Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (43 page)

I want to go home. I don’t like it here
.

A moment later, to her horror, she realized she’d said it.

“Home?” he said, with amazing calm. “To the dales? To Wenscote?”

“Wenscote isn’t my home anymore.”

He took her hand. “It can be, Rosa. I can lease it for us if you want.”

She struggled up. “Lease it? What? Why?”

“Why? Because it’s lovely. Doctor Nantwich has taken a devil of a time to make up his mind. I think he quite fancied being the country squire. His wife, however, absolutely refuses to leave her family and the civilized life in Scarborough. Finally, she’s worn him down. I received his letter today.”

“But what use is Wenscote to you? You have two fine estates here in the south. We’ll live at one of those.”

“Not unless you want to. They’ve always been investments to me. I’ve lived a gypsy life, traveling from place to place. I’d be happy to settle at Wenscote and begin to put down roots.”

She shook her head. “No! I’ll have no more sacrifice. We will live where you want. This,”—she gestured around—“this is your world.”

He burst out laughing. “Oh love, I’m sorry, but even Bey would dissolve into laughter at that. I’ve always hated this sort of thing.” He took both her hands. “I like Wensleydale. I loved Wenscote at first sight. Perhaps in time we can break the settlement and buy it. If not, we can live there for many years. I want it. Trust me?”

Tears were streaming down her face. She must look a mess. “I’m not sure I can about this. You are too generous. You can’t really want to live in the isolation of the dales. What of your work?”

“I’ve hired new people. I’ll still keep an eye on things and travel a bit, but I’m tired of that life. I’m telling you the truth. I want to put down roots. At Wenscote. You spoke once of the force of sudden love. It was like that for me, before I even knew that Wenscote was your home. We arrived, I looked around, and fell in love.”

“I see,” she said, struggling to make sense of it. “You only wanted me for my garden.”

“And your stud, and your land, and your sheep, and, always, for you.”

Searching his face, she whispered, “It’s so perfect, it feels wrong.”

“Everything? At last?”

Her heart ached, but with joy. “Yes. Everything.” She put her trembling hand to his cheek. “Thank you.”

He kissed her palm. “Not quite everything. But that will come, my love, on our wedding night.”

Epilogue

L
ord and Lady Brand Malloren escaped their wedding feast and rode up the dale to Wenscote. They talked and laughed about the strange mix of weathered dalesfolk and perfumed southerners, and how well everyone had behaved.

Rosamunde was astonished at how perfectly everything was going.

They’d traveled north as part of an astonishing cavalcade of Mallorens—ten coaches with outriders—for the whole clan, except for Lord Cynric and his wife, currently in Canada, had decided to attend her wedding. Since this included six children—including her own Jenny—a number of dogs, and even two pet rabbits, she wondered if some of the inns were glad to see the back of them.

Probably not. The marquess paid magnificently for good service. Servants rode ahead so every halt, every night’s accommodation, awaited them in perfect preparation, complete to their own bedding and pillows.

She’d broken into giggles at one point thinking of her captive lover, whom she’d thought an ordinary sort of man. The giggles were also partly nerves. What would the Wensleydale people think of all this? It made the marquess’s previous appearance seem positively casual.

Wensleydale, of course, took it all in stride and there’d been nothing but smiles at Wensley Church this morning, nor during their triumphant ride back up the dale, scattering pennies to the children along the way, nor at the merry gathering they’d just left.

And now, they were on the last step of a long journey. The short ride to Wenscote. Tears fell when she found how little it had changed. The garden had grown a little wild, and the honeysuckle was in danger of overgrowing the front door, but it was Wenscote. It was home.

She glanced once at Brand, wondering still if this was what he really wanted. His smile convinced her.

Everything they desired, here in their hands.

Or almost.

Tonight.

They went immediately to the nursery where Jenny lay, fascinated by her toes and a beam of sunlight shooting through the window. At the sound of their voices, she smiled and stretched out. Brand picked her up, making her crow a little, then passed her to Rosamunde to feed, while Edie slipped away.

