Czytaj książkę: «Lady Knightley's Secret»

Chapter One

1815

Sir Richard Knightley woke with a violent start. He was sweating profusely and his every muscle seemed suddenly to have grown taut. What in the world had woken him? he wondered. Cannon fire? No, it couldn’t have been. Just a bad dream—that was all: nothing more than vivid memory; a deep-seated fear. It was over…Surely it must be over? He just couldn’t go through it again, not that carnage! He detected the distant rumble once more and released his breath in a deep sigh of relief. Thunder…only thunder.

Trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his shoulder, and the sudden darting pain in his left leg, he eased himself into a sitting position. His night-shirt, damp with perspiration, clung to him like a second skin. Ye gods, wasn’t it oppressive tonight! he thought, pulling the offending garment over his head and tossing it aside in disgust.

Perhaps this storm might clear the air. Mary had warned him earlier that there was one brewing. He could quite easily discern those claps of thunder getting steadily louder, even if he was oblivious to the flashes of lightning.

Instinctively he raised a hand to touch the bandage over his eyes. The sabre gash in his right shoulder had been excruciating, and so too had the lead ball which had torn through the flesh in his thigh, but it had been the damage to his eyes when that pistol had been discharged which had caused him most concern. To be deprived of one’s sight didn’t bear dwelling on. To be led about by the hand for the rest of one’s life…

A further clap of thunder, which seemed to shake the house to its very foundations, broke into his depressing thoughts and brought him back to the present by reminding him of how oppressive it was in the room. Had Mary inadvertently closed the window when she had paid that last visit before retiring for the night? He turned his head in the direction in which he knew the window to be, and after a moment’s indecision decided to make the attempt.

Wincing slightly as he moved his injured leg, he swung his feet to the floor, and then reached out a hand to the wall. Mary had not delayed in encouraging him to exercise his muscles by taking a gentle turn about the bedchamber twice a day. He quickly discovered, however, that it was one thing having that blessed girl to guide him, and quite another trying to feel his way about a room he had never yet seen, a room where every object was a potential danger to a man who had been as good as blind for the past month.

‘Oh, confound it!’ he muttered as his elbow made contact with something, sending it crashing to the floor. What the devil had he broken? he wondered before his toes came into contact with a wet patch on the floor. It must have been the pitcher.

‘Don’t you be taking another step, sir!’ came a gently warning voice, spiced with an unmistakable West Country accent, ‘otherwise you’ll be a-stepping on broken porcelain.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mary. I hope it wasn’t valuable.’

He discerned the slight click as she closed the door, and then heard that soft footfall of hers as she came across the chamber towards him.

‘As you know, sir, this don’t be our ’ouse, so whether it be valuable or no I can’t rightly say, but it’s of no matter, anyhow. What be you a-doing out of bed? ’Ave you need of the chamber-pot?’

He couldn’t prevent a smile at this rather base enquiry. But then, he reminded himself, anyone less matter-of-fact, less practical would hardly have coped so admirably in nursing the six British casualties brought into this house.

Not that he retained any memory whatsoever of the journey back to Brussels in that lumbering cart filled with the dead and wounded. It had been Sergeant Hawker who had informed him that it had been Mary herself who had agreed to the army surgeon’s request to offer sanctuary to the injured men, and it had been she who had insisted that three of those six must be men from the lower ranks. There would be no discrimination under her roof, no preferential treatment to those higher born.

Richard couldn’t recall being carried up to this room, nor had he any memory of those first few days after the surgeon had tended the deep gash in his shoulder and had removed the piece of lead shot from his thigh. The last thing he could remember was having his mount shot from under him and seeing a blinding flash whilst he lay, momentarily stunned, on the scorched, bloodstained ground; though who had discharged the firearm, a fellow soldier or the enemy, he had no notion. Then, as he had made to rise, his vision blurred, his eyes smarting, he had been felled again by a French cavalryman wielding a sabre. The next thing he remembered was someone gently raising his head and coaxing him to take a little water.

That, of course, had been Mary, several days after he had been carried into this house. Since then she had administered to his every bodily need, had nursed him back to health and had forced him to come to terms with his brother’s tragic death.

‘No, my darling girl, I don’t have need of that particular receptacle at the moment. But I do require the window opened before I expire from the heat.’

‘It is open, but I’ll open it a little more, once I’ve got you safely back into bed.’

He felt the warm touch of gentle fingers on his wrist before a slender arm encircled his back. He was instantly aware of soft curves pressed against his side, and was both astounded and faintly embarrassed by his body’s immediate reaction. He recalled that it had been some weeks since he had assuaged his needs in that particular direction, and was aware in those moments before returning to his bed that he was far stronger than he had realised.

