The Reluctant Bride (23 page)

‘This is a surprise, Emily.'

Her father's greeting was restrained, despite Emily's obvious agitation as he led her into his study. ‘I trust everything is all right?'

She'd considered seeking refuge at Honeyfield House. Jonathan and Caroline would help her, protect her. But what did they know of her origins? Major Woodhouse maintained he had irrefutable proof linking Emily with a notorious spy.

Only her mother and father could tell her the truth.

‘Something has happened?' He raised his eyebrows and, strangely, his coolness was comforting rather than daunting. ‘A little brandy to calm your nerves?' He resumed his favourite seat by the fireside while she chose to stand. He'd always been a commanding figure with his thatch of white hair above broad shoulders, and he was commanding still, but age was taking its toll. He seemed more stooped than she remembered, though his face was still the cold, inscrutable mask that used to strike dread into her when one of her governesses forced her to confess some misdemeanour. ‘Then you can tell me what has upset you.'

Emily took the tumbler of amber liquid he handed her, wishing her hands were not trembling so much. Her father respected cool nerves and she needed all her defences.

‘An odd time to call, Emily, though you look rather fine.' He nodded at her blue silk and net gown.

‘Father, Major Woodhouse has just been to visit me.' She finished the brandy in a couple of gulps and the fire that burned her insides made her feel much braver.

‘He accused me of being a spy, said he had proof I'm the daughter of a French woman called Madame Fontenay and that I have two half-sisters called Jessamine and Madeleine who are both spies, too. When he went through Angus's study he found a letter which I did not write contained in a book to Madeleine Delon. Remember, she's the … daughter … of the family with whom Angus lodges, only Major Woodhouse says she's my sister!' Emily took a break to calm the rising hysteria. ‘And now he's found this.'

She brandished the painting before her father. ‘It's Tante Fanchette, I'm sure of it, but Major Woodhouse says it's a painting of my mother whom he says is a spy he calls Madame Fontenay. On the back is a dedication to Jessamine.' She nearly added that Angus had had a mistress called Jessamine, but the admission was more than she could manage right now.

Let her father digest the details of Major Woodhouse's shocking allegations first.

Emily had hoped for a reassuring denial and a genial endorsement that Major Woodhouse was clearly as deluded as Emily believed him. Instead she was surprised by his sudden waxy pallor and the strain of his voice when he snapped, ‘Of course it's your aunt Fanchette!'

He motioned her to hand it to him and he took it with furrowed brow and trembling fingers.

Slowly, he said, ‘Though it is not the same as hangs above your mother's rosewood desk. Where did you find it, Emily?'

This was far from the reaction Emily had expected. She saw the blood vessels stand out in the whites of his eyes. His breathing was agitated. ‘You came to me first? You have been to see no one else? Angus is away, of course. But his brother is ignorant of the matter?'

‘Major Woodhouse locked me in my sitting room but I escaped. I came directly to you, father.' She swallowed, wondering why her father should be more concerned as to where she found the painting and who knew about her predicament than the fact itself.

‘Where did you find it, Emily?' he demanded again. ‘You say Angus had it? Then where did
he
find it? Washed up on a beach, perhaps?' He seemed as perplexed as he was horrified.

As Emily was.

Emily sagged with relief. ‘I knew Major Woodhouse was wrong. He said this painting was of a spy in France. A notorious woman who has been wanted by the English for years. When he learns he is wrong—'

Her father cut her off. ‘Yet it was in your husband's possession?' Frowning, he studied the painting and again Emily weighed up whether to speak of the connection between Angus and Jessamine. ‘Emily,' he said sharply, ‘You are not to show it to your mother or to repeat to her anything of what you've just told me! Do you hear!'

She jerked back at his anger. ‘But Papa—'

‘Do you not realise how it would upset her?'

Emily nodded. Her father had always had the ability to make her meek before him.

