Angelina Page 3

  They’d never spoken of the incident, but Elizabeth knew she’d never forget the sound of the anguished her daughter screaming Mary’s name over and over again.

  She poked Rosabelle between the shoulder blades, reminding the girl that her posture needed correction. Rosabelle would marry George Northbridge. She could forget dreams of love and a union with Rafe Daventry.

  “Lengthen the hemline,” she snapped at the dressmaker.

  “Mama! It barely exposes my shoe.”

  Elizabeth dismissed her complaint as one of many. “I don’t have the time to argue with you. Be in the study in half an hour. Your father has something to say to us.” Thomas had worn a troubled expression on his face of late, and she prayed he wasn’t going to subject them to one of his tedious lectures about economising on household expenses.

  The wounded look in Rosabelle’s eyes gave Elizabeth a moment of remorse. More than anything, she wished she could love the girl. Troubled, she turned and left the room.

  * * * *

  “What cruel jest is this, Thomas?” Elizabeth’s usually soft voice cut like a sliver of ice through the room. “Do you imagine I’d have forgotten if twin daughters had been born to me?”

  Her husband’s dark eyes shifted away from her direct gaze, as well they might. Rosabelle stared at her father, shocked. For once, she had nothing to say for herself.

  A tiny shudder crept down Elizabeth’s spine at the thought of a second Rosabelle.

  “You were out of your mind with pain and fever, Elizabeth.” Thomas picked up a cut crystal decanter and poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass. Automatically he inhaled, appreciating its fruity aroma. It was a fine blend, one of a brace of bottles William had given him for his birthday.

  Will was watching her through dark, narrowed eyes. A tiny smile played around his mouth. He was a darker, stockier version of James, but lacked the grace and the strength of character his older brother possessed.

  Will was too obviously enjoying her discomfort. They didn’t really get on, though he was hardly ever disrespectful towards her. He saved that for his father.

  “I couldn’t bear to see you suffer, my dear.” Thomas crossed to when she stood and took her hands in his. Despite the warmth of the day they were cold. He lowered his gaze from the accusatory light in hers. “Lady Alexandra convinced me the infant wouldn’t survive.” Giving an insincere smile, he said, “Angelina was beautiful, such a tiny little thing. Her hair was a wisp of red, and you wound it around your finger. I’d never seen a woman gaze with such love at a child, nor a child who looked so much like her mother.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes as forgotten memories pressed in on her. The child had been like an exquisite doll, her hair the colour of spun gold. The feeling of contentment had been indescribable, and surfaced now as a deep grieving ache in her heart.

  She’d gone to sleep feeling such divine love for her baby daughter, then when she woke...? She shook her head. They’d given her laudanum to ease the pain. Had it confused her, had she forgotten she’d birthed two daughters? It was possible. The infant she remembered, the one she’d lost, had been nothing like the one she’d brought home to Wrey house.

  Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, then her heart fluttered in hope when she understood the ramifications of what Thomas was saying to her. Her fingers curled around his as she gazed anxiously into his eyes. “My dear little Rosabelle is truly alive?”

  Eyes rife with anger, Rosabelle sauntered across the room with her hands on her hips to confront her mother. “That is my name. I believe my sister’s name is Angelina?

  Thomas was perspiring. “You’ll be gratified to know I had the child christened thus so she’d be assured a place in heaven.”

  “Very laudable, Thomas.” The dry comment brought a flood of colour to his cheeks.

  Her eyes swept over both William and Rosabelle, then she rose from the stool and swept towards to door, saying softly as she half-turned. “God obviously didn’t appreciate the sacrifice you made on his behalf, for he allowed her to live. How could you do it,Thomas? How could you abandon your own daughter while she still breathed, cheat me of her love, then live a lie for all these years? What sort of man are you?”

  * * * *

  Thomas could have shrivelled from the wounded expression in her eyes.

  When the door closed behind her relief rushed through him. He’d done it, fooled his wife into thinking the two girls were twins! But there was no satisfaction in the victory. Needing a stiff drink he turned once more towards the decanter.

