Lady Anne 02 - Revenge of the Barbary Ghost, page 27
“No,” she shot back, hugging herself. “Not fair to you, perhaps. But my task in this life is to be fair to myself. By saying yes, I would be giving you what you want, but I’m not sure if it’s what I want. I will not answer; I will be happy, wed or not! Give me time!”
He was silent, staring at her, his mouth drawn down. The ocean breeze lifted his dark hair from his forehead and he impatiently swept it back. “How much time: a day, a week, a month? A year?” he shouted. “What do you expect?”
“I know I’m not being fair to you,” she cried and turned away. She stared out over the ocean. “And I don’t expect you to wait. If you can love someone else, then go to her.”
“Don’t be absurd!”
“I’m not being absurd.” She turned back and stared at him. His dark eyes were wild with suppressed anguish, and she felt her heart squeeze in her chest, constricting, knowing she was causing him pain.
“You’re being worse than absurd,” he shouted, grabbing her wrist. “You’re throwing it all away. You’re behaving as though what is between us is unclear.”
“But it is unclear,” she said, pulling her wrist from his grasp. “It just is not as simple for me as it is for you, Tony!” She turned away so he would not see the tears in her eyes. Silence. Staring off over the ocean, she sobbed, her voice thick with unshed tears, “Tony, please! It’s all I can do. Let me go home and think. Don’t follow me.” She turned around to him, but he was walking away, toward Cliff House. And when she got back to the house, he was gone, having said a hasty goodbye to Pamela.
Cold fear clutched her heart. Had she chased him away forever? What else could she expect? She could do no more, nor any less. This was her life and she must direct it as she thought right.
Another two days later, everything was finally settled. Anne had made good on her promise to Abraham Goldsmith to buy gem chips for the eyes of the cat on the head of the exquisite carved walking stick he wrought, and it was done, polished, wrapped in fine fabric to protect it and stowed in Anne’s trunk. Anne would always remember her time spent with Abraham and Rebecca as the most peaceful of her visit to Cornwall.
Magistrate Twynam had been back several times to Pam’s home, and it was clear that he suspected there was more to the story of the smuggling gang than he was being told. But his frequent reappearance often seemed to have more to do with Lolly’s delicious cooking than any further questions, and in the end his questions were mostly, “Miss Broomhall, have you made fresh scones today?” and “Miss Broomhall, would you care to accompany me to the village for tea?”
Anne was bemused by Lolly’s hauteur in the face of her weighty admirer’s compliments and blandishments. If they had more time to spend at Cliff House, something may even have come of it, for the gentleman was well fixed and a widower, with grown children.
But they had to leave.
Pam’s affairs were straightened out, the smuggled goods sold off to her contacts. With Micklethwaite dead and Puddicombe in jail, she had made much more money than anticipated, but she had given a good amount to Harriet and Johnny to begin their marriage properly, and made sure all of her “boys” were amply rewarded for the risks they had taken in the smuggling trade. Mrs. Gorse had been paid for her services, and Edward was now with his mother, for Pamela no longer cared about her reputation in St. Wyllow. In a sense, she had already flown from English shores to a better life in the colonies.
Alice, Pam’s little Cornish maid, was going to move with her to Canada, for she had no family, and was fervently loyal to her mistress; Anne was relieved to know Pamela would at least have some companionship, even if it was just a maidservant. Micklethwaite’s heir, a distant cousin in Devonshire, had already been to Cliff House and was to move into it the moment Pamela was gone.
Finally, it was time to go. Anne walked the halls of Cliff House, thinking how many things had changed since she had arrived. Darkefell had left Cornwall, and though she had asked for time before giving him a definitive reply to his second proposal, his abrupt departure and his anger left her wondering if he even wished for a positive answer now. If she had chosen differently, she could be going home to Kent an engaged woman. She descended the stairs to the ground floor, pressing one hand against her stomach, which had been roiling for days, since that last scene with the marquess.
