Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (38 page)

Miss Hurstman grinned. "That's right, dear. My back's broad."

Thus did Eleanor find herself bullied back into life, and eventually she couldn't help liking her new companion. Miss Hurstman was an arbitrary and self-willed lady, but she was also intelligent and witty and could discuss all sorts of subjects. She was totally unlike any woman Eleanor had ever met.

"I'm a black sheep," Miss Hurstman said one day. "I never would be a proper lady. At least by now everyone accepts it. I go where I want, do as I please. I embarrass my family, but they're a kind lot and don't exactly shun me. Sometimes, like now, they find me useful. Though I must say Francis has always been the best of them. I put it down to the influence of that extraordinary husband of yours. If he'd been born a girl, he'd be like me. I like to think if I'd been born a boy, I'd have been like him. Look at each situation for what it is, not look to see what the others are doing, or for precedents."

"Is that what you think he does?" Eleanor asked. She was always willing to talk about Nicholas.

"Don't know," said Miss Hurstman curtly, who never encouraged her in this. "I was talking of myself."

After two weeks Eleanor was restored to vigor, but there was no further news. September was upon them and most members of the Company of Rogues had been compelled to go to country estates or to attend to other business. Before he left for the Priory, Francis stopped by. He was resolutely cheerful and utterly unconvincing.

Eleanor, however, refused to take any steps that would imply that Nicholas was dead. She had not even communicated with Lord Stainbridge. There was sufficient cash in the safe to handle expenses for some time, and her generous allowance continued to be paid directly into her account at Forbes Bank. There was no need yet to take steps to gain access to her husband's other money.

There was also, she had to admit, little point in staying in town. In early October the two ladies moved to the Somerset estate.

Three days after they had left London, Eleanor's post chaise swung into a short drive and up to the charming Queen Anne manor house called Redoaks. Eleanor gave a sigh of satisfaction and smiled at Arabella Hurstman. This, she instinctively felt, was home. Even if Nicholas never came back, she would cherish this place for his child.

She set about making it home. Jenny and Thomas had accompanied them, and there was a skeleton staff at the house. Local people were easily hired to fill out the staff. Though Nicholas had only recently acquired the estate, it was well cared for and the house was in good repair. There was a home farm that would supply most of their food.

Eleanor was touched to find her husband had sent orders shortly after their marriage that the caretakers be prepared for their arrival in the summer, and had made enquiries about the competence of the local midwife.

There was plenty of work to be done, however, for the house had been purchased in its entirety upon the death of an old gentleman and had been without the care of a mistress for some years. Eleanor was glad of this, for work deadened thought.

She and Miss Hurstman checked generations of linens, discarding some and gathering quite a pile of mending for the evenings. They investigated stocks of china and bric-a-brac and mentally separated furniture into sheep and goats. There was no hurry, and not much money, but in time some would be discarded to make way for better.

There was household management to be taken care of, too. They organized jam making and the setting up of preserves and supervised the safe storage of winter vegetables. The large old fireplaces were designed for logs, and so a supply had to be ordered from nearby Yeovil.

They felt no need of a butler, and so Eleanor investigated the cellars of Redoaks herself. The collection was extensive and looked excellent. It said a great deal for the honesty of the staff that it appeared intact.

She was made a little teary when she came across a half-dozen of a pale, dry port such as Nicholas had favored. She found herself standing and cradling a dusty bottle and put it down with disgust—disgust at such mooning, and at having disturbed the bottle, which would doubtless now take months to settle.

But then, she wondered sadly as she climbed the stairs, who would be wanting it, for months or even years? She returned to managerial tasks. Hard work was safer.

When she was not feeling industrious, Eleanor would sometimes sit in the autumn sun or take long walks along the country lanes, watching other's industry, be it the local people laying down hay and cider or industrious squirrels with their mouths always full of nuts. She felt in tune with the simple cycle of survival.

Working hard and eating well, she was growing large with pregnancy. Her skin was touched with gold by the sun, and she had a dusting of freckles on her nose, which concerned her not one whit. She wore loose, comfortable gowns that would have horrified Madame Augustine and kept her hair in a simple knot.

She did not look too closely into her mind, but she knew there was a lie there—the lie that Nicholas was away for some perfectly good reason and would, one day, come home.

The midwife came to visit. Mrs. Stongelly was a pleasant, wise-eyed woman with a jolly smile and a fund of stories about the local folk. She asked a great many questions and examined Eleanor briefly.

"You'll do," she said. "Everything as it should be. Now you're not to worry, me dear. I've delivered more babies than I care to think, and as long as a woman is healthy and doesn't take any potions supposed to help but never do, it works out. Now after, I give no guarantees. God seems sometimes to want a good many little angels in His heaven. That is in His hands."

She bustled around advising on arrangements for the baby. "Where's that man of yours, my dear? I saw him two years gone. A goodly lad."

"He has had to travel. Government business. I hope he will back in time for the confinement."

It came out so easily. Eleanor found it more comforting every time she said it—to the parson's wife, the squire's wife, and to Lady Morgrove, the local lion. Sometimes she began to believe it and found herself expecting her husband to drive up at any moment. And whenever Thomas came back from the receiving office with the post she looked for a letter with his distinctive writing.

At the same time, with each passing week Eleanor had to acknowledge to herself that it became more likely Nicholas was dead. He would not, could not, leave her in this abyss of uncertainty if there was any way to send word.

A letter from Lord Stainbridge snapped her out of this bittersweet fantasy. He was furious that no one had told him of his brother's disappearance. He complained about her leaving town without informing him. He reproached her for not going to Grattingley and commanded her to return to town for the confinement, where he would engage the most eminent accoucheur.