  He encountered the eyes of William, and bristled at the sight of the cruelly amused expression they contained.

  His youngest son sauntered towards him, his voice softly mocking. “Are there any more of your offspring we should congratulate you on, Father? First it was your bastard, Frey. Now we’re being introduced to a long lost sister.”

  “Hold your tongue, Will.” Thomas growled. “I’ll have your respect.”

  “Haven’t you always told us respect has to be earned?”

  “Don’t, Will.” Rosabelle placed a restraining hand on his arm. “If anyone should be out of countenance, it should be me. Papa did what he thought was best at the time. We must try and accept this outsider as our sister.”

  Linking her arm through Will’s, she drew the three of them together. “How can I bear to share the love of my two favourite men with another?”

  Sliding an arm around Rosabelle’s waist William kissed her cheek. “Twenty sisters could not mean as much to me as one of the hairs on your head.”

  “And you, Papa?” Her dark eyes shone with unshed tears, a catch trembled in her voice. “Will you shall grow to love Angelina more than you love me?”

  “No other daughter can steal the place you hold in my heart.” Neither she or Elizabeth must ever discover Rosabelle was a nameless orphan. Avoiding her eyes he drew the hand to his lips and kissed it before taking a box from his waistcoat pocket. “See what I bought you whilst I was in London.” His smile was indulgent when she opened what was little more than a conscience gift.

  “It’s beautiful Papa.” She let go of his hand and turned the brooch towards the light. It was the colour of blood. “A ruby,” she whispered, her eyes shining.

  “It’s a garnet.” Will’s voice was dry as took the brooch from her fingers and pinned it to her bodice. His devaluation of the gift enraged Thomas. Will was a schemer and manipulator. He and Rosabelle were two of a kind, Thomas admitted to himself.

  Will turned with a mocking inclination of his head. “I beg your leave, sir. No doubt you have important matters to attend to.”

  Perspiration beaded Thomas’ forehead as he strained to be civil.

  “You may go, William.” He turned his back on his second born, his hand reaching for the brandy decanter as the door closed on him.

  “Let me pour that for you, Papa,” Rosabelle said. “I wanted to talk to you about my ball gown. Mama insists on yellow....”

  But Thomas was in no mood to listen to Rosabelle’s prattle. He was expecting George Northbridge any moment. They were to discuss the terms of Rosabelle’s dowry. She should be grateful she had a dowry, and suddenly he couldn’t wait for her to marry.

  “You will take your mother’s advice on this, Rosabelle. Leave me, I have more important business to discuss.” She flounced off in a rustle of taffeta and slammed the door behind her.

  * * * *

  Lady Celine Daventry nodded with satisfaction as she finished embroidering a bluebell on the small apron she held in her hands. All that remained was to attach the apron to her bodice, then the most recent patch on her blue petticoat would not be noticed. Tomorrow, she thought, wearily gazing out at the neglected grounds of Monkscroft Estate. I’ll do it tomorrow. The light is almost gone and my eyes are tiring.

  From the window of her chamber Celine could see the spire of the distant church, and the adjacent roof of the manse. Her face puckered in a frown as the portly Reverend Locke ca
me to mind - his wig slightly askew, his face red and his eyes protruding as he preached the duties of a wife to her husband the previous Sunday.

  It had been a public declaration, as the congregation had been aware. Every pair of eyes in the church had turned her way.

  After the service, the reverend had insisted on accompanying her back to Monkscroft, there to press his suit with her father. The Marquis had later informed her she’d become the wife of the reverend, who although without title, was a wealthy man and willing to take her off his hands without dowry.

  The good reverend had produced eight children to three wives. The oldest son was exactly like him in manner and profession, the younger ones were well-mannered and never smiled, the spirit having been beaten, or was still in the process of being beaten out of them, as the welts and bruises on them testified.

  “I will not marry him,” Celine muttered, the blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother clouding with fear as she fingered her own bruises. “Whatever father does to me I’ll never marry that man.”