‘Everything will be all right, won't it, Papa?' she asked, hating the fact her voice had the same thin puling sound to it she remembered from when she was a frightened child.

‘Of course.' But he wasn't listening; he was studying the painting as if for further clues.

‘Major Woodhouse says Angus is in danger from Madeleine Delon and also this Madame Fontenay. He thinks I'm a party to some conspiracy to take Angus's life.'

Her father glanced up. ‘You never loved him, Emily.'

She gasped. Could she have heard him correctly? ‘I do now. Father, Angus is to attend a masquerade at a chateau in Pliny, I believe. Can you help me get a message to him in France somehow? Or maybe the packet was delayed by the stormy weather and we can still reach him in Dover!'

Her father stepped forward, a great giant of a man, dominating her as he had when she'd been a child. Intimidated, she nodded weakly when he asked, ‘Major Woodhouse verified all these details? He knows everything?'

‘I told you that Major Woodhouse found a letter referring to Madame Fontenay in the book I asked Angus to take to Madeleine,' she repeated. ‘He says it's proof I'm involved in their spying operation, but it must have been planted by one of the servants. Someone in our household is a spy, but Major Woodhouse believes it's
me
.' She forced back the tears. ‘Angus will know what to do.'

He began to pace, the painting held in his hands clasped behind his back so that the jaunty smile of her Aunt Fanchette danced in his grip. ‘Yes, quite right. And Major Woodhouse will no doubt search for you here,' he said. ‘We must hurry, mustn't we?'

Her bones went soft with relief. ‘Give me two minutes with Mama while you organise the carriage, Papa,' she said, going to the door.

‘Don't tell her anything – do you promise? It would be unfair to agitate her when you are about to rush off into the night. Besides, she's been in a lot of pain. The tonic has addled her wits. She'll not attend to you as you'd wish. Rather wait until the matter is dealt with properly. I shall follow you up in a couple of minutes after I've organised the carriage and several other matters.'

His advice seemed reasonable.

‘Mama! It's Emily. Sorry to disturb you,' she whispered, putting her head around the door to her mother's chamber.

‘Darling girl!' Marguerite Micklen struggled upright on the day bed while faithful Lucy gave a cry of joy to see her young charge again. Emily hugged them both, horrified by how shrunken her mother was.

Gently, Emily settled the older woman against a pile of pillows, smoothing back the grey hair from her head and taking her hands in hers to rub as she had done so many times before.

‘I can't stay long, Mama. Papa is organising a carriage to take us to Dover.' Though guilty at revealing what she'd not intended, she nevertheless went on at her mother's questioning look, ‘Angus is there and—'

Her mother smiled. Clearly she had no idea what time it was. ‘Angus is a lovely man.' Her words were slurred and when Emily slid her anxious gaze to Lucy, the maid indicated the laudanum bottle by the bed, whispering by way of explanation, ‘Your mama was in a lot of pain this evening.'

Best, then, thought Emily, that her mother not be worried more than necessary.

Lucy leaned over her mistress to smooth the covers and Emily acknowledged for the first time in her adult life that Lucy was more than just a servant. She alone was responsible for her mother's meagre comforts, if not survival.

Her mother blinked and the fog seemed to lift. ‘Isn't it late to be visiting Angus in Dover, Emily? Is something the matter?'

Emily looked between the two women before deciding to reveal a little of the truth. ‘I need Angus to help me, Mama. It's about some ridiculous claims Major Woodhouse is making about Tante Fanchette and a couple of other little matters I need Angus to help me sort out.'

She did not repeat the ridiculous claim that Tante Fanchette, in addition to allegedly being a spy, was also supposed to be her mother. Her mother was drug-addled and confused enough as it was.

‘Fanchette? What does your husband know of Fanchette?'

She was surprised at her mother's sudden lucidity. Major Woodhouse's claims were so ridiculous she'd felt sure of – and had hoped to be reassured by – her mother's dismissal of them.

