The Reluctant Bride (24 page)

No, Emily was not his daughter. Bartholomew Micklen spoke in the tones he might use if he were telling her a fairy story, relaying the long ago history of the orphaned Laurent sisters, Marguerite and Fanchette, who lived in Paris and relied on the charity of their overbearing great-aunt, Baroness Angevine.

But this was no fairy story. It was a tale turned dark and Emily was reminded of the gruesome cautionary tales Lucy sometimes told her when she was a child in the hopes of keeping her meek and obedient.

At the age of sixteen the elder, revolutionary-minded Fanchette disgraced the family with her liaison with a radical member of the National Assembly some claimed was the feared Robespierre. An illegitimate child resulted who was quickly spirited away, for the immoral Fanchette was not fortunate like the sinning Emily, her father reminded her.

‘Indeed, Emily, you have no idea just how fortunate you have been, for Fanchette was disowned by her aunt and forced to earn a living as a hat maker, while your transgressions,' her father reminded her, ‘resulted in an offer of marriage from the noble Angus McCartney. Not that you appreciated your good fortune, my dear.'

Not at the time, Emily silently agreed.

‘Was Fanchette beautiful?' Perhaps she would please him with her interest in her father's … lost love? She chewed at her knuckles, trying to remain calm. If she could maintain the normal, civilised modes of behaviour despite her peril she could perhaps engineer her release.

Micklen appeared to relish the opportunity to talk about Fanchette.

‘Beautiful, Emily? She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and I met her the day after I arrived in France in November 1791.'

Her father had obviously settled himself on a boulder not far from the entrance to Emily's prison. His voice was warm as he reminisced. ‘I saw Fanchette across the chamber. She was listening to a debate in the gallery at the National Assembly and I was entranced by her passion, her fervour …' She heard the smile in his voice as he added, ‘… her loyalty to a cause I could believe in: liberty and equality for all.

‘In her I found a compatriot, a fellow revolutionary who wanted to change the unequal society in which we lived. For that, Emily, was what drove us: liberty and equality for all. Each day I went to the National Assembly, she was there, shouting down moderates like Lafayette and cheering her hero Robespierre. Each day my admiration grew.' The glowing tones hardened as he added, ‘I had no idea of her moral depravity: an illegitimate child fostered out the year before. Jessamine was her name. I only met her once and she's now long dead.'

Shock coalesced into pain at the revelation. But what was Fanchette to Bartholomew Micklen other than the Laurent sister he preferred above Emily's mother? Above Marguerite.

‘Yes, father, I know,' she whispered, wanting to prompt him into further disclosure.

‘Not knowing Fanchette's fickle nature, I left her in Paris so I could travel, listen to the mood of the country, work with other revolutionaries. When I returned a year later to claim her as my own, I discovered she had another babe at her breast'—his voice turned to a snarl—‘that was not mine. A child she'd named Emily, the result of Fanchette's brief infatuation with one of Robespierre's acolytes.'

Emily exhaled on a gasp. ‘
Me
, father?' All that had begun to make sense fractured into nonsense. She truly was
Fanchette's
child? The same Fanchette Major Woodhouse claimed was the notorious spy, Madame Fontenay? Then who was her father?
One of Robespierre's acolytes?
It was ludicrous! Fanchette was her aunt. The mother – apparently – of Jessamine. Fanchette was her father's – no, this man's – former mistress. She might believe that.

But Fanchette Laurent, now known as Madame Fontenay, was her
mother
?

Her skin prickled with horror while her breath came in short, shallow gulps. If what she was hearing
were
true, then she and Jessamine were half-sisters, just as Woodhouse claimed.

But how in the world had Jessamine crossed Angus's path? How had
their
fates become entwined?

Her father would be unable to answer these questions, but he could answer the question that screamed in her head: ‘If you hated Fanchette so much, why take me … when you must have hated
me
so much more?'