  Crossing to the door she rattled the knob, wondering if her father had forgotten he’d locked her in her room two days before. She was thirsty and hungry, yet hesitated to bring attention to her plight by calling out. Her father’s beatings were not an event she wished to experience too often, and at this time of day he’d be well into his cups.

  Moving back to the window, she stared speculatively at the branch of the oak stretching towards her window. So near and yet so far. When she’d been small Rafe had helped her climb from her window to hide amongst the leafy branches. There they’d hidden from the harsh realities of their world. If she stared into the shadowy depths of the foliage she could almost see his laughing face peering out at her, hear his soft whisper calling her to join him.

  “Celine?”

  She smiled to herself. If she was hearing voices she must be faint from lack of food. Her pulse quickened in hope as her glance searched through the deepening gloom. Perhaps Rafe had come for her. She knew he’d written to her. The letter had been intercepted by her father so she was unaware of what news it contained.

  “Celine.” Rafe’s husky whisper clearly reached her now. “I’m below. Come down the back way.”

  She resisted giving a small thankful cry when she saw her brother’s tall figure concealed amongst the ivy clinging to the grey stones. He stood to one side of a pair of French doors leading into the room where their father spent most of his time. The doors were directly under her window, and ajar.

  “Thank God you’ve come,” she whispered. “I cannot come down, I’m locked in. Be careful, your note was intercepted. Father will be expecting you.”

  Rafe glanced up at the tree, then darted across the terrace and began to scale its lower branches. A frenzied barking came from the room behind the doors and a pair of emaciated hounds bounded out and leapt with ferocious howls at the base of the tree.

  “Quiet you mangy curs!” A bottle skittered out through the door and smashed into shards upon the weed-infested flagstones of the terrace.

  Rafe took advantage of the dogs temporary fright to scale the tree, edging along a sturdy limb and scramble over her window sill. He barely had time to conceal himself behind a curtain before the Marquis weaved drunkenly from the room waving a pistol in the air. A shot whistled up through the leaves of the oak, and the dogs took off towards the stables with their tails between their legs.

  Tipping a bottle to his mouth the Marquis glared up at the window. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Missy,” he roared. “You’ll stay in there until you wed Matthew Locke, and if your ungrateful brother comes skulking around here I’ll set the dogs on him.”

  “I’ll never agree to marry Matthew Locke,” she cried out.

  A string of curses left his mouth. “Agree or not, you’ll wed him anyway. I’ve arranged a private ceremony at the church on the morrow, with Matthew’s son presiding and myself as witness.”

  Tipping up the bottle again, the Marquis took a swallow, then began to cough as a drop of the liquid invaded his wind-pipe. He lost his balance, staggered backwards and sprawled amongst the broken glass. His red-rimmed eyes stared angrily up at the darkening sky whilst his chest heaved in a spasm of coughing. When the coughing ceased, his eyes drifted shut and he started to snore.

  Sickened, Rafe pulled his sister against his chest and kissed the top of her head. “Gather together what you need. I’m taking you away from this house, and you’ll never return.”

  “I’m locked in.” Sobs wracked her thin body. “I’ll have to obey. I have no choice.”

  Rafe shook with rage when he noticed her bruises. “You’ll not be locked in for long.” Grim-faced, he picked up a heavy iron poker and splintered the lock. “And you’ll not have to obey him. I refuse to let you marry that pious old hog, Matthew Locke. Somehow, I’ll find the means to care for you, Celine. If father comes looking for you I’ll call him out and kill him.” Striding to the window he gazed down at the recumbent form with disgust. “I’m in half a mind to skewer him whilst he lies there.”

  His sister managed a watery smile as she threw her meagre belongings into a sheet and knotted the corners. “You’re too honourable a man to commit murder, however justified you consider it to be. I cannot wait to escape from Monkscroft, but how will we live? I’ve nothing of value to sell.”

  ‘I’ll think of something to keep the wolf from the door.” But what, Rafe wondered? The library job wouldn’t last forever, and although he’d agreed to Celine becoming companion to James’ ward, the position would only last until Angelina was restored to her family.