‘A painting of Tante Fanchette was found in Angus's study dedicated to her daughter Jessamine, and—'

She jumped at her mother's gasp.

‘Jessamine? In your
husband's
possession, Emily?'

Her mother seemed even more discomposed than her father had been. Clearly the laudanum didn't help. Emily stroked her forehead as she struggled to explain. ‘Angus rescued a woman called Jessamine at Corunna.' Carefully she added, ‘She and Angus became very … close … after this woman's husband died during the retreat.' Jealousy needled her and she had to brush away the tears. ‘I can only imagine that is how the painting came to be in Angus's possession.' Taking a breath, she asked, ‘
Did
Tante Fanchette have any daughters?'

It was Lucy who whispered, sharply, ‘Jessamine? It is not so common a name.' She glanced at her mistress, as if uncertain whether to divulge more; but drew in her breath sharply at the sound of footsteps in the passage.

With a creaking of hinges the door opened and Bartholomew Micklen strode into the room.

Emily put a protective hand on her mother's shoulder, all questions forgotten as his expression overrode her anticipation for their imminent departure. She must remember that her father was a stern man. It was only because Angus was kind and gentle that she had grown used to a less fraught existence.

‘Are you ready, Emily?'

She started to follow but her mother surprised her, struggling to force out the words, ‘Do not take her, Bartholomew!'

‘Mama, I must reach Angus before he sails—'

‘No, Emily! Don't go—!' Seized by a fit of coughing, Marguerite gasped for air as her daughter turned. Bartholomew pushed Emily towards the door, barking at Lucy though she stood only a foot away, ‘Your mistress needs you! Fetch her water! Come Emily.' He snatched up a dark cloak that hung from the back of his wife's door. ‘Take this. We must go.'

Distressed by her mother's hacking cough and the horror in Lucy's parting look, Emily hung back, but her father seized her by the wrist and hustled her into the corridor.

‘There's nothing you can do for her that Lucy can't. Major Woodhouse will be here soon so we must hurry. We'll take the cliffside route. He won't think to come that way.'

Torture though it was to leave at such a time, Emily felt only relief by the time she stepped into the carriage which waited at the bottom of the steps. She was glad the waxy moon threw enough light to see the road.

Angus would convince Major Woodhouse of Emily's innocence. The servants would be interrogated and the puzzle over the letter would be solved. Emily's mind was in such a whirl over the events of the past couple of hours she no longer knew what to think.

Soon, though, she would be with Angus. He would know what to do.

It was some time before Emily glanced out of the window.

‘Papa, are we going in the right direction?'

They were skirting the shoreline, steep cliffs plunging from the left side of the road to the foaming sea below, gleaming in the moonlight. Emily strained to identify her surroundings. She'd not walked this far alone before and the landscape was unfamiliar.

Her father leaned across and patted her knee. ‘We must lose Major Woodhouse at all costs, Emily. I've told the servants to send him in the wrong direction but he won't be easily fooled and you are clearly anxious that we reach Angus before he does.'

‘Why is John stopping here?' Wrapping her mother's cloak more closely round her shoulders, Emily stared out of the window. The carriage had slowed to a standstill so close to the precipice that all she could see was darkness edged far below by a frill of white foamy waves.

‘There is something I must show you.'

Her chill deepened as she let John assist her to the ground.

‘What do you want to show me, Papa?' she asked, glad the fear did not show in her voice.

‘You will see. Come, Emily.' He held out his hand and she took it for she had no choice, ashamed that she should feel relieved at the words exchanged between her father and John the coachman. Her father must have good reason to lead her down the narrow path that zigzagged over the cliff face. She must not show the skittishness which would only make him lose patience with her.

‘Smugglers, Papa?'

He gave a grunt of laughter as he walked in front of her, ‘Yes, Emily, and all related to the plot in which your husband and, indeed yourself, are implicated. When you see, you will understand.'

