sometimes felt she would have preferred to be left quite alone, but her mama and his father were both pressing for the wedding.

Brock’s thoughts were suspended as he was suddenly thrown forward and the curricle came to an abrupt halt.

‘What the devil! What on earth do you think you’re doing, Harris?’

‘In the road, sir,’ the groom said as he manfully grappled with the plunging horses and steadied them. ‘I didn’t see it until we were nearly upon her—I think it’s a woman, sir.’

Brock looked down and saw what had made his groom bring the horses to such a sudden stop. At first glance it was a bundle of old clothes, but on closer inspection he could make out the shape of a woman, her bare feet showing beneath the long skirts.

‘Good grief.’ He jumped down to investigate. Kneeling down, he turned the bundle of clothing and saw the face of a young and rather pretty woman. She was very pale, as if she had been ill for some while, her dark hair greasy and tangled, and her feet had bled, the dried blood crusted between her toes. However, her clothes were not rags as he’d first thought, but the clothes of a lady of quality. He bent over her, feeling for a pulse, and was relieved when he discovered that she was alive. ‘She’s still breathing, Harris. We’d better get her to the nearest decent inn. She needs a bed, warmth, food and a doctor by the look of her.’

He gathered the unknown girl in his arms and lifted her into the curricle. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not open them, though her lips moved as if in protestor fear.

‘No need to be anxious,’ Brock soothed softly. ‘You’re unwell, but we shall look after you. We’ll fetch a doctor to you and put you to bed and you’ll be better in no time.’

Again the eyelids fluttered and a faint protest was on her lips. Brock heard the word no, but the rest of her protest was indistinct and he could not tell what she meant to say. Her unease was clear, even though she was too exhausted to be truly aware of him.

‘What do you think has happened to her, sir?’

‘She has suffered some harm,’ Brock said. ‘The sooner we can get her settled and a doctor to her, the sooner we shall know what caused her to collapse on the road like that. Well done for stopping in time. Had you run over her, she would surely have died.’

‘In this light I only just saw her in time,’ his groom said. ‘You’ll not make London tonight, sir.’

‘No, I think not,’ Brock agreed. ‘I must see to her needs first. It matters little when I get to town. I was engaged to play cards this evening, but my friends will understand. Drive on and stop at the Swan, please. It cannot be more than five miles. We must just hope that they have sufficient rooms to accommodate us.’

* * *

‘The young lady is awake now, Major Brockley.’ The innkeeper’s wife nodded to him and smiled. ‘That sleeping draught the doctor gave her worked a treat, sir. She feels much better this morning and asked me how she got here. Of course, I told her she had you to thank and she asked if you would step up and see her.’

‘Yes, of course. Perhaps you had best accompany me, ma’am?’

‘Oh, no, Major. My daughter Polly is there and will stay with her the whole time. You will forgive me, but I have much to do.’

‘Of course. I was thinking only of the invalid’s good name and her feelings. She might be nervous of a man she does not know.’

‘Bless you, sir. I told her a better man never walked this earth. She need not fear harm from a gentleman like you, Major—and her name is Rosemarie, so she says, though that might not be quite the truth. It strikes me that young lady has something to hide, but she is a lady, sir. I would vouch for that.’

‘I am certain you are right,’ Brock agreed, hiding his smile. ‘Very well, I shall go up to her. If Dr Reed returns, please ask him to come straight up. He said he would call to see her again this morning.’

‘Yes, Major. Certainly.’

Brock nodded his head to her and went up the broad staircase. The Swan was a coaching inn not more than thirty miles from London and one of the best for accommodation. He’d stayed here often in the past and that had stood him in good stead when he’d turned up the previous evening with an unconscious lady in his arms. His explanation was instantly accepted and a doctor called, the best available bedchambers handed over without a murmur of protest.