Brand watched, as he often did, giving the baby his finger to clutch as she sucked. Familiar contentment, but today, amid the music of Wenscote, it was heaven.

They were home, at last.

“This is a lovely nursery,” Rosamunde said, sparing a glance for the first time at whitewashed walls and bright curtains with yellow flowers.

“For you and Jenny.”

“Your work?”

“My orders, at least. Who else?”

She’d already glimpsed subtle changes in the house. He was the most amazing man.

When the baby was fed, they took her with them to introduce her to her new home. Soon, they wandered out to inspect their domain, finding two new foals in the stables, and crops growing tall. Familiar by now with their shared enthusiasm for things that many others found boring, they analyzed and inspected, making plans for future improvements and preservations.

Often, by fence or hedge, they stopped to kiss, but lightly because of the baby. Perhaps they’d brought her deliberately, to restrain their appetite. It was almost as if they wanted to tease out this perfect anticipation to the finest possible thread.

Unless it was nerves.

With her, a little of it was nerves. They’d had so little true time together, and it had been so long ago. And her body was still a bit thickened and flabby from the pregnancy. Her breasts sometimes leaked….

Eventually, as the sun began to set and Jenny fell asleep, they wandered back, Brand carrying the baby soft against his shoulder. This was in a way, she thought, perfect happiness—Wenscote in the evening and Brand, their tiny baby safe in his care.

They gave Jenny into Edie’s care, and found the bedroom at last. She’d worried about this—that it would remind her too much of the past. The bed was new, however, and a rich Chinese rug lay upon the floor, its jewel colors catching the evening sun.

It was enough.

“Well, my lord,” she said, grasping her courage, but almost wishing for a mask, “you have me in your power at last. What do you command?”

He took her hand, and kissed it by the wedding ring he had placed there not many hours ago. “Everything, of course.” He traced her scars, then kissed them. “Thank you.”

He’d asked her to marry him without paint. “Without a mask,” as he’d put it. In the end, it hadn’t been difficult. The paint had served to bridge a gap in her courage, to enable her to face the world, but she was beyond that now.

He kissed her lips. They sank onto a chaise and kissed as they’d kissed in recent times, as if kissing was all and must be given its full due.

All fears and doubts fell away.

He was skilled at extracting a lady from her clothes, and proved it. She had little practice with men’s clothing, but she was enthusiastic, hindered only by her joy in his emerging, beautiful body. Soon they were laughingly naked, facing one another hand in hand in the hot shades of the setting sun.

She was breathless with desire, which shimmered in the room like a heat haze.

“Did I ever mention,” he said unsteadily, “how very grateful I am to you for saving my life?” Before she could reply, he added, “I’m sure I have not even begun to pay my debt. No, no”—he swung her into his arms and kissed both breasts—“don’t demur, dear lady. I insist. I insist.”

He laid her on cool, blossom-scented sheets and placed a hand possessively between her thighs. “I insist on paying my debts to the full. It might take a lifetime, but I insist.”

“Am I arguing?” At an increase of pressure, she sucked in a breath and reached for him. “This is everything. Come to me.”

His lips swooped down her cheek from eye to lips, and sealed them as he spread her legs and moved over her. Slowly, he slid into her. Resting there, he raised his head and smiled into her eyes.

“Everything,” he said. But then, with a wicked twinkle, he added, “And more?”

Author’s Note

First, I invented the Cotterites. They do fit, however, with the 1760s.

Warning, brief history lesson follows!

Back in the 1640s, King Charles I had blundered and stumbled into civil war. His opponents were a motley group, some mainly interested in curbing the King’s power through a strong parliament; others in weakening the Church of England so that alternative forms of Protestantism such as Presbyterianism could nourish. But the king’s opponents were united in one thing—a terror that Charles might try to bring back Roman Catholicism, which was still remembered in terms of Mary Tudor, who had burned Protestants at the stake.

When Charles fell, so did the Church of England, and sects nourished. The Levellers were radical republicans. The Diggers opposed private property and took over open land. Fifth Monarchists believed Christ’s Kingdom was imminent. Muggletonians believed their leader was divine. Ranters indulged in sexual license and blasphemy.

