Читать книгу The Bride of the Unicorn - Kasey Michaels, Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 12

It is impossible to please all the world and one’s father.

Jean de La Fontaine

CAROLINE SAT COMFORTABLY on the soft leather seat of Morgan’s closed coach, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of having her stomach filled with good food. She had been eating almost constantly since driving away from Woodwere, and warranted that no single ambition in this life could be loftier than to continue filling her belly at regular intervals until she was as immense as a wheelbarrow and rocked from side to side as she walked.

Not that she believed she would get that chance, certain that she would soon be sent on her way. She had seen the marquis briefly this morning as they all exited the inn, before he climbed on his beautiful bay horse, vowing he would not ride inside with the four none-too-sweet-smelling additions to his entourage while he retained a single sane bone in his body. He had said much the same yesterday, Peaches had told Caroline, while the two of them were traveling to Woodwere, a statement that just proved that the marquis was “too high in the instep by half.”

But it wasn’t his desertion, riding ahead to The Acres and leaving the coach to follow along as best it could, that had forced Caroline to conclude that her introduction to polite society was still no closer to becoming a reality than it had been in Miss Twittingdon’s room as that lady taught her the correct way to curtsy to the Prince Regent. No, it was more than that.

Morgan Blakely, Caroline had decided, had spent the night adding up one side of his personal ledger with the benefits to be had from declaring Caroline Monday to be Lady Caroline Wilburton, then deducting the drawbacks to such a scheme on the other side. Peaches, Aunt Leticia, and Ferdie—who had taught her all she knew about ledgers—had to number on the minus side, as she probably did herself. He certainly had not gone to any great lengths to hide his contempt for them all.

The only thing that could make the ledger amounts tilt in her favor would be if the marquis had some very personal reason for wanting to have her declared the missing heiress. He hadn’t labored very long claiming that he was just an Englishman doing what was right. He had his own reasons for finding Lady Caroline, she was convinced, and his own plans for using her to his advantage. And, most probably, to someone else’s disadvantage.

But Caroline would leave off all this heavy thinking for a while, she decided, and enjoy her second ride in a coach in as many days. She had never before traveled in such style, having rarely left the orphanage for more than an occasional trip into the village, and had been transported to her position at Woodwere on the back of an open wagon. To be surrounded by luxury such as that provided by the marquis’s crested coach was an adventure that nearly outstripped last night’s treat of sleeping in a bed with only two other people, Peaches and Miss Twittingdon, sharing it with her.

Unwilling to miss a single moment more of the trip due to fruitless introspection concerning Lord Clayton’s motives for seeking out a plausible Lady Caroline Wilburton, she lifted the leather flap and looked out at the scenery that was flying by at a dizzying pace. According to the marquis, they were now traveling the same roadway the earl and his countess had ridden along that fateful night.

She squinted out at the trees, bare of their greenery in anticipation of the coming winter, and tried to imagine how they had looked that night fifteen years earlier, with the bare branches illuminated only by the light from coach lamps, like those on the marquis’s coach that had lit their way to the inn last evening. They would have been traveling quickly, the earl and his lady, in order to reach the warmth and comfort of their home, but not too quickly, because it would have been difficult for the coachman to see the road unless there was a full moon that night.

Did highwaymen ply their trade only during a full moon, or did they confine their activities to moonless nights? Peaches would know, Caroline felt sure, but did not bother to ask. It was enough to let her imagination set the scene.

Caroline sat back and closed her eyes, deliberately using that imagination to conjure up two well-dressed people and the child who was traveling with them. She had seen detailed drawings of society people in the dog-eared fashion plates she’d often pored over in Miss Twittingdon’s room, so it wasn’t hard to picture what that doomed trio must have looked like, with their fancy clothes and curling feathers and elaborate jewels.

It had been late at night, so the child was probably sleeping—or crying. It was either the one thing or the other with children, Caroline knew, thanks to her years at the orphanage.

For the moment she’d pretend that the child was quiet, determined to stay awake past her bedtime, but on the edge of sleep, her head nodding wearily against her mother. And then, just as they all thought they were nearing their home, they heard shots, and a threatening, highwaymanlike voice called out the well-known words: “Stand and deliver!”

Caroline shivered, tensing as if she had actually heard the man’s command. She could clearly imagine the pandemonium that must have been unleashed inside the doomed coach at that terrible sound!