He still did. He always had, but it was never clearer than now. Emily shrank into her cloak, which provided no respite from the chill.

‘You'll understand, Emily, if you let me finish my story,' he told her. ‘Soon you will die, like you should have twenty-one years ago had I not rescued you and Fanchette and Marguerite from the mob who threatened to tear you apart when you were imprisoned in the Abbaye.

‘I returned to Paris during the Terror in '92,' Micklen continued. ‘Fanchette had just been delivered of her babe. A fatherless babe. Make no mistake, I ensured Fanchette would have no other protection than myself.'

‘You
killed
my real father?' She did not know why she made it a question when the truth was so clear.

Micklen made a noise of impatience. ‘The streets of Paris were running red with blood. No one trusted anyone, anymore. Power shifted with the wind and common people butchered anyone whose opinion ran counter to theirs … and got away with it. You would have died of starvation by your first birthday, Emily, or the mob would have dashed your brains out against the prison walls had I not rescued you, your mother and your Aunt Marguerite.'

Emily buried her face in her hands. The horror of her present was matched by her past.

Except that she had survived. She was familiar with the tales of bloodletting and state-sanctioned violence told by emigrés who'd escaped the guillotine.

‘Why were they – we – in the Abbaye?'

Micklen snorted again. ‘Why was anyone in the Abbaye, Emily? Everyone was betraying everyone else. No one was safe and certainly not in the Abbaye. Fanchette was there with her Aunt Angevine and the rest of the family. For two nights the mob breached the prison to rape, torture and murder. Friends were torn apart before each other's eyes while the authorities looked on. Everyone expected to die.'

Emily pictured this long-distant time. She could understand the desperation to stay alive so it came as no surprise when Micklen said, ‘Fanchette swapped favours to escape death and gained a pardon.'

However she was not ready for the knowledge that her
mother
then condemned her Aunt Angevine and the rest of the family to the guillotine with her allegation they were traitors to the revolution. ‘Fanchette's fortunes were assured when her aunt's were confiscated.' Micklen's tone was full of pride.

How much more must she listen to? Her
mother
had done this? Through dry lips she repeated, ‘So my mother survived. Why didn't she keep me?'

It made no sense … unless her father – this man – had gained from it.

Of course he had. ‘Fanchette was in love with revolution, not with me. She had no desire to be encumbered with an infant. The only person she loved was her useless sister, Marguerite. Yes, Emily. In return for a handsome sum she saddled me with Marguerite as a wife and you as our child.'

Emily's mouth dropped open. Grief washed over her as she muttered, ‘She might as well have abandoned us. You never loved me and you certainly never loved mama. I mean, Tante Marguerite.'

Micklen chuckled. ‘True enough, but few marriages are based on love. If you were less idealistic you'd have appreciated your
noble
Major McCartney better, and run clear of your
ig
noble Jack Noble.' He drew breath and answered, crisply. ‘I did it, Emily, because I needed money and Fanchette threatened to expose activities which would have prevented my return to England. As it was, I was ready to return and a docile, grateful – and crippled – wife suited me quite well.'

Her brain was working like an abacus. There was still so much to piece together. Jessamine, for one thing. Hesitantly, she said, ‘So after you took us back to England, Fanchette collected her other daughter – my half-sister Jessamine – and began her life as a revolutionary in earnest.'

She heard his gusty sigh. ‘It was a few years before Fanchette's maternal instincts came to the fore. She claimed Jessamine when the girl was about ten, but Jessamine was plain and placid and a disappointment. She told me her mother was not kind to her.'

‘
She
told you?'

‘Yes. Jessamine appeared on my doorstep'—he paused, obviously to calculate, before adding—‘about five years ago. She'd learned of the existence of her aunt and half-sister and arrived one night begging me to assist her. She'd walked for days, in rags, and appeared like a beggar. I could see she was Fanchette's daughter but without her mother's beauty or her grace.'