Praying she hadn’t noticed his arousal, he didn’t waste a second in pulling the covers up to his chest. He heard the grating of the sash window as it was raised higher, and then felt a blessed waft of fresh air. ‘That’s better!’ he remarked with genuine relief before he detected a faint chink as Mary busied herself with picking up the fragments of porcelain.

‘I suppose it never occurred to you to throw the bedcovers off?’ she chided, placing the broken pieces in the bowl. ‘There! That’s cleared that up. Now, let’s have no more middle-of-the-night wanderings!’

He couldn’t forbear a smile at the scolding tone; he had grown quite accustomed to it by now. He heard her light tread once more and arrested her progress to the door by asking her to stay for a while.

He felt the bed go down slightly under her light weight, and instinctively sought one of those infinitely capable hands. ‘I’m a selfish devil, because you must be tired, but just sit with me for a while.’

He couldn’t see the smile which played around the exquisitely formed lips, but couldn’t mistake the gentle understanding as she said, ‘I know you must be concerned about tomorrow, Richard, but everything will be all right…I know it will.’

He brushed his thumb back and forth over the soft skin, easily detecting the small bones beneath. How often during these past weeks had he held these tapering fingers for comfort and support? He would know these caring hands anywhere. He had not infrequently marvelled at the fact that such a slender creature could be so strong, manoeuvring his six-foot frame in those first early days when he had been too helpless to do anything for himself. He had learned from Sergeant Hawker, the old rogue, that she was a very pretty young woman; knew too, from Mary herself, that her long hair was the colour of sun-ripened corn and that her eyes were blue. Such a delicious combination! But he had never looked upon what Hawker considered the sweetest smile in Christendom…Would he ever be privileged to see it?

‘I wish I had your confidence, Mary.’

Her soft laughter had a teasing quality. ‘You will see,’ she assured him again. ‘Call it the gypsy in me that knows.’

He was still far from certain, but knew he was probably being too pessimistic; behaving like a spoilt child, as Mary had told him in no uncertain terms on more than one occasion during these past weeks. Darling little scold! His sight hadn’t been permanently damaged—the doctor had assured him of that. His eyes had been inflamed, certainly, and everything had been just a blur, but the condition was only temporary. His eyes had needed only resting and nature would effect its own cure. Tomorrow, when the bandages were removed, he would see again. He must believe that! Surely life wouldn’t heap the torment of blindness upon him on top of everything else?

He found himself experiencing that same gnawing ache of grief, infinitely more painful than any one of the several wounds he had sustained during his years in the army. It had been just over two weeks since Mary had read that letter informing him of his brother’s tragic death. He still found it difficult to accept that, when he did eventually return to England, Charles wouldn’t be standing outside the ancestral home waiting to greet him, as he had done so many times in the past; that dear Margaret wouldn’t be there either, nor little Jonathan. A racing curricle, driven at breakneck speed, had forced his brother’s carriage off the road and it had tumbled down a ravine. Because of some mindless fop’s attempts to win a wager, Charles and his wife, and their nine-year-old son, now lay six feet beneath the earth.

Learning about the tragedy so soon after seeing so many comrades fall at Waterloo had been almost too much for him to bear. He had come perilously close to losing the will to live; might well have not survived his injuries; might never have attempted to come to terms with his tragic loss if it hadn’t been for Mary.

Mostly gently coaxing, but occasionally rounding on him like a spitting virago, Mary had somehow managed to transfuse a small part of that indomitable spirit of hers into him, lifting him from the nadir of despair, and instilling in him a determination to face up to the responsibilities which had been placed upon him by his brother’s untimely death. It would take a long time before he got over his loss; perhaps he never would, fully; but, for the sake of the baby niece he had never yet seen, he must face the future.

Charles and Margaret had considered their baby daughter too young to make that long journey to Derbyshire to stay with their friends, and had left her in the care of a close relative residing in London. Thankfully, Juliet was too young to understand the tragedy which had struck. Now it was up to him to ensure that her life was as carefree and happy as possible by taking the place of the father she would never remember.

He automatically reached out for his sweet preserver with his other hand and, pulling her down against his chest, ran his fingers through that long mane of silky hair which always smelt so deliciously of lavender-and-rose water. ‘What would I have done without you, you darling girl!’

Without conscious thought he removed his hand from her hair to run an exploratory trail down her cheek, brushing gently against the outline of her jaw before taking a hold of the softly rounded chin and raising her face. He lowered his head and his mouth retraced the path his fingers had taken before coming to rest on soft lips, invitingly parted.

He had intended nothing more than a brief display of his genuine affection for this wonderfully caring young woman, but as he felt those soft lips tremble deliciously beneath his own, as he became acutely aware of the firm young breasts pressed against his chest, his need returned with an urgency, reigniting that fire of desire in his loins. Before he realised what he was doing, he had eased her into the bed beside him and was peeling away that last flimsy barrier of her clothing with hands that now shook slightly in their urgency to touch every last inch of her.