In her mind’s eye she could almost see the horses plunging to a halt, hear the coachman yelling, understand the countess’s plight as she was caught between fear for her husband and child and a reluctance to part with all her beautiful jewelry. And the earl. Poor man. Caroline could feel his frustration. How he must have wished to take up the pistols hidden in the pockets of the coach—like those she had earlier discovered in the marquis’s coach—and leap to the ground, shoot down the highwaymen, and protect his women.

Why hadn’t he done that? Caroline frowned, her eyes still squeezed closed, her palms damp. Why was she supposing that he hadn’t? Perhaps that was why he and his wife had been shot. Perhaps if he had stayed where he was, even hidden himself—hidden himself? and where could he have hidden inside a small coach?—the highwaymen wouldn’t have blown a hole in him, and his lady wife wouldn’t have had to scream and scream and scream….

“Caro, m’darlin’. It’s bored to flinders I am, and that’s a fact, what with these two loonies snoring louder than hens can cackle. Why don’t ye give us a song?”

“No!” Caroline’s green eyes shot wide open, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart pounding furiously. “Caro’s tired!”

Peaches crossed her arms beneath her flat breast and snorted. “Well, aren’t we cross as two sticks this mornin’? Tired, is it, with the sun climbin’ high in the sky and not a single turnip chopped or nary a chamber pot emptied? It’s a fine lady ye’ll make, little gel, and that’s fer certain—fer ye surely has the temper fer it.”

Caroline pressed trembling hands to her cheeks for a moment, then sighed. For a moment, just a moment, it had all seemed so real. Perhaps a single year was still too long for an imaginative person such as she to work in a madhouse. “I’m sorry, Peaches. I was just trying to suppose what it was like to be robbed and murdered. Do you think the real Lady Caroline saw what happened? Do you think they carried her off and sold her to the Gypsies, or did they just kill her and leave her body for the animals?”

Peaches waggled her head from side to side, chuckling softly. “Better not ever let his worship hear ye askin’ such questions, and don’t ye know. But since ye’re askin’, the way I figure the thing, the high-toby men planned ta sell the bairn ta the Gypsies—seein’ as how we all know how Gypsies like boilin’ up and eatin’ little kiddies—but she proved ta be such a trial that they got rid of her at the orphanage, sayin’ good riddance ta bad rubbish.”

“At the orphanage? In Glynde?” Caroline leaned forward and peered at Peaches intently. “Then you’re saying that I am Lady Caroline?”

“As long as his worship feeds me I’ll be sayin’ anythin’ he says, little gel, and so should ye,” Peaches told her, then closed her more than usually shifting, secretive eyes. “Say it, think it, and swear on m’mither’s grave ta the truth of it, don’t ye know. Now go ta sleep, iffen ye’re so tired, and so will I. We won’t be gettin’ ta his worship’s da’s place fer a while yet.”

Caroline, who knew Peaches was right—hadn’t she said almost the same thing to the marquis last night?—leaned back against the soft leather, knowing it would be impossible for her to close her eyes again without immediately conjuring up the horrific scene that had played behind her eyelids only a few moments earlier.

Instead, as Miss Twittingdon’s head nodded onto her shoulder and the snores of Ferdie and Peaches competed with the sound of the coach wheels as they rolled on and on along the roadway, Caroline Monday peered out at the passing scenery, gnawing on the tip of her left index finger until she had drawn blood.

THE ACRES MIGHT HAVE BEEN Morgan’s birthplace, but he had ceased many a long year ago to consider it his home. As he rode along the wide, tree-lined avenue that led to the four-story mellowed pink stone structure, he wondered why he felt that way and why it had been so impossible for his father to love him.

Perhaps, he considered thoughtfully, they had been too different or, as Uncle James had hinted, too much the same.

According to his uncle, Morgan’s father had seen his share of adventure in his salad days, before he ascended to the dukedom. Then, in short order, he had taken a wife, fathered two sons, buried that wife, and become so bloody responsible that laughter and frolic seemed to be foreign words, unable to be understood by the man.

Along with many other of his uncle James’s deathbed assertions, Morgan was still having more than a little difficulty believing that his father had ever been a carefree youth. William Blakely, as far as Morgan could see, had been born full grown, with no notion of what it was like to be young, to career around the countryside with some of the tenant farmers’ sons, changing signposts and liberating chickens from their coops, or cutting a lark in the village—or even laughing out loud at the dinner table.

