Cole nudged his horse around a parked dray, his leg brushing against the pleats of her habit. “I am thinking of giving it up altogether,” he said absently, as if the idea was just now taking shape in his mind. “I am a little tired, I think, of being away from England. And I begin to fear that I have wandered too far from my proper path in life, if that makes any sense.”
Jonet regarded him in silence for a moment. “Indeed, I believe I understand all too well,” she mused. “But tell me, where will you go to rejoin this path you seek? Not London?”
With a wry smile, Cole shook his head. “No,” he agreed. “I suppose I must go home. To Cambridgeshire.”
“
Ah
—to Elmwood Manor?” she asked lightly.
Cole looked at her in some surprise, then his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I took the liberty of making inquiries before permitting you inside my house. I needed to know your circumstances. Surely you can understand?”
After a long moment, Cole seemed to relax back into his saddle. “Yes, of course. And you are correct. I will go home to Elmwood.”
Jonet tried to keep her voice light and conversational. “And what does your future hold for you there, Cole? What are your hopes and your dreams for this life you will lead at Elmwood? What is it that you feel passionate about?” She dropped her voice to a teasing tone. “I should very much like to know. After all, we are friends now. Can you not tell me?”
Again, Cole looked as if he had not fully considered it. “I daresay I shall resume some of my studies. I suppose I might even return to teaching.” He paused for a long moment, his eyes suddenly unfocused and far away. “But I had thought one day to take up the vicariate of St. Ann’s. I know that the bishop yet hopes that I will do so. St. Ann’s was, as you may recall, my father’s parish.”
Jonet was astonished. “Yes, I did know it—but you . . . you have taken
orders?
”
“Yes, shortly before my marriage, but I fear I became rather unsure of my life’s purpose.” He smiled at her grimly. “Jonet, did you not understand? I tried to tell you when first we met.”
Jonet shook her head as if trying to clear her vision. “I daresay you may have done . . . but I believe I did not fully grasp the—the reality of it all.”
“Or perhaps you were too angry to listen,” Cole mumbled under his breath. But Jonet barely noted the teasing sarcasm in his tone. Her mind raced. Cole had been intended for the church? She had never considered it, but it explained a great deal. And made a great deal more impossible.
Jonet Rowland aspiring to be a vicar’s wife?
That was truly laughable. She was considered the scourge of London. Cole certainly could not be saddled with a woman of her repute, particularly with the shadow of Henry’s mysterious death hanging over her head. But she would have given up her status as the Marchioness of Mercer in a trice, she realized in some surprise, would Cole but ask it of her. Jonet had hardly wanted her own position, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to wed Henry. But Cole’s feelings for her were quite plain. Why was she dreaming? He desired her, perhaps he even liked her at times. But if he married again, and she was not at all sure he would, it would be to a woman like . . . like that
Louisa
person.
Jonet shut off that vein of thought at once, but yet another sprang immediately to mind. “Tell me about Elmwood Manor, Cole. Is it very lovely? Has it prospered?”
Carefully, Cole nudged his horse a little ahead of hers to make way between two parked gigs. When the street widened, enabling Jonet to pull alongside him, he still remained silent for a long moment. “I am told that Elmwood is very prosperous,” he finally answered. “I have not been there since . . . in quite some years.”
“Why?” she asked softly. “It is your boyhood home, is it not?”
Cole stared straight ahead and into the busy traffic ahead in Portland Place. “Old ghosts, Jonet,” he said with a bitter laugh. “We all have them, I daresay.”
“Ah!” she said knowingly. “At last, a subject on which I am an expert.”
Cole turned to look at her quizzically for a moment, a bright shaft of afternoon sun catching the harsh planes of his face. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I daresay you may be.”
Jonet wanted to press him for details, so that she might better understand this man she had so disastrously fallen in love with. But it was clear that his pain was still raw. She did not have it in her to wound, merely to satisfy her own curiosity.
But to her surprise, Cole began to speak again. “I suppose that Rachel is the name of my ghost, Jonet,” he explained in a low, unsteady voice. “She was my wife. We lived at Elmwood.”
“I see,” said Jonet calmly, but the pain in Cole’s voice was like a knife in her heart. And yet, it was a knife she could not help but twist. She wanted to know about this paragon of virtue to whom she would never measure up. “Tell me, Cole, what was she like, your Rachel?”