It must have been this loss of sight which had finely tuned his other senses, he decided, for never before could he recall touching skin so satiny-smooth, so beautifully unblemished. She was perfect. Her breasts reacted instantly to his caressing touch, hardening and inviting his lips. Her soft moans of pleasure as he ran his fingers down to the softly swelling hips was music to his ears, a delightful encouragement for further intimate caresses.

Not for an instant did it cross his mind to wonder why the hands which began to explore the triangular mat of dark hair covering his chest were trembling slightly; nor did he consider the very real possibility that the body which reacted so deliciously to his gentle caresses might not be that of an experienced woman, but that of a hitherto untouched female who was responding quite naturally to a knowledgeable man’s tender lovemaking. It was only when he eased himself on top and inside her and heard that betraying tiny cry of pain that the truth dawned on him. But it was all too late now: his need too urgent for him to stop.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Mary?’ he asked gently when at last he lay beside her once more, and cradled her head on his chest. ‘Did I hurt you very much, my darling? Had I known, I—’

‘Had you known, Richard,’ she interrupted, ‘I suspect you wouldn’t have made love to me at all.’

He wasn’t so certain. He wasn’t a man accustomed to curbing his natural desires. A string of mistresses over the years had satisfied his needs, but he had never before tampered with innocence. Maybe if it had once occurred to him that she might be untouched he wouldn’t have reached a point where he was incapable of stopping, but it was rather too late to question the wisdom of his actions now. There was only one course open to a man who possessed any degree of honour.

He brushed his lips lightly over her forehead. ‘We’ll be married just as soon as I can arrange matters.’ He felt her stiffen. ‘What’s wrong, Mary? Don’t you want to marry me?’

‘More than anything in the world, Richard!’ It was like a desperate cry from a loving heart. ‘But—but you know next to nothing about me.’

‘I know that you’re one of the sweetest scolds I’ve ever met,’ he told her laughingly. ‘I also know that your hair is blonde and your eyes are blue.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she murmured, a distinct catch in her voice, as though she were finding it difficult to speak. ‘That’s always been your favourite combination, hasn’t it, my Richard?’

‘How do you know that? Has Sergeant Hawker been gossiping again?’

She didn’t respond to this, but asked instead with that bluntness which so characterised her, ‘Do you truly want to marry me?’

‘Of course!’ he answered without a moment’s hesitation and only hoped his voice hadn’t betrayed his grave misgivings. ‘Besides, now that I’ve come into the title it’s essential I produce an heir. And I’ve come to know you well enough in these past weeks to be certain you’d make a wonderful wife and mother. So, we’ll take it as settled.’

There was no response.

When Richard woke again it was to discover himself alone and that portion of bed beside him quite cold. By the tramping of feet in the passageway outside his room—which sounded like a regiment of infantrymen parading up and down—he knew it must be morning, a morning he had been longing for and dreading by turns; a morning that, no matter whether he would see again or not, would change his life forever.

Raising his arms, he rested his head in his hands and gave vent to a heartfelt sigh. He was honest enough to admit that for a newly betrothed man he certainly wasn’t experiencing untold joy; honest enough to admit, too, that Mary wouldn’t have been his ideal choice for a wife. He liked her very well, probably more than any other woman he had ever known. She was both kind-hearted and amusing, and for all that she spoke with a pronounced West Country accent she was far from uneducated.

It had been she who had penned the letter to his London solicitors in response to the one they had sent informing him of his brother’s tragic demise. He had also learned from Sergeant Hawker that she had spent many hours with him improving his reading and writing skills. But this, he was only too well aware, was hardly sufficient reason to suppose that she would make a suitable wife for a baronet. The truth of the matter was, of course, that she was totally unsuitable. She could have no notion of what was expected of her. Those vicious society tabbies would have a field day at her expense when they discovered her former station in life.

‘But you know next to nothing about me.’ He frowned suddenly as Mary’s words echoed in his mind. It was true: he knew absolutely nothing about her life. She had received a good education. He knew this from the numerous conversations they had had when she had spoken intelligently on a wide range of topics. She might well be the daughter of some country parson or practitioner. If this did turn out to be the case then the outlook was not all doom and gloom. She could be moulded and taught the ways of his social class. Added to which, she must surely come from a family with sufficient means to have been able to afford to hire this house for several weeks. Was she the daughter of a wealthy merchant, perhaps? But it was pointless speculating, he told himself. He would discover all he wanted to know, and perhaps a great deal that he didn’t, when she visited him next.

The door opening interrupted his thoughts. ‘Mary?’