Walking down the landing to the door of the chamber allotted to the mysterious Rosemarie, he stopped and knocked. Invited to enter, he went in cautiously and saw that the patient was propped up against a pile of feather pillows. Her long dark hair spread over her shoulders and her slight body was wrapped in a thick yellow-and-white cotton nightgown that was three times too big for her. A white bedjacket was over her shoulders, showing only the very ends of her fingers. She was perfectly respectable and he saw for the first time rather pretty. At the moment her pale cheeks were flushed with a becoming pink.

The innkeeper’s daughter Polly curtsied to him and retired to the washstand, fiddling with basins and little pots, clearly under instructions not to leave the room so long as he was in it. Smiling inwardly, Brock approached the bed, his expression serious as he looked at Rosemarie.

‘I am glad to see you looking much better, miss,’ he said in what he hoped was an avuncular tone. ‘I am told your name is Rosemarie. Are you willing to tell me why you were lying in the middle of the road last night?’

He saw her eyelids flutter and knew that she was preparing to lie to him, then, she smiled and he gasped, because her whole face lit up and he saw that she would, in the right circumstances, be beautiful.

‘I am told that your name is Major Brockley and that you brought me here, sir, thus saving my life. The innkeeper’s wife told me that I have nothing to fear from you. She thinks you the most honourable man she has met—and I have to thank you for your kindness.’

‘Mrs Simpson does me too much honour, but I promise you that she is right to say you have nothing to fear. As for kindness, well, it was the least I could do. Only a heartless rogue would have left you lying in the road. If you are in trouble, you have only to tell me and I shall do all in my power to assist you.’

‘How kind of you—but I fear there is little anyone can do now.’

‘Forgive me. I think you give up too easily. There is always something one can do—do you not think so?’

‘Well, I did,’ she replied in a frank way that surprised him. ‘I thought I could run away to London and find work as a seamstress—but I was robbed, set upon and...’ Her eyes slid away from his gaze. ‘Very nearly abused. I fled to avoid being forced into one hateful relationship and very nearly ended in a worse one. Now I do not know what I can do unless I go home and submit to them.’

‘You have been unfortunate, it seems,’ Brock said, a scowl on his face. ‘Give me the name of those who have harmed you and I will seek redress for you.’

‘If you do that, they will take me back and force me to marry him,’ she said, and a tear slid from the corner of her right eye. She dashed it away. ‘Everyone believes them and not me. They think he is a kind good man who will care for me—but I know that he wants Papa’s fortune and they want the Manor. I heard them making their wicked bargain. He said they could keep the house and land and he would take the mills. Papa had five, you see, and they are worth a lot of money—and then there are my mother’s jewels. They are worth a king’s ransom alone, I dare say, but they have them locked away in my aunt’s room. I know she covets them for she wears them when they go out and when I protested she said that I was not allowed to have them until I marry...or my fortune.’

‘I see.’ Brock’s frown deepened. ‘And you think this man will take everything you own and treat you badly?’

‘He says he adores me,’ she said, sighing deeply. ‘I know he wants me, because he will keep touching me, but he makes me shudder and I refused to marry him. My uncle says I have no choice. He is my guardian and this man is his friend, but it is only because he wants my papa’s house and land and my aunt wants the jewels. Sir Montague doesn’t care as long as he gets the mills. They think I am just a pawn to be used as they wish and it is not fair. Papa would never have allowed it.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Brock murmured, looking at her speculatively. ‘Do you not have any friends who would assist you? No one to take you in and fight for your rights?’

‘There is my old nurse,’ Rosemarie told him, a smile on her lips now. ‘She was sent packing after Papa died, because she was loyal to me. She told me she would write to me, but no letters came. I fear my aunt burned them.’

‘You have been the victim of a wicked plot,’ Brock said, not sure if he believed everything she said. ‘Would your old nurse take you in if you could contact her?’

‘Yes, of course. Sarah was my friend always. Papa said she loved me as much as any mother could—you see my mother died when I was still very young. I was Papa’s only child.’

‘Then, if we could find Sarah, you could stay with her until someone sorts out this mess for you.’