  An ironic smile twisted the corner of his mouth. He shrugged as he shouldered Celine’s burden.

  As they crept out of the house Rafe had sworn never to enter again, he gave a mirthless grin. If matters became really desperate, he could always propose marriage to Caroline Pallister.

  Chapter Four

  “Where the devil am I?” Still befuddled, James’ glance wandered from the gold brocade bed hangings to the disapproving countenance of a bulbous-nosed gentleman captured for posterity in a frame over the fireplace.

  “I think he’s finally coming to his senses.”

  The deep voice came from James’ left. He turned towards it, groaning as pain shafted through his head and shoulder. A lighter, sweeter voice.

  “Pray do not attempt to move, James.” Something cool was placed against his throbbing head.” You received a blow from a branch, which rendered you unconscious. But do not worry, you’ve been brought back to the house and a physician is in attendance.”

  A face swam into his vision - anxious green eyes, a halo of tawny hair.” Elizabeth?” he croaked. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s me - Angelina.” The eyes became all the more anxious.” Have you forgotten who I am, James?”

  “How could I forget.” Lights exploded in his head when he tried to smile. “I beg your pardon, Angelina. I seem to be addle-brained at the moment.”

  “And no wonder, My Lord. If your shoulder hadn’t taken the brunt of the blow your skull would have cracked like an egg.” The owner of the deeper voice moved into his vision. Fingers were raised, eyes examined. “Good...good...no lasting damage seems to have been done.” He tasted laudanum when a glass was raised to his lips. “You must rest, now, My Lord. I’ll return on the morrow.”

  Worry laced Angelina’s voice. “Will my brother return to full health?”

  “He’ll suffer from a headache for a day or two, and may feel an urge to vomit when he wakes. Have a servant on hand in case he needs assistance.”

  “I’ll stay myself. The accident was my fault, after all.”

  Her fault? James had no intention of letting Angelina suffer remorse over the incident. “Nonsense,” he managed to say, his words slurring a little as the laudanum started to take effect. “You cannot be blamed for a tree branch falling on my head. My man is at the Royal Hart Inn. Send a servant to explain, and bid him to attend me immedia
tely.”

  “But, James....” Angelina began, only to be interrupted by the physician’s firm voice.

  “Later, my dear.”

  The voice became a slow sonorous echo coming from the depths of a well.

  “The sedative’s taking effect. Explanations will only serve to confuse him.” The physician leaned over him, addressing him as if he were profoundly deaf. Which was just as well, thought James, for his ears were buzzing like a hive full of bees.

  “Do not worry about anything, My Lord. I’m passing by the Royal Hart and will inform your servant myself.”

  The physician’s face blurred as it floated off into the distance. James had never encountered such a soft bed. Sucked into its feathery folds, he panicked, momentarily struggling to hold on to conscious thought. For one lucid moment he stared directly into the eyes of the man in the portrait. Then the disapproving countenance began to revolve, faster and faster, until it spun off into the darkness and disappeared into nowhere.

  * * * *

  The eulogy seemed to be taking forever. Angelina slanted a glance at James, wondering if he was as bored as she. His face was grave, and he seemed to be paying close attention to the words Reverend White spouted about Lady Alexandra.

  Except for the remains of a bruised swelling concealed amongst his hair, James seemed to have recovered quickly from his ordeal at the hands of Bessie. To her everlasting relief he’d reacted with amusement when she’d told him the true story of his injury.

  Affection for him stole into her heart. She’d grown to like and respect her brother over the past two days, especially when he’d had the sensitivity to summon the remorseful Bessie into his presence and commend her for being a loyal servant to her mistress.

  Angelina sighed as the reverend’s voice droned on, and she tried not to wriggle. The black dress she’d found in Lady Alexandra’s wardrobe was hot and itchy. The church was packed for the memorial service and smelled ripely of massed humanity. How could her brother sit there with such an engrossed expression on his face?