‘No, sir. It’s me.’

He recognised his sergeant’s rough voice instantly and smiled. ‘What brings you here so early, you old rogue? And what the devil’s that confounded din?’

‘The servants be moving some trunks, sir. Captain Munroe be leaving us this morning. We be the last two ’ere now.’

‘Where’s Mary?’

There was a tiny pause, then, ‘She be a bit—er—busy at the moment, sir, so she asked me to see to you. High time I took up me dooties again. I can get about well enough, even though the old knee’s still a bit stiff. Now, sir, I’ll just pop this towel round you and give you a bit of a shave.’

No sooner had this task been completed than the doctor arrived, and Richard, for once not having Mary there offering comfort and support, found himself grasping the bedclothes. Not once during any one of those many cavalry charges in which he had taken part could he recall being in the grip of such intense fear as he was in those moments when the bandages were removed and he opened his eyes for the first time since that never-to-be-forgotten last battle.

At first all he could detect were dark, blurred shapes. It was like trying to peer through a thick London fog, but then, blessedly, the mists slowly began to clear and the concerned face of his sergeant staring down at him gradually came into focus.

‘I never thought I’d experience pleasure at seeing that ugly phiz of yours, Hawker. And I have to say it hasn’t improved any since last I saw it!’

The sergeant, far from offended, laughed heartily as he moved across to the window so as not to impede the doctor’s further examination. He looked down into the street below, his amusement vanishing as he gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head, and then watched as the carriage pulled away from the house.

‘Where is Mary?’ Richard asked again, making his eagerness to see her very evident.

Giving a guilty start, Hawker looked back across at the bed. ‘She’s—er—just this minute stepped out for a bit of air, sir.’

‘Well, when she returns to the house tell her I’d like to see her.’ Richard smiled at the choice of words. ‘Tell her I’m longing to see her.’

The sergeant didn’t respond, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before this gallant commanding officer realised there was something amiss.

The moment he had been dreading came early that evening when he brought Richard his dinner.

‘Where is she, Hawker? Why hasn’t she been to see me today?’

He saw little point in trying to conceal the truth any longer. ‘She be gone, sir.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘She be journeying back to England. She left in the carriage as soon as she knew you were back to normal, as yer might say.’ He couldn’t bring himself to add that it had been he who had signalled to her from the window.

Richard experienced such a maelstrom of conflicting emotions that it was several moments before he could think clearly. ‘Did she say why she had to leave so suddenly?’

‘Her old lady were right poorly, sir. Never once left ’er room in all the time we’ve been ’ere. Miss Mary must ’ave wanted to get her back ’ome before she weakened any more, I suppose. Don’t think Miss Mary would ’ave stayed this long if she hadn’t been nursing us lot.’ Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a letter. ‘Before she left, she asked me to give you this, sir.’

Richard almost snatched it from the outstretched hand and, ignoring his sergeant’s reminder that he wasn’t supposed to strain his eyes by reading for at least a week, broke the seal.

Dearest Richard, he read. This is to say goodbye—a cowardly way of doing so, I know, but it is for the best. Had I seen you again I might have weakened and agreed to be your wife, which would have been a grave mistake for both of us. I know you felt honour bound to ask for my hand after what had taken place between us, but I cannot allow

you to make that sacrifice. I gave myself willingly, and do not regret what happened, nor shall I ever. But how can a marriage be a happy one, my darling, when the love is all on one side? One day you will meet someone and fall in love, and bless me for my actions of this day. God keep you safe. Mary.

Richard swallowed the hard lump which had lodged itself in his throat, and cast his eyes again over those words written in a beautifully flowing hand, a hand which for some obscure reason seemed oddly familiar. His Mary had released him from his obligations, but did he want to be freed? He wasn’t certain, but knew that he couldn’t leave things this way. He owed that young woman so much. He simply couldn’t allow her to walk out of his life like this. It was his duty to find her.

‘She hasn’t written down her direction.’ He looked up at the rather concerned face of his sergeant. ‘Did she leave a forwarding address, do you know?’

‘That I don’t, sir. Miss Mary left with all ’er servants. There’s only the Froggies ’ere now.’

‘They’re Belgians.’

‘All the same to me, sir. Do you want I should fetch the ’ousekeeper?’

Richard nodded, but she wasn’t able to help him. Mademoiselle had never mentioned her address. The only thing the housekeeper could suggest was that he wait until her master returned from Italy at the end of the month, and ask him if he knew where Mary resided in England.

But Richard was not forced to await the owner’s return. Tragically, a little over a week later, he was to read a report in a newspaper of the passenger vessel The Albatross, bound for Southampton, capsizing in mid-Channel. Amongst those listed as missing, believed drowned, were a Mrs and Miss Mary Smith.