‘I would be safe with Sarah, but only if my aunt and uncle did not find me. Sarah has no authority and my uncle is my guardian. He would force me to go back to them—and then I should be made to marry Sir Montague.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Nineteen, though I know I look younger. My uncle is my guardian for another two years. If I do not sign any papers, they cannot touch Papa’s fortune or sell off his mills—but of course, my aunt has the jewels. Not that I care for that, because I have Mama’s pearls and some small pieces of hers that Papa gave me when I was sixteen. I managed to smuggle them out in my gown when I escaped, and it is as well that I did sew the bag inside my gown—for everything else was stolen when I stayed overnight at an inn.’

‘You have been taken advantage of,’ Brock said, deciding that he believed at least a part of her story, though he was sure she was keeping something from him. ‘Will you trust me to help you?’

She looked at him in a considering fashion. ‘That depends on what you suggest, sir.’

‘I have some friends who I am sure will be happy to invite you to stay for a while. You would be quite safe with Amanda and Phipps—and, if you were willing to give me the names of your aunt and uncle, I might be able to discover what they are doing about your disappearance.’

‘You wouldn’t tell them where to find me?’

‘No, you have my word as a gentleman that I shall keep your secret, Miss...’

‘Ross,’ she said. ‘I’m Miss Rose Mary Ross of Ross House in Falmouth, though I have decided that I should like to be called Rosemarie in future—and my aunt and uncle are Lord and Lady Roxbourgh. My uncle is not a wealthy man, because his estate is small. Papa inherited his estate from his father and then increased his fortune. My uncle is related to Papa by marriage through their mother, who married my grandfather first and then, after he died, Lord Roxbourgh’s father. It is a little complicated.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but it explains why this gentleman is willing to stoop to wickedness to gain a fortune he covets, but has no right to.’

‘Papa left everything to me, because his estate was never entailed—but he trusted his half-brother...’

‘And so he made him your guardian. That was unfortunate, but not insurmountable. It is possible to have someone removed as guardian, you know—if we can prove that he is unfit to continue and has abused his position.’

‘Yes, but how can it be done, when everyone thinks it is such a good idea? Sir Montague is not terribly old nor is he ugly, and all our friends think it a splendid match for me, because he isn’t even a gambler or terribly in debt.’

‘Yes, I quite see how they’ve managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes,’ Brock said. ‘However, at nineteen you are quite old enough to make up your own mind and it is very wrong to force you—or to deny you the rest of your mother’s jewels.’

‘I wrote to my lawyer. He said he was sorry I was unhappy, but he could do nothing until I came of age, unless I married—and he likes Sir Montague himself. I know he thought I was just a silly girl.’

‘Well, I believe you,’ Brock said. ‘I’m not sure you’ve told me everything, Miss Ross—but I am perfectly willing to help you on the basis of what you’ve told me.’

Rosemarie avoided his eyes, confirming his suspicion that she had not told him the whole story. ‘Perhaps if you could help me get to London?’

‘To be a seamstress?’ Brock shook his head. ‘I do not think you would enjoy that very much, Miss Ross. Far better to stay with my friends and allow me the privilege of sorting out this mess for you.’

‘Why should you do so much for me? You do not know me at all.’

‘No, but I saved your life—and the ancient civilisations say that once you save a life you are responsible for that life.’

Rosemarie laughed and shook her head. ‘That is silly, Major. I am sure you cannot want the bother of dealing with my aunt and uncle and sorting out my troubles.’

‘No, you wrong me, Miss Ross. I never make a promise I don’t intend to keep—and I promise that I shall do all I can to put this muddle straight.’

‘Well, are you perfectly sure that your friends would not find me a nuisance?’

‘Once you meet Amanda you will know that she could never find you a nuisance. I dare say that she will be reluctant to part with you when the time comes.’

‘But what shall I do?’ Rosemarie asked doubtfully. ‘If I had another aunt I could live with, I might see an end to all this, but I cannot stay with your friends for ever. Even if you were to recover a part of my fortune.’

‘I shall also endeavour to find your old nurse, and if you have money you may pay for a respectable lady to be your chaperon. Besides, if your aunt and uncle were sent packing, you might like to return to your home with your nurse—until it is time for you to come out.’