However, the government was now in the hands of the Puritans.

The terms Puritan and Quaker are often used inter-changeably, but in English political terms, “Puritan” describes the extremist religious faction during the Civil War and during the subsequent republic led by Protector Oliver Cromwell. Quakers, on the other hand, were and are the pacifist Society of Friends who were even persecuted at times by the “Commonwealth of Saints.”

Rule by stern, self-appointed saints was predictably unpopular, made more so by Cromwell’s virtual martial law. After Cromwell’s death it all fell apart and Charles I’s son was invited—begged!—to return. Charles II’s reign was the Restoration, when everyone celebrated by swinging to the other extreme. It also brought a period of prosperity, and a flourishing of arts, science, industry, and trade which continued into the eighteenth century.

By 1762, the cost of excess was becoming obvious. We are not long past the time when gin—introduced in 1690—was cheap and plentiful and ruining many lives. (See Hogarth’s painting “Gin Lane.”) After many
attempts at control, heavy taxes in 1756 made it impossible for most people to over indulge, and matters began to improve. In 1754, chaotic marriage laws had been changed, reducing thoughtless marriage and bigamy.

However, life was still unruly in many ways so there was a movement toward sober living, one in which the Wesley brothers were active from 1740 onward. The Yorkshire dales, particularly the mining areas, became staunchly Methodist.

So, my New Commonwealth fits into the historical background and the current movements, but it never existed. If it had, however, I’m sure George III—remembering his ancestor Charles I’s fate—would have dispatched his
eminence noire
, the Marquess of Rothgar, to sort things out.

Of course this period was also the time of the agricultural Revolution, when land usage in England changed, shaping the country we see today. Having grown up in the North and visited the dales frequently, I was startled to discover that the familiar dry stone walls are not ancient, but were built in the mid-eighteenth century as part of the enclosure and reorganization of the land.

I love learning new things. I learned a great deal about heavy horses, land drainage, crop variety, and animal breeding as I worked on this book. As you’ll notice—probably with appreciation!—not much of it is included. That’s as it should be. I needed to know in order to fit comfortably into my characters’ heads.

I even took a trip to England to touch up my research, because, having set some scenes in the Three Tuns in Thirsk, I discovered that it is still there and in operation. I just had to go, and it certainly didn’t harm to wander Wensleydale with an adult, observant eye.

Arradale is based very loosely on a place called Bolton House in Wensleydale, which does have the ancient Bolton Castle looming up on the hills behind it. The only connection, however, is in the castle and the location. The style of house, family history, etc., is all fiction.

I loved Thirsk, and recommend a stop there if you’re ever traveling in England. It’s a small market town, just a little crowded because it’s also where the vet who wrote as James Herriot had his real practice. The square is a lovely feature, and the Three Tuns sits on it, the coach yard still behind, the original stable blocks now used as storage and garage areas.

If you wish, you can stay in the Tuns. It’s not particularly expensive. Or you could have a drink or meal in the dark-oak pub. Or take tea in what I designated the Guests’ Parlor. Or you could just stand at the base of the staircase and think of Rosamunde trying to gather strength for the climb.

For even more Georgian ambience, however, I recommend that you drive or walk to the attached village of Sowerby, which has a truly wonderful, hardly changed, Georgian Street. When we were there, the daffodils were blooming beneath the trees set in the wide grass verges. These verges divide the roadway from the footpath that runs in front of the long rank of varied Georgian houses. No danger of splashing from passing coaches.

I found it easy to imagine Rosamunde and Brand on a visit to Thirsk, strolling there one lovely evening, perhaps with a few happy children running along the grass beside them.

For those of you new to the Mallorens, the previous books about them are:
My Lady Notorious
(Cyn and Chastity);
Tempting Fortune
(Bryght and Portia); and
Something Wicked
(Elf and Fort). The first two are presently out of print, but the third can be ordered by your bookstore or through the direct order form in this book. And yes, there will be a book about the Marquess of Rothgar—at last. It is scheduled for publication in May 2000.

Happy reading and happy endings, always!