What if she had made a dreadful mistake? What if she never saw him again? She hadn’t intended to mistreat him, nor was she trying to be coy, but it was her life they spoke of, her whole life. Everything about it would change the moment she said that one little three-letter word, the very instant she said “yes.”
Sanderson waited outside with the carriage once more, just as he had a hundred times before. Lolly, Mary, and Robbie were already in the carriage, but Irusan stalked beside her, down the stairs and out to the front, where Pamela, holding Edward, stood. Pam already had tears in her eyes.
“Pam, darling, don’t cry,” Anne said. “You and Edward are to come to me in Kent for a long rest before you sail. Summer crossings are plentiful, and you can come to us for a month or more. You know my father will adore seeing you again.”
“Your dear father; so kind, so gentle!” Pam said, her voice clogged with unshed tears. “But Anne, I think the break will be easier if I just leave. There is a ship sailing from Penzance in a week. I’ve already booked passage to Montreal and written to my cousin there to expect me.”
Anne felt her heart constrict. “I’m going to miss you so!” she cried, hugging her friend and Edward to her. They stood thus for a long time in the late May sunshine, but as much as it hurt, Anne knew she must go. “Goodbye, dear heart,” she said, caressing Pam’s pale cheek. “Write to me and tell me all about your voyage, and your new home.” She then took Edward’s chubby fist in her hand and kissed it, the skin soft under her lips. “And goodbye, little Eddy,” she said, pinching his cheek. “You take care of your mama for me. She is precious beyond words.”
Anne turned to leave.
Pam said, “Wait!” She set her son down on the doorstep and took Anne’s hands in hers, staring into her eyes. “Anne, I must say this. Don’t push away a chance at love. You know, Marcus cared for you very much, but sometimes he could be such a dolt. One of his friends told me Darkefell truly was standing up for you that night at the assembly, when he attacked my cloddish brother. Marcus was trying to be witty, but did it crudely. As much as I loved my brother, he would have made you a dreadful husband. The marquess … I like him very much, for there is a kindness beneath his hauteur. A man like that does not come along every day.”
Anne was silent, not sure how to answer.
“You’ve wounded him terribly. Such a man does not offer his heart, only to have it dismissed as an unworthy gift.”
“I did no such thing, Pam, I merely asked for time to think over his proposal.”
“Then think, but I hope it’s not too late. He was dreadfully angry the last time I saw him. Think about what you’re throwing away.” Pam cupped Anne’s face with one gentle hand. “Darkefell loves you; I don’t need to hear it from him to see it in his eyes, the way he looks at you, the care he takes of you. I had that with Bernard, and even though I lost him, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, the love, the care, the tenderness of a worthy man.” Pam hugged Anne again and gave her a little push toward the carriage. “Now go, and think about what I have said.”
Tears in her eyes, Anne climbed into the carriage, followed by Irusan, and waved goodbye.
First, they would stop at Bath to drop Lolly off, and thence to Kent. Home beckoned with the warm light of paternal love.
***
“Papa!” Anne cried, her skirts rucked up in her fists, racing up the stairs of Harecross Hall, along the gallery and through the library door, followed closely by Irusan, who seemed delighted to be home, too. “Papa!”
And there he was, sitting in a golden pool of light with a stack of books in front of him on the desk, his balding head gleaming, his pouched and rheumy eyes watering, his posture stooped. He straightened, his leather chair creaking with the movement, and the gladness in his eyes was a delight to see. “Annie! My dearest child! You’re home.”
She raced across the room and threw herself into his open arms, on her knees, as Irusan leaped to the desktop, scattering books and papers and crooning his own happiness to be home. The earl rocked her, holding her close while Irusan butted them both with his massive head and purred. When Anne finally looked up at her father, it was to see tears in his eyes.
“Papa, is everything all right?”
“It is now,” he said. “You’re home. I’ve missed you so, my darling girl.”
“I’ve missed you, too. I have so much to tell you! But right now, this is good enough.” She hugged him close, breathing in his ineffable smell, of old books and hair pomade, pipe tobacco and port. “Oh, Papa, I have missed you so terribly.”