“I really have no idea,” he replied, his mystified words so quiet she could barely hear them.
“I beg your pardon?”
Roughly, Cole cleared his throat. “When she died, I knew her no better than I did on the day we were wed. Can you believe that?” he asked, his gold-brown eyes urgently searching her face, as if he hoped she might have the answer. “Can you believe, Jonet, that two people can share one life, one blood, and yet know nothing of one another? To . . . to come away with no understanding of that person’s hopes and dreams and passions? Or worse—to begin to fear that they have none?”
Jonet was startled into silence. “No,” she finally answered. “I cannot. It seems a foreign thing to me. I find that I cannot . . .
know
a person—or even care about them very much—until I understand which of life’s many hungers drives them. Is it a thirst for knowledge? A passion for art or music? Do they crave wealth or power or sex?” She forced a self-deprecating laugh. “But as you know, I’m far too unrestrained. One can easily see through me. I daresay a wiser woman would strive to be enigmatic.”
Cole shot her a look which might have been pain. For a long time, he simply stared at her, as if some sort of metaphysical truth had been revealed to him. “You are indeed,” he finally responded, “like no woman I have ever known before.”
Jonet did not know what to make of that remark, and had not the nerve to ask. For several moments, they rode abreast in silence, the streets of Marylebone quieter and less choked with carts and drays. The cricket field was not far beyond, and Jonet was beginning to wish desperately that she had not come on this journey with Cole, for a journey it had surely turned out to be. Regrettably, nothing she had heard so far made her love him or desire him any less.
“I want you to understand something, Jonet.” Cole’s voice, tight and emotionless, came out of nowhere. He stared straight across his horse’s head and down the narrow street, his hands tightly clutching the reins. “Rachel and I had a child together. He died. I could not take care of them because I was in Portugal.” Cole said the words coldly, refusing to look at her. “And I will
never
bring another child into this world unless I am there to provide them with a safe and stable life.”
Jonet bit her lip and shook her head. “But Cole, you cannot think that—”
Cole cut her off as if he had not heard. “You once told me that I did not know what it was like, Jonet, to sacrifice everything for a child. But you were wrong. I learned by not being there. And I can tell you most sincerely that failure is a far harder teacher than success.”
“I am sorry,” Jonet answered gently. Because she remembered what she had said to him that day in the breakfast parlor, and the memory made her feel like a heartless bitch. And because she knew nothing else to say to assuage his pain. Cole would not have thanked her for gratuitous platitudes, and Jonet had learned the hard way that people had a right to work through, and hopefully come to terms with, their own grief. And in their own way.
Over the field at St. John’s Wood, the afternoon sun was settled high in the west. The forward fence of Lord’s was coming into view. Their moment of intimacy was almost at an end, and Jonet was relieved. She wanted desperately to reach out to comfort Cole. But it simply would not do. And so instead, she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, watching as, on the corner beyond, a huge traveling coach drew up to disgorge a half dozen boys who looked to be a little older than Stuart. Giggling and jostling one another, the boys paused on the footpath to form a queue, and despite the emotion of the moment, Jonet found herself laughing. On the reverse of their coats, each wore a bright canvas letter pinned to the fabric. “H-A-R-R-O-W,” she spelled aloud. “Please tell me, Cole, that is not your competition?”
Cole managed to flash her a weak grin. “No, we probably couldn’t beat them. This is just an informal mix-up for alumni—a sort of last huzzah before rheumatism sets in.”
But suddenly, his smile faded and his gaze focused straight ahead. In the shadow of the big coach, two gentlemen were rounding the corner and striding along the foot-path toward them. The younger of the two was clearly dressed to play, while the elder walked with his hand laid lightly upon his companion’s arm. Cole’s smile shifted to a distinct scowl, but there was no avoiding them, and they clearly had no intention of allowing Cole to pass without a greeting.
“Ho! Amherst!” shouted the younger, a handsome man whom Jonet recognized at once. The sight made her regret the impulsiveness that had brought her here, but she could hardly turn her mount around now without looking excessively rude. She prepared herself to be snubbed.