Emily remembered the night she'd seen the beggar arriving at the house and her father's carriage rumble down the driveway bearing the two of them away. With dawning clarity she whispered, ‘But you didn't assist her, did you, Papa?'

‘Like you, Emily, Jessamine posed too great a threat. Fanchette had betrayed me once. I wasn't about to offer refuge to her spawn who clearly risked my past being unearthed. There was a bounty on my head before I left England but, thanks to Fanchette's funds, I returned a gentleman; and, once I'd familiarised myself with the opportunities in these parts, a very wealthy one.'

The sound of small stones dislodging indicated he had risen. ‘So I took Jessamine here. You are not alone, Emily, if that makes you feel any better.'

The realisation was shattering. Burning bile rose up her gullet. Micklen believed that Jessamine, the other offspring of the woman who'd betrayed him, had met her death here. Emily was not about to tell him otherwise.

For if Jessamine had survived, it gave hope to Emily that she, too, may survive.

‘Several years after that,' said her father, ‘Jack Noble arrived, introducing himself with a letter from Fanchette.'

‘
Jack
? Sent by Aunt Fanchette? I mean, my
mother
?'

‘Jack was on His Majesty's Service and had fallen in love with the daughter of Monsieur Delon with whom he lodged in Saint-Omer.'

‘Madeleine,' Emily supplied, dully.

Acknowledging this with a grunt, her father went on, ‘Madeleine was the third of Fanchette's bastard daughters and she'd been adopted by Monsieur Delon. Like you, she was beautiful, but unlike you, she was obedient to her parent. Fanchette had kept in secret contact with Madeleine and was determined the girl would marry Count Levinne, so Madeleine rejected Jack Noble's offer of marriage and she and Fanchette sent him here, to Micklen House, to court you, Emily.' A certain reluctant admiration crept into his tone as he said, ‘Fanchette is a determined woman and she ensured I would benefit from assisting her in her aim of bringing you into her fold through Noble.' He gave a snide laugh. ‘Noble's task was easy. He had only to look at you and you melted at his feet.'

His words brought back afresh the pain of Jack's betrayal. Jack had seemed smitten. Love at first sight, she'd truly believed.

But like everything in her life, it was a lie.

The sound of dislodged pebbles sounded the ominous note that her father was preparing to leave her.

‘You're going?' she cried, as the light was extinguished and the sound of Micklen scrabbling to get a foothold on the rocks signalled there would be no last-minute reprieve. ‘Don't go! Please!'

‘The tide is rising, Emily, and I must cross the shale to the cliffside. I've told you everything you need to know. Answered all your questions. It's unfair of you to detain me further when my feet might get wet.'

‘You can't leave me, father!' she screamed, tearing at the rocks with her bare hands. ‘What will John say when you return to the carriage without me? He'll know you've left me here. He's my friend. I've known him since I was a little girl.'

‘John will ask no questions when I tell him you're waiting for a secret lover to spirit you away.'

‘He'll never believe you.'

‘Of course he won't. And he'll be sad for you, Emily, but he knows I have the power to see his entire family dance at the end of a rope. A little illicit trading carries harsh penalties and he know the risks they take.'

Everything felt raw. Her throat, her face, the tips of her fingers. She imagined them as bloodied stumps, stinging as the sea water rose and swirled her about her dark prison.

‘How much longer do I have? Just tell me that?'

His voice echoed back, faint and indistinct. ‘A few more hours for reflection, Emily. It'll be quick. It's a pleasant death, I'm told. There'll be no pain.'

Lying on his stomach near the summit of a hillside damp with dew shining in the moonlight, Angus scanned the outbuildings and surrounds of Micklen Hall. He felt as if he were in Spain again, just before he'd been captured and made a prisoner of war for six months.

Dawn had not yet broken. The previous night's storm had swept through quickly and the ground was scattered with debris. He'd hoped the weather had prevented Micklen from leaving his home with Emily, but after quickly scouting the stables, Angus had been dismayed to find the carriage was absent. He prayed that Micklen had left town on other business before Emily arrived.