When he couldn’t talk Morgan into seeing his point of view, or sermonize him into sensibility, William had taken to whipping the “frivolous frolic” out of his son, punishing Morgan for setting an unsavory example for his young brother, Jeremy. Those whippings had come to an abrupt halt when, at the age of thirteen, Morgan pulled the switch from his father’s hand and flung it across the room, daring the man to come at him with his fists.

The next day, over his weeping mother’s protests, Morgan had been packed off to boarding school for most of each year, where he instantly became an outstanding, if not outstandingly well behaved, student. Two summers later his mother died peacefully in her sleep, and William buried his grief by way of a closer association with religion, a turning point that Morgan now saw as the worst possible catastrophe to strike the Blakely sons.

Jeremy, three years Morgan’s junior, was not allowed to rejoin his brother at school once the year of mourning was over, as William had decided to continue tutoring his younger, more beloved—more tractable—son at home, preparing him for a life among the clergy. After all, as the duke had said at the time, heaven only knew boarding school was not proving capable of knocking any sort of sense of responsibility into his older son.

But the duke hadn’t counted on Morgan’s compelling personality or Jeremy’s near worship of his hey-go-mad, neck-or-nothing older brother, who appeared in his orbit for only a few months a year. In the end, Morgan was sure, it was that love, that devotion, that misplaced adoration, which had led Jeremy to follow that older brother into war—and to his death.

And William Blakely, devastated by this additional loss, had turned even more devotedly to his God, and away from his remaining son.

Morgan pushed aside his memories as the wide front doors of The Acres opened and a footman raced to offer his assistance. Morgan dismounted, patted the bay’s rump, and instructed the boy to make sure a groom rubbed the horse down well before he fed and watered him. And then, knowing the coach carrying his oddly assorted entourage would not arrive for at least another hour, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked up the steps to enter his father’s house.

“Good day, m’lord,” Grisham, the family butler—who had more than once hidden a filthy, bruised, much younger Morgan so that his father would not see that he had been fighting with one of the village boys again—inclined his balding gray head stiffly and held out his hands to take the marquis’s riding crop, hat, many-caped greatcoat, and gloves. “We had thought when you left yesterday morning that it was for a return to Clayhill. Is his grace expecting you?”

Morgan laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Now, Grisham, what do you suppose?”

The butler lowered his eyelids and pressed his chin toward his chest. “Forgive me, m’lord.” Then he raised his head once more and smiled. “But, if I may be allowed to say so, sir, I am extremely pleased to see you again.”

“You are most definitely allowed to say that, old friend, and thank you.” Morgan looked around the high-ceilinged entrance hall, then toward the closed doors to the main drawing room. “Is my father in there?”

“No, m’lord,” Grisham answered, his voice rather sad. “He’s where he is every day at this time. In young Master Jeremy’s rooms.”

“Sweet Jesus, Grisham, does the man enjoy suffering?” Morgan shook his head. “Well, there’s nothing else for it—I’ll have to go upstairs. Do you have any sackcloth and ashes about, old friend, or do you think this road dirt I’m wearing is enough to make me look the penitent?”

The butler didn’t answer, but only stood back, bowing, so that Morgan had nothing else to do but walk toward the wide, winding staircase. He reached the bottom step before he turned. “My coach will be arriving within the hour, Grisham. Inside it will be three women—I cannot bring myself to call them ladies, I fear, at least not until they are all bathed—and a young, smallish gentleman. Please see that three rooms are prepared in the guest wing, and one in the servants’ quarters. I believe you’ll have no great difficulty ascertaining which of our new residents belongs under the eaves. Simmons—my valet, as you might remember—is riding atop the coach with my driver. He’ll see to the unpacking of my things. Tomorrow will be soon enough for him to ride to Clayhill to collect more of my wardrobe, for I am planning an extensive stay here at The Acres.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Grisham said, bowing yet again, his face expressionless. “That is wonderful news. And should I order three extra places set for supper, for your guests?”

Morgan scratched at a spot just behind his right ear. “I don’t think so, Grisham. Our guests can bathe, then dine in their rooms. I don’t wish to push my luck.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll see that your instructions are carried out to the letter.”

Smiling, Morgan returned the butler’s formal bow. He could always count on Grisham to stick to business, without turning a hair at what the marquis knew was an outrageous set of instructions. “You do that, Grisham,” he said, turning to head up the stairs two at a time. “Oh,” he added, looking back over his shoulder, “and you might want to hide any valuables that may be lying around in the bedchambers. Just on the off chance any of our guests decide to cut short their stay with us in the middle of the night.”