Cole reined in by the footpath and touched his hat in turn. “Afternoon, Madlow. And Colonel, you are looking exceedingly well.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man with an irritable toss of his hand. “As are you, one must suppose. Now introduce us, my boy, to this lovely young lady whom Terry tells me you have at your side.” A smile played at his mouth, but his disapproving expression was painfully telling.
Mortified, Jonet wanted to sink through the street. Her presence must be an embarrassment to Cole. But if it was, Cole gave no indication of it. Carefully, he reined his horse closer to the footpath, and Jonet had no choice but to move up and draw back her veil. “Lady Mercer,” he said calmly, “may I present Colonel Jack Lauderwood and his son-in-law, Captain Terrence Madlow? Gentlemen, my—er, cousin, Jonet, Lady Mercer.”
Jonet leaned down and offered her hand, murmuring something suitably polite. But to Terry Madlow, she dredged up her courage and smiled. “
Captain
Madlow, is it now? What a great pleasure to see you again after all these years.”
Jealousy bit like a horsefly at the back of Cole’s neck as Terry Madlow’s face split into an adolescent grin. “I should not have thought you would remember me, ma’am. I believe we have not met since your come-out. It has been too long.”
Jonet’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “Much too long, sir, and I daresay a little age has crept up on all of us. Indeed, my
cousin
here was just complaining to me of his rheumatism.”
Insufferable minx!
Cole could not bear the sweet look she was giving Madlow. How could she be so cool, so graceful in her manner, under such trying circumstances? And to Cole’s undying frustration, it seemed his friends meant to keep them standing in the street all afternoon.
“Well, that is because Amherst is quite advanced in years, ma’am,” Madlow countered, finally releasing her hand. “But you,
ah—!
May I say that maturity has merely lent a glorious patina to your beauty.”
Jonet laughed charmingly. “You may certainly say it, sir, though I rather doubt we shall any of us believe it.” Her eyes apparently took in his white attire. “Do you play today, Captain Madlow?”
Terry looked up at Cole and grinned. “Yes, for Harrow,” he answered. “And I mean to hit a six on this big devil here—or die trying.”
“How is Louisa?” interjected Cole stiffly. “I hope she is well?”
Terry’s face went blank for a moment. “Yes! Yes! Very well, indeed. But like most women, she has no taste for cricket.”
Throughout the exchange, Cole noticed that Colonel Lauderwood’s eyes had never left him. Now, he gruffly interjected himself into the conversation. “Louisa brought your spectacles, did she not?”
“Yes,” confirmed Cole, just as he noticed Jonet looking uncomfortably over her shoulder. In the street at either side of them, two brewer’s drays were waiting to pass. “And now, gentlemen, we must walk on. It appears we are slowing the wheels of commerce. Madlow, I shall see you in the pitch shortly.”
Cole exited the street and escorted Jonet away from the stands and around the bridle path that led to the far end of Lord’s Cricket Ground. There, the crowd was sparse and the shade more plentiful. As a rule, Cole was inordinately fond of the game; prior to the war, he had played for Cambridgeshire, and following his return to London, he had quickly gained entree into the MCC along with many of his fellow officers. But today, the chastising look on Lauderwood’s face had soured his mood. He was in no humor, particularly in the wake of last night’s emotional encounter, to bear the brunt of the colonel’s criticism. Cole tried to ignore his temper, and while Jonet’s groom took the horses, he tossed out a blanket beneath a sheltering oak and settled Jonet onto it.
“You seemed to remember Terrence Madlow very well,” remarked Cole noncommittally as he bent down to brush a little grass from the edge of the blanket.
Jonet looked up at him in some surprise. “Yes, quite. He courted me most assiduously during the early weeks of my come-out, and for a time, I fancied myself rather madly in love with him.”
“Did you indeed?” Despite his astonishment, Cole tried to maintain a conversational tone. “And what happened to disenchant you?”
Jonet looked suddenly far away. “My father quickly dispensed with any illusions I might have had about romantic love,” she answered vaguely. “But I daresay I did not know then just how deep and complex that particular emotion could be.”
After that, Jonet said little as Cole sat down upon one corner of the blanket to exchange his riding boots for shoes. No one paid them any heed, until a tall young man approached from the east end of the field, whistling a tune and swinging his bat as he went.