Emily was clearly an innocent pawn. The fact she was Jack Noble's betrothed and perhaps Fontenay's daughter did not make her a traitor, and Angus would prove it.

But first he needed to find his wife.

From his position on the rise, about twenty yards away, Angus was surprised to see a thin woman emerge from the kitchen, onto the back steps. She put her hand to her forehead and appeared to scan the hillside, as if looking for someone.

Although he'd only met her twice, he thought it looked like Lucy. The maidservant had been concerned enough for her young mistress to risk the master's displeasure all those months ago when she'd told Angus and Jonathan that Emily needed help – which meant she was the only person he could trust who might be able to help him now.

He had to take the chance it was Lucy.

With a furtive look to satisfy himself she was alone, Angus emerged from the shelter of the trees and strode down the hill, astonished when she ran towards him.

‘Major McCartney! Sir, you've come quicker than I'd hoped!' she cried as he drew her into the cover of the beech wood. ‘As soon as the master took Miss Emily away I sent the bootboy to find you, only there weren't no way he'd get to Dover quickly with no horse and I had to hope to the lad's cunning.'

‘I came of my own volition, Lucy, when I learned Emily had escaped here after being held on suspicion of spying for England.' If Lucy had sent for him, the situation must be as grave as he feared.

Lucy grasped an overhanging branch and covered her mouth. ‘I could tell you a thing or two about the
master
but ain't no time now. He's taken Miss Emily away with him and I fear for her life, sir, and that's the truth.'

‘When?'

‘Late last night, sir. He put her in the carriage and drove north along the cliff road.'

Angus felt sick. Emily had been in Micklen's hands for hours.

Quickly, he untethered Saladin, adjusting the saddle for an extra passenger before mounting. ‘Take me to her, Lucy, and you can tell me why you think Miss Emily is in danger from her father?'

‘The master's not all he seems,' Lucy said as Angus pulled her up in front of him. He was impressed she made no objection. ‘Mr Micklen's got that many secrets – don't ask me what they are – I jes know he'll do anything to keep them and I'm afeared he'll do to Emily the same as he did to the lass that he took away 'bout five years ago.'

‘Jessamine?'

‘I never knew her name. Charlie and I were in the kitchen when she came a-knockin'. She were French and so bedraggled, which is why it were that strange the master would put her in 'is carriage and take her off, alone. I told me bruvver to follow in secret. He'd come on 'is own horse, which were lucky for he were able to keep up, though 'e had to wait some time till the master had left again, but Charlie got to the cave in time to rescue the girl before the tide came in. If ever there were a hero it were Charlie Gilroy. He kept her safe and then took her to Spain with him.'

Gilroy
. Jessamine had taken the name Gilroy when she'd married the English foot soldier who had rescued her. Her final words of so long ago came back to haunt him and he shivered. ‘Charlie Gilroy was the only hero I've known. He saved me from drowning in a cave while you, Angus McCartney, would see me dead!'

Lucy's voice broke. ‘But Charlie died out there in Spain and I don't know what 'appened to the girl, only now I fear my Emily is going to the same dark place. Take the right turning 'ere, sir. We're on the coastal road and must turn north. Lordy knows how I'll ever find it when there are so many secret caves, but Charlie said it were about four miles past the crossroads. I'll pray for a sign, sir.'

A faint mist dampened Angus's face, chilling him to the bone as the inevitable questions churned in his mind. Why would Micklen murder his own daughter?

They passed another rider coming in the opposite direction. Angus decided not to stop him. Who could he trust when Micklen exerted so much influence in the area? What secrets needed to be guarded so closely that he'd be prepared to murder to protect them? Smuggling was the obvious one, in which case half the coastal population in these parts was probably in some way involved.

When Lucy tugged at his coat to indicate for him to slow down, they both scanned the coastline. It was empty and offered no clues.