‘Then there
is
something? And you know about it?' Emily wished her father would explain rather than drawing out the suspense. Still in her finery, her slippers were ruined and the hem of her skirts torn and dirty by the time she reached the small shaley stretch of beach at the bottom, though she dared not complain.

She was dismayed to hear the waver in her voice as she asked, ‘Are you involved with the smugglers, Papa?'

‘I turn a blind eye, Emily, in return for the occasional barrel of rum.' He stopped, twisting to face her. To her surprise, he smiled and touched her cheek with his fingertips. ‘John's family have been dancing rings around the excise men for generations. He knows a word from me could see them all hang. Now, Emily, you must pick up your skirts and follow me into that cave. I know it's dark and the rocks will make the going difficult, but I'll go ahead and light the way. Are you coming?'

After a pause, Emily did as he asked. He was testing her. Giving her an opportunity to show she was made of sterner stuff than he believed. Determined to rise to the challenge, Emily scrambled after him, her brain whirling with possibilities. How was this connected with the operation in which Angus was involved? Was there some link between the smugglers and the spy ring? What could be so important that her father would take her to this secret location in the dead of night?

Climbing out of her sitting room window had seemed the height of daring, but this was a challenge harder to meet in her flimsy evening dress and her torn shoes.

Once inside the cave, Bartholomew raised his lantern high and pointed to the tumbled rocks in the far corner. They reached to the top of the cavern. ‘Do you see that tunnel, Emily?'

She could only nod. Fear made it impossible to speak.

He brought his face close to hers, the shadows from the lantern contorting his features so she had to force herself not to step back in alarm.

‘I need your help, Emily.' His voice was grave. ‘You've asked for my help, but first I need yours.' He put his hand on her shoulder and pointed. ‘You are the only person I can trust small enough to reach inside that opening, yet strong enough to pull out the chest which is concealed near the entrance.'

She stifled a gasp. ‘You want me to climb up those rocks?'

‘If you are brave enough, and prepared to render your father the greatest service of your life, then yes, Emily, I am asking you to do that for me.'

The crashing of the waves outside the cave was almost deafening. Emily hesitated, frowning up at her father, too afraid to ask him to explain.

He put down the lantern and cupped her face. He had never been so tender. She closed her eyes and his voice caressed her fears away. It was as she'd dreamed he'd be when she was a child.

‘If you can do this for me, Emily, you guarantee my safety.'

‘You're in danger, Papa? Why did you not say?' she cried, opening her eyes and clasping his wrist. ‘Tell me what's happened.'

‘Later.' Resting his hand in the small of her back, he gave her a gentle push. ‘Now go, Emily. This great act of yours will save my life, but I need you to hurry before the tide comes much higher and cuts off our return.'

All her adult life Emily had feared him, and although she still did, she knew he would regard her differently once she met, without hesitation or complaint, the challenge he set her.

She began to climb. Her feet hurt and her dress tripped her up, but her father was with her all the way, his breathing laboured as he moved heavily from stone to stone so that halfway up she became afraid for him and said, ‘There's no need to use your energy, Papa, for there is light enough if you want to stop here.'

‘Perhaps I will. I'll hold the lantern steady. Ah, you have reached the top. And the entrance is clear? Well, that is fortuitous. Well done, Emily. Now, crawl in and tell me what you see. It was a good thing I came so high with the lantern after all, wasn't it?'

Emily crouched in the mouth of the tunnel, her head touching the roof, and cast around for signs of a chest but she could see nothing.

‘Is it there?'

Her father's voice echoed eerily round the chamber. Disappointment cut deep. Her torn dress and slippers faded into insignificance compared with the fact she had failed to discover what her father was so desperate to find.

‘It's not here, Papa.' She swallowed down her disappointment. Yet again she had failed to meet his expectations.

‘I know it's there, Emily. Perhaps it's further down the tunnel. I cannot get so high to cast the light, but I beg you, Emily, go a little further and see what you can find.'

Fear did not enter into her decision as she crawled on her hands and knees deeper into the tunnel. If her father were convinced that what he sought was here, she would find it.