Two weeks later—the middle of June—life had settled into familiar patterns, though there were a few unfamiliar problems to deal with, as well. In Anne’s absence a distant cousin with her several children had entrenched herself at Harecross Hall, and it would take some diligence to rid the manor of their pestilential habitation.
But still, life went on. Anne conferred with cook most mornings, and then the housekeeper. She made parish visits for the vicar, who was still unmarried, and therefore had no wife to fill that valuable post of minister to the sick, old, and crippled. She settled arguments among some of the local women, delivered food to the needy, and helped the teachers at her dame school plan for the next year, now that most of the students were busy helping their families with the farmwork.
In other words, she did the tasks her mother, as countess, should have done, but didn’t because of her estrangement from the earl. Anne’s mother had not visited Harecross in two years, and would not deign to set foot there, even with the incentive of a daughter who had received an extremely eligible offer of marriage from a marquess. A flurry of letters had followed Anne to Kent from Bath, but the countess herself would not come to Harecross Hall.
Walking the wild coastline near the village of Kingsdown on a breezy late spring day, looking out over the channel from the chalk cliff, Anne was beginning to feel that all the exciting events of the past months were receding to that gray area of memories and dreams, even the powerful arms and seductive kisses of Lord Darkefell.
Beloved Tony.
Well … no. She was lying to herself, for she would not, could not forget his kisses, and the feel of his heart thumping against hers, and the wild sensations that coursed through her when she had let him go too far for modesty, but not far enough for desire. She closed her eyes, the salt dampness of the wind tugging at her bonnet. Every time she stood still, she could feel Darkefell with her, and she wanted him. She ached to see his face, to hear his voice, to feel his arms.
Had she been a desperate fool to feel the need for solitude in which to consider her feelings for him? Wasn’t this madness pulsing through her veins proof that she loved him deeply enough for a lifetime commitment? She just wasn’t sure anymore what she felt or wanted or needed. It was all a tangled blur, and she was going to make herself wretched if she continued to yearn for him in such a schoolgirlish fashion.
She turned away from the choppy view of the channel and walked inland, along a well-known path from her home of Harecross Hall, past Wroth Farm, and over a hill past a wooded valley hugging the Wroth Hill Stream. She carried a laden basket and had an objective. Her father was terribly worried and in a dilemma. Early in the spring a band of gypsies had politely begged permission to camp in a field quite a distance from the house, promising not to cause any trouble, and to keep the peace. The earl, always interested in language and culture, had agreed, asking only that he be allowed to meet with some of the elders to study their Romany language. He had a theory that if he could trace the roots of their native tongue, it might lead to some surprises about their country of origin. He did not believe they were originally from Egypt, as most claimed, nor from Hungary or Romania, as was also commonly conjectured.
But a few of the local farmers, including the earl’s own home farm tenant, complained that the gypsies robbed the henhouses, fished from the stream, and stole. The earl thought that a few of the local ne’er-do-wells were taking advantage of the presence of the gypsies to run wild, but could not prove it. Unhappy, but sure of his duty to those who depended upon him, he had decided the gypsies must go to keep the peace with his villagers.
However, they were being slow to move. Always, it was “tomorrow … we’ll go tomorrow.” Their tomorrows were used up, but the earl didn’t know how to enforce his command, other than by taking drastic measures. His steward was recommending burning their tents and caravans, but the earl would not hear of it.
Anne was visiting to see if she could ease their way off of Harecross property, and she had some gifts for the children and old folks. Gifts had a way of softening bad feelings. There was one old woman her father found especially intriguing, because she told tales of being related to European royalty, and though he did not think the stories were true, he would have liked more time to get as much information as he could, to try to figure out if it was true or not. That was not to be, but he had sent, by Anne, a very fine broach that she could keep or sell, as she saw fit.