Dull hopelessness lodged in the pit of Angus's stomach. The steep cliffs were riddled with caves. If Lucy didn't know exactly where Micklen had taken Jessamine, how on earth would they find Emily in time?

Emily was made aware of the breaking dawn by the sound of calling sea birds. She opened her eyes and could see the grey sky through the chink between the stone and the tunnel wall.

Stiffly, she shifted position. She'd hoped to fall asleep; hoped that death might carry her away without pain. But she was still a prisoner. She still had death to look forward to, for rescue would not be forthcoming.

In the dark Emily had explored every inch of the tunnel as best she could. Her fingers were numb, her throat was sore and her head throbbed. The boulder had been firmly wedged into the opening and she'd found no other exit.

If Jessamine had been rescued it must have been because Micklen had been followed, but hours had passed since Micklen had lured Emily here. It was clear he had not been followed this time.

Which meant Emily was doomed.

For a few minutes she allowed herself the catharsis of tears, but then her mouth grew dry and she realised she was desperately thirsty.

In a short while there'd be no shortage of water, though not the kind she needed. The sound of the sea as it lapped the rocks just a couple of feet lower down taunted her.

She wondered if Angus would ever learn what became of her. Was he in Calais, fired up with the excitement of a mission soon to be completed? At least Major Woodhouse had warned him of Madeleine.

Madeleine.

Her half-sister.

Her nemesis.

What did Emily feel? She was too cold to feel anything.

No, that wasn't true. She was frightened. Death would be here soon and in the short time remaining she had only the solace of knowing Angus had loved her. He'd been entranced by her happiness, not her beauty, for, oh, how happy she'd been when the brave and handsome Jack Noble had led her proudly through the Assembly rooms after she'd agreed to be his wife.

But Emily had been nothing to Jack. He'd been in love with Madeleine since she'd tempted him over to the traitor's side. No wonder Jack had prolonged the engagement. He'd been so in love with Madeleine he'd do anything for her. Even marry a woman he didn't love. Emily.

Why?

Because Emily was similar enough in looks to Madeleine to please him, and Madame Fontenay – Emily's
mother
– wanted to bring Emily back into the fold. She thought she could convince Emily to turn against England and it would please her to have a loving daughter in her twilight years.

Then Jack died and Angus was conveniently made Jack's replacement.

Emily had no wish to dwell on either her mother or Micklen. She'd try and think happy thoughts about Angus.

‘Oh, Angus …' Taking a deep breath, she shouted his name once more but the sound was muffled. It did not even give her the satisfaction of echoing as it would have had she been in the cavern of the cave.

Everything she might try would be futile. Angus was already on his way to Calais, if not there already. Lost to her. Forever.

She began to cry again, taunted by images of the horrors of the recent past interspersed with the unhappiness Micklen had unleashed by his long-ago actions when he'd saved the Laurent family from the Abbaye. She imagined the horror Jessamine must have experienced when she'd been lured to this very place. Jessamine, who'd lived on to perhaps experience brief happiness before—

No point dwelling on Angus's role in Jessamine's life. She did not blame him for acting as he had done.

It all came back to this cave. Perhaps even this narrow, cramped tunnel where her half-sister had crouched, like her, in terror.

Jessamine.

Emily tried to quash the irrational anger and feel sorrow for the girl but she could not when she knew Jessamine had survived beyond the cave but Emily would not.

Because of Jessamine, Angus had married Emily.

Perhaps because of Jessamine, Emily was here now.

A strong head wind slowed them but since they had no clear direction it didn't matter. Somewhere nearby Angus's wife was imprisoned, but the fact he did not know where nearly drove him insane. Soon, he'd have the blood of both Emily and Jessamine on his hands.

After another fifteen minutes' hard riding, Lucy signalled Angus to stop and he slowed his mount, urging it towards the cliff face. He sensed Lucy's doubt as they stared at the hopeless scene below. Several paths in the vicinity led down to the shore but the tide had swallowed up the shaley beach. Foaming white waves broke over the rocks.