She heard his voice calling, ‘Can you still see a little way? Do you have enough light?'

It was not pitch black, for the lantern, even from so far away, sent a faint glow from the midst of the cavern.

‘A little, Papa,' she called, from about ten feet into the tunnel, turning at the sound of shifting rocks, before gasping. ‘The light is completely gone now, and I can find nothing! Something has happened. Papa, are you all right?'

Turning with difficulty in the cramped space she struggled back the way she had come. What if her father had stumbled and fallen? What if he'd been crushed by falling rocks? Her horror increased at his silence. ‘Papa, where are you? Are you all right?'

Why was it suddenly so very dark, despite the full moon which had contributed its share of the soft glow?

Her forehead connected with something rough and solid. Stone. She must have stumbled blindly into the side of the tunnel. Putting out her hands, she felt the cold, damp rock which blocked her passage.

On three sides.

Fear pumped through her veins and she screamed. ‘Papa, I can't find the opening!'

She was almost certain she was at the entrance where she had begun, but the opening was blocked. She pushed and felt the boulder yield a fraction.

‘Papa, help me!' she screamed again.

There was no answer. Her pleas sounded muffled, unable to penetrate the thick rock which imprisoned her. The blackness of her mind coalesced into blinding red, hurting her eyes though they were squeezed tight shut. What had happened? She had entered the passage, gone only a short distance, then come back again.

To find the entrance blocked.

Her father? No. She would not believe it. Yet the more her mind ran over the limited scenarios this seemed the only possible one. If there had been a serious rockslide, she'd have heard it, felt it. After a minute she gathered her strength for a renewed assault on the boulder, but she was not strong enough to shift it.

Her brain tore through the possibilities as she screamed and screamed again.

But still there was no response.

Then the chill that held her in its grip tightened its icy hold as realisation dawned.

Her father had entombed her.

He had never loved her. She always knew that, though she only acknowledged this now.

But like a little lamb she had followed him to slaughter.

Clenching her fists, she hunkered like a cornered animal and screamed until her lungs rasped with pain.

When she opened her eyes she saw a sliver of light penetrated the gap between the boulder which lodged in the opening. Her father must still be there.

Yes, he was, but she no longer expected him to help her.

Collapsing with her head against the stone, a shard of weak light filtering through, she whimpered. He was just on the other side for now she could hear his breathing in the silence.

All her life she'd tried to please him, but she had sinned and Bartholomew Micklen never forgave.

That must be what this was all about, though she needed to understand it from her father's lips. For a few minutes she struggled through the pain, trying to form words that would not come until finally she managed, ‘What have I done, Papa, that you hate me so? All my life I have tried to be a good daughter.'

His voice came to her from only a few feet away, his tone patient, regretful.

‘Ah Emily, I too am sorry it had to come to this. And if you
had
been my daughter perhaps it would not have been possible to act against the fruit of my loins.' He sighed deeply. ‘But you were neither mine nor Marguerite's and now the threat which you unwittingly pose is so great I cannot risk exposure, no matter how blameless you are.'

Not his daughter?

Numb with fear and caught up in confusion, she tried to digest this. ‘What are you saying, Papa? You brought me up as your own. Why should you now do this to me –
now
? What have I done?' Her head spun and in the darkness she felt as if she were being sucked into a vortex of horror. This man was the only father she had ever known. He had not been always been kind, but she did not imagine he was a monster compared with other parents. He had been indulgent in her youth.

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. ‘Whose daughter am I? Would you see me die with such a question unanswered?'

‘I feared you would ask me and, indeed, I am not
so
unfeeling as to leave you entirely in the dark, in all senses of the word.'

She tried to be brave but was unable to hold back the sobs which choked her. Only when her father began to speak did she stop. She needed to hear what he had to say. While he was still talking she could cling to the hope that he may relent and allow the girl he'd at least brought up as his daughter to live.