Walking the path she had taken as a child, over hills, across open fields, away from the windy, high-cliffed shoreline that the gypsies disdained, she remembered her childhood run-in with the gypsy boys, who had made fun of her and tore her gown. Her big brother, Jamey, had beaten them and sent them back to their camp chastised and bloody. It was past time that she should visit Jamey. Depending upon his state when she saw him, the visit could be easy and fun, or sad and tiring. But she would make the effort. Spring was usually good for him, as he loved flowers and butterflies, caterpillars and birds.
What was Darkefell doing that very moment? she wondered. Was he somewhere thinking of her, too?
She sniffed. Likely not. He was probably recovering his equanimity and wondering why he had followed a stiff-necked, long-nosed spinster all the way to Cornwall, and thinking what a lucky escape he had had. She didn’t want to imagine that, but it could be true.
She put those morose thoughts out of her mind as she approached the gypsy encampment cautiously. Perhaps it was foolhardy, but she had slipped away without any escort. Mary would have come, if she’d known, but Anne had been to the camp before, and didn’t feel any sense of menace from these folk.
The site was a straggly group of tents and carts, circled around a central area where a big fire smoldered, and a pot hung over it. Rope lines of clean clothes were strung from tree to tree. At this time of day, Anne knew it was mostly women at the camp, some young but many more older, stirring pots, washing laundry, and looking after the multitude of dark-haired, dark-eyed children. The younger men were gone off to work on local farms, for farmers did take advantage of their strong backs and inexpensive labor, even as they demanded that the gypsies be evicted from the earl’s land. The older men would be selling tinker’s wares or following their trade, mending pots and sharpening knives in the village of Kingsdown and beyond as far as Ringwould.
She was about to make her presence known, when she saw something that made her stop dead; it was a familiar profile. A man stood talking earnestly to a pretty young gypsy woman who held a baby to her breast. Her heart pounded. The man’s dark curling hair reached his broad shoulders, and the prominent nose and full lips were evident even at a distance.
Her heart pounded, her nighttime dreams and daytime yearnings throbbing through her in an instant. She couldn’t help herself; she cried out “Tony!” and started forward, dropping her basket in her haste.
The man turned, stared at her in alarm, and took off, running. She picked up her skirts and ran after him. “Tony, wait! Stop!” she cried out. “What are you doing here? Why are you running?”
But he was faster than she, and galloped over a hill and was gone, while she, confined by her skirts and shawl, was fettered. She stopped running and, gasping for breath, leaned against a tree. What was Darkefell doing near her home, when she had told him to stay away? And yet, was it really Tony? It had looked eerily like him, and he had turned at the name called out and looked like he knew her. There was something not quite right. Surely Darkefell was taller? And broader of shoulder? And … more handsome?
But it had to be him! There could not be two men in England so similar. Furious, she clumped back to the camp, retrieved her basket, dropped it with the gypsy women, who steadfastly refused to even understand her questions about the dark-haired man she had seen, and then stomped off home, slashing through the lengthening grass, her skirts whirling about her.
Darkefell could be anywhere by now, for she doubted he’d go back to the gypsy camp. But why was he there, sneaking around like a bandit? Was he spying on her? It made no sense.
But if she couldn’t find him, then she would send a letter to Darkefell Castle and demand and answer from Osei. Why was Tony in Kent, if not following her and breaking his word? She would write to Lydia, too. And Lady Darkefell, Tony’s mother. She would write to them all, demanding answers! She would know the truth.
But now the fever that burned her from within whenever she thought of Tony, Lord Darkefell, and his lips against her mouth, his arms wound around her tightly, leaped into a fire. His hard body, his soft lips, his persuasive kisses. It seemed he was in her very blood, and her pulse pounded out his name. Tony. Tony.
Dreams of him obsessed her after that afternoon. Despite a certainty that he would not come back there, she haunted the gypsy camp every day, begging her father not to evict the gypsies until she figured out what was going on. The man didn’t come back—that she saw, anyway—and the gypsies would not speak of him. And yet every night Darkefell visited her in her dreams, calling out her name as she tossed and turned in her feather bed. In those dreams he would do wicked, shameful things to her as she reveled in his lusty abandon.