She smiled at his familiar rantings even as she felt guilty at having never given his feelings a thought. The poor man had every right to his primary grievance. Then she was struck by an idea.

"Arabella," she said, for she and her companion were now on first name terms. "Is there any truth in the idea that twins have a special closeness, that they each know if harm comes to the other?"

Miss Hurstman looked up sharply, catching her meaning immediately. "I believe it is so in many cases. That's from Lord Stainbridge?"

"Yes. Why did I never think to ask him? He says here he had no idea anything was wrong until he came to town and called at Lauriston Street." She could feel joy rise in her like the sun. "Am I foolish to think this gives hope?"

Miss Hurstman pursed her lips. "No," she adjudged. "But to be honest, I'd want to know their track record for sympathetic feelings before I got carried away. After all, if your husband is gone to Canada or Virginia, would such feelings operate at that distance?"

"I will write and ask Lord Stainbridge immediately."

"Ask him down," said Miss Hurstman. "If you write he won't answer the questions properly. People never do."

After a brief hesitation, Eleanor agreed to this course.

One week later Lord Stainbridge's carriage, that same carriage that had taken Eleanor to and from Newhaven, came bowling up the drive.

By this time he had discovered the true story behind events and his anger had faded. Now he was anxious, he was sympathetic, he was proud that Nicholas had apparently done something important (the regent himself had taken him aside to offer discreet congratulations and tactful inquiries about the hero's whereabouts), and disgusted at how it had been achieved. He fussed Eleanor to death, but as she had invited him she felt she must endure it.

Eventually, however, she had him settled for questioning.

"Why, yes," he said, "we do experience such things. It happened first when we went to school. We had rarely been apart before then, but our father insisted we go to different schools. I went to Eton and Nicky to Harrow. When he had a fever there and was very sick, I felt terrible. Not sick, but out of sorts in my mind."

"What about when he's been abroad?" asked Eleanor anxiously.

He understood where she was leading. "You are wondering if I would know if he was dead," he said, losing color. "Yes. Yes, I honestly think I would. He was shot once in Massachusetts and was close to death with fever afterwards. I knew how ill he was, though not where he was or what was the matter."

Eleanor could not put the question, but he answered it anyway. "I do not think he can be dead, Eleanor. It is impossible that I not feel anything. It could be that at the time all this was going on I felt something. I was... disturbed... is the only word for it. I confess it might have been an ordinary malaise. It did not amount to anything significant, I am sure."

Relief flooded her like a golden tide. She hardly had time to savor it before it was swamped by grievance. "You do not feel there is anything wrong with him at all?" she persisted.

Sublimely un-attuned to her outrage, he said, "Not that I am aware of."

Eleanor was forced to face the idea that Nicholas had not been murdered or kidnapped or hurt in any way but had blithely left with his light-of-love for a life of adventures in the Americas.

Lord Stainbridge stayed for a few days, attempting to persuade Eleanor to make her home with him, but finally he gave up and left disgruntled. Eleanor was relieved to see him go. Holding her tongue with him had been difficult, especially as he had constantly assured her that Nicholas was in excellent health.

As she waved his carriage farewell, she admitted that would rather Nicholas be alive and with his mistress than be at the bottom of the ocean. But if she ever set eyes on him again she'd carve him into tiny pieces!

She wrote to Francis and told him of Lord Stainbridge's opinion. Soon she had Francis on her doorstep, eager to discuss the matter and convince himself that there was, in fact, hope. He understood Eleanor's ambivalence, and they spent some time fruitlessly trying to make the facts fit the picture of Nicholas they wanted to cherish. Eventually they tacitly agreed to abandon the subject and enjoy the autumn weather. When he left, she gave him her gift for Amy's wedding, and in due course she received thanks and a long letter describing everything about what seemed to have been a perfect day.

Eleanor disciplined herself to accept the fact that her husband was a wanderer, both physically and emotionally. She reminded herself that she still had much for which to be grateful to him, and it was unfair to blame him too harshly for following the way of life he obviously preferred. She had a lovely home, a comfortable independence, and a child growing within her. She would take joy in her blessings.

As the first frosts feathered the windows and she grew larger, Eleanor's life became a matter of waiting. Waiting for the child and, despite everything, waiting for Nicholas. She felt sure that even if he was again bewitched by Madame Bellaire he would send her word. She believed that one day he would want to see the baby.

She and Miss Hurstman spent a quiet Christmas walking down to the village church on a crisp, sunny morning and exchanging joyous greetings with all their new community. Despite Eleanor's advanced pregnancy they had received many invitations, but because of it, their polite refusals were completely understood.

On the first day of the new year Eleanor was awakened by a change in her body, a change as yet unclear. Soon, by concentrating, she felt the tightening low in her abdomen. The midwife was immediately sent for. She indulgently listened to Eleanor's excited description and then told her to go along as normal, walk about as much as possible, and eat every now and then.

"For if the child is born before midnight, I'll be surprised, Mrs. Delaney. No need to wear out your excitement before it's needed. Send for me if you need me and I'll be back to stay in the evening."

It was as the woman said. The day passed much like any other. Eleanor even took time to walk around the garden and pick a few late roses for her room. Flowers to greet her child.

By the time the midwife came back she was lying in the bed, but she was soon up again.

"Keep up and walking as long as you can, my dear. It's easier that way. Tell me if it hurts, and I'll see what I can do, but don't be afraid to yell. It'll help to get the baby out, you'll see."

Then gradually it was as if a wave took her, and there was pain and pressure and she had to go with it, because if she fought the force it would surely break her. She grabbed on to the midwife's hands and read her safety in her eyes, but she still groaned and grunted and found herself whimpering, "Nicholas."