Morgan’s smile faded as he climbed the stairs to the first floor of the forty-year-old house. The original estate house had burned to the ground ten years before Morgan’s birth, and the duke and his lady wife had perished in the blaze. The new H-shaped building, although fashioned very much like its predecessor on the outside, had been divided in the new, modern way, with the public rooms on the ground floor and extensive family chambers on the first floor.

Jeremy’s rooms were located to the left of the top of the staircase, through a door at the end of a wide hallway lined with oil paintings depicting bucolic country scenes found nowhere on this particular estate, several doors beyond Morgan’s former bedchamber. The duke’s chambers occupied a large area in the middle of the house, with the guest rooms taking up the wing to the right of the staircase. The nursery was on the third floor, half of which was also devoted to quartering the upper servants. The kitchen servants and, for tonight at least, Mary Magdalene O’Hanlan, had their beds in small cubicles under the eaves in a section of the attics.

Morgan’s mother had been in charge of furnishing the house, for nothing save a few portraits and several sticks of furniture had survived the blaze, and her good taste could be clearly seen in the light colors and delicately carved furniture that would make any outsider believe that The Acres was a well-loved, happy home.

Only it wasn’t. It was a shrine, or at least a part of it had been turned into a shrine, one dedicated to the memory of Lord Jeremy Blakely, dead these past two years, four months, three weeks, and five days.

Morgan pulled a face as he realized what he had been thinking. He was no better than Ferdie Haswit, ticking off the days from the termination of his personal world, his personal happiness, in much the same way that Ferdie was counting down the days until, if his prediction proved correct, the entire world would end.

Should he, Morgan, be locked up alongside Haswit in a place like Woodwere? Should his father the duke be incarcerated there with him? Or was Ferdie Haswit the sane one? How did the world make these judgments? And why, Morgan wondered briefly before dismissing his random thoughts, did any of it matter in the first place?

He approached the door at the end of the hallway, hesitating only slightly before depressing the latch and stepping into the small antechamber that led directly to his brother’s bedroom. “Father?”

There was no answer, which Morgan considered to be a great pity, for it meant he would have to go searching the three large rooms of the apartment for the man. It wasn’t an expedition he looked forward to with any great anticipation. Steeling himself to blank-faced neutrality, he advanced into the apartment, deliberately refusing to look to his left, where Jeremy’s life-size portrait hung against the wall, or to his right, where his brother’s collections of bird’s nests, oddly shaped stones, and ragtag velveteen stuffed animals were displayed on table tops.

Morgan knew without looking that every piece of clothing Jeremy had worn in the last months he’d been at home still hung in the wardrobe in the far corner.

Jeremy’s silver-backed brushes gleamed dully in the half-light, as this wing was on the shady side of the house and the sun had already made its circuit past its many windows.

His brother’s riding crop, a birthday gift from Morgan, was curled on the coverlet on his bed.

The lopsided birdhouse Jeremy had hammered together at the age of six was displayed on the night table.

A pair of mittens knitted by their mother for his fifth birthday lay on a chest at the bottom of the bed.

And a Bible, opened to the Twenty-third Psalm, rested on the desk where Jeremy had written his farewell note to his father before riding away in the middle of the night to seek out the adventure he would never have found at The Acres.

Jeremy’s rooms were exactly as they had been before he went off to war, to join his brother, his idol, and eventually to die a terrible death in that brother’s arms.

“You say you have forgiven me, Father,” Morgan said softly, giving in, only momentarily, to the pain. “Yet this room is still here, still the same. How can you truly forgive if you refuse to forget?”

“Who’s there? Grisham? How many times must I tell you that I do not wish to be disturbed when I am in here? Is there no peace to be found anywhere in this world? No compassion?”

Morgan took another step into the room, to stand just at the edge of the carpet. “No, Father, as a matter of fact, I don’t believe either of those things does exist,” he said, espying the duke standing just beside the windows, his thin face eloquent with pain. “Just as there is no real forgiveness, no entirely selfless charity, and precious little understanding.”

He took two more steps, turning to peer into the smiling blue eyes of his brother, brilliantly captured in the painting that was done on his seventeenth birthday, then slanted a look full of meaning at his father. “There is, however, revenge. The Old Testament, I believe, is chock full of it. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—and, in admittedly a rather backhanded, perverse way, a child for a child. Tell me, Father, are you at all interested in winning some revenge of your own?”