He felt Lucy tremble as he placed a hand on her shoulder and the face she turned towards him was bleak. ‘I thought I could tell you, sir, truly I did but— Oh me Gawd!' She broke off, shrinking into his arms.

‘What is it?'

Her voice was a thread of terrified sound. ‘It's the master. We must get out o' here!'

Angus tightened his grip to stop her sliding as he turned to see Bartholomew Micklen's carriage lumbering towards them on the coastal road, a small speck lit by lanterns, which grew larger as it rounded a bend about half a mile away before coming to a stop. White hot fury powered through him. He wheeled his horse back to the road and galloped to meet it, ignoring Lucy's pleas to turn tail, squinting against the wind as he watched the coachman jump from the box and run to the edge of the cliff. The carriage was now identifiable as Micklen's and the man a servant to judge from his serviceable brown coat and muffler and the brown felt hat that was swept away by the wind as he collapsed to his knees as Angus and Lucy drew near.

‘John!' screamed Lucy as Angus reined in his mount, helping her down before she tumbled. They ran to where the coachman was crouching, his hand shading his eyes as he scanned the angry sea below. Tears coursed down the old man's face as he looked up, but he did not speak.

‘Where's Emily?' Angus hauled the thick-set fellow to his feet and John stabbed a finger towards the beach. ‘The master made me take him all the way to Dover the moment we left here. There weren't no chance o' coming back to save her. I'd a done so, God's honour I would have. Only, he knew it, too …'

Angus had to let him go. He bent double, hands on his knees as he felt the bile rise up his gullet.

He twisted his head and stared into the foaming sea which roared into the entrance of a large cave a little to the right. The track that led down the cliff face was entirely swallowed up by the swirling water.

John's tone was hopeless. ‘I thought I might get here before the tide was up and if I could swim, God's truth, I might still do it, too—'

‘Is there a way, John?' Angus knew he was clutching at straws as he heard the fevered hope in his voice. ‘Where
exactly
is she?'

‘There's a tunnel near the roof of the cave.' John ran a grimy hand over his face which was streaked with mud and tears. ‘The master lured Miss Emily into it then blocked it up with a stone, knowing she'd drown when the tide came up.'

Angus strained to see where John was pointing and hope clawed a jagged path through him as he realised the top of the cave was not entirely inundated.

‘There might be hope!' he shouted over the wind. ‘Look.'

‘But the sea is fierce, sir.' John turned away, shaking his head, already conceding defeat. ‘Even if you could swim you'd be dashed to bits against the rocks.'

Angus ignored him, peeling off his jacket then tearing off his boots.

‘Careful, sir,' Lucy cried after him as he began to descend the path that led to the cave, although the last couple of yards which led directly to the cave were well under water.

He chose a launching point as close to the entrance as possible, plunging in and gasping at the cold. Immediately, he sought something to cling to and felt a long, flat ridge of rock. A split second later the force of the current sent him spinning against a far less hospitable outcrop. Unless he formed a better strategy he would be slashed to ribbons and then what use would he be to Emily? Taking a deep breath he dived beneath the surface and propelled himself as far into the cave as his breath would allow. He had to believe that John's information about an inner tunnel were true.

Debris swirled around him and he could see nothing until his out-thrust arms came into contact with a ledge of some sort. He hauled himself out of the water, choking, and dashed the water from his eyes as he looked about him, thanking Providence for the rays of breaking dawn that supplemented the moonlight. The cave curved around on three sides, large boulders reaching to the ceiling. Raising his head, he searched for possibilities. An oddly wedged rock, just a few feet beneath the ceiling of the cave, caught his attention and he began to climb.

‘Emily!' he shouted. His voice sounded oddly truncated, battling with the roar of the sea. He didn't wait for an answer but grappled over the boulders until he reached what hope and instinct suggested might be the entrance to the tunnel he was looking for.