‘But it is time now,’ Rosemarie pointed out. ‘I asked my aunt to bring me to London, or indeed Bath, but she said Sir Montague wished to marry me and there was no point, because I would not find a more suitable husband...’

‘I do not know why she should say that,’ Brock said. ‘I am certain that you could find any number of suitors given time.’

‘I might not,’ Rosemarie said and lowered her gaze. ‘Perhaps I should tell you everything. Mama was not a respectable person.’

‘What do you mean?’ Brock looked at her in astonishment.

‘Papa had a wife...she lived in an institution. He took Mama to live at the Manor with him until she died giving birth to me, but she was never his wife.’ Rosemarie bit her bottom lip. ‘You see, that is why everyone thinks I’m lucky that Sir Montague is prepared to marry a bastard. I may be rich, but I am still illegitimate.’

Brock was stunned into silence for a moment. Her revelation did alter the circumstances a little. She might be rich, if her fortune could be saved from these grasping relatives, but some people would consider that she could never enter the ranks of society, because her father was not married to her mother.

‘Why did they not marry?’

‘Papa was a Roman Catholic and so was his wife. He said he could not obtain a divorce and remain within his church—and Mama said rather than make him terribly unhappy, she agreed to live with him. He always said she was his wife in everything but name and he promised me that they were happy until she died.’

‘Ah, that explains it.’ Brock shook his head. ‘Are you also a Roman Catholic?’

‘No. Papa said it was a curse and allowed my aunt to bring me up in a more forgiving faith and I was grateful to her. Indeed, we got on very well until Sir Montague offered for me and they saw a way of taking over the Manor. However, I remain grateful that I was brought up as a Protestant for I would never join a church that could condemn a child to be born out of wedlock because her parents were not allowed to marry. Had Papa divorced his wife, who would have known nothing of it, Mama would have been respectable and I might not be in this predicament.’

‘Yes, I see. How very sad for your parents,’ Brock said. ‘I understand a man’s faith is important, but...’ He shook his head. ‘It is not my affair. Thank you for telling me the whole. Having secrets does not help when you are dealing with people such as your aunt and uncle—and this Sir Montague.’

‘No, it was just that...’ She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Do you still think I’m a suitable person for your friends to meet?’

‘I am quite certain they will not hold your birth against you, Miss Ross,’ he said. ‘Now, I believe that is the doctor I can hear on the stairs. I shall leave you to speak to him alone.’

‘You will still help me?’

‘Of course. I gave you my word. I shall not go back on it,’ Brock said, and smiled at her. ‘Try not to brood on your wrongs, child. Everyone concerned has treated you very badly, but I shall find a way out of this mess for you. Just believe that not everyone is as evil as those people you have fled from.’

Leaving her just as the elderly doctor entered, Brock toyed with the problem he’d taken on. He had no doubt that Sir Roxbourgh and his lady had high hopes of keeping hold of both the Manor and the jewels, while Sir Montague was hoping to become the owner of several mills. However, he had a lawyer in London who would move heaven and earth to please his favourite client and Brock did not doubt that the fraud could be exposed. Whether it could be done without scandal reflecting on Miss Ross herself was another matter. As an illegitimate child, she would be ostracised by most society hostesses—and though she might not mind that, Brock found that he did for her sake.

He would certainly discuss the legal details with his lawyer, but as for the rest? That would take some clever planning if they were to come off without a scandal of the first degree.

As yet he had not asked himself the question why he had decided to take up the cudgels on Rose Mary’s—no, Rosemarie’s, he smiled at the change of name—behalf. It might have something to do with the unease and feeling of guilt that had come over him when he was told of Sister Violet’s death, but if that were the case his mind had not understood it. All Brock knew was that a young woman stood in desperate trouble and this time he would do all in his power to see that she did not come to harm.

Brock was still uncertain whether she’d confessed the whole, but her revelations concerning her mother were startling and made her situation even more unfortunate. Indeed, many of the ladies who might have taken her under their wing would not contemplate the idea of harbouring a bastard, however delightful she might be.