"Here, now," Spencer said as he poured them all glasses of wine, "you'll have me blubbering like a baby myself if you don't all stop that. Time to get down to cases. But first let's drink a toast to young Jack, and to his splendid mother."
They'd all taken a glass and Chance was about to offer a toast when Jacko walked into the room, his normal swagger replaced by slowly dragging feet, badly slumped shoulders. "I need to see her," he said simply, looking at Jack. "I won't go close…I won't bother her none…I just…I need to see her for myself."
Jack looked to Courtland, who nodded his head almost imperceptibly. They all knew the story, knew that Jacko's life hadn't been the same since the day of the mistaken raid, the day Jacko had rescued Eleanor…by killing her mother. Life was choices, and Jacko had chosen the child over the mother. It was that simple, and that complex. And Jacko, the man who would swear he loved no one, needed no one, had lived with that choice for too many years.
"Of course, Jacko," Jack said, putting down his wineglass. "I'll take you to her. She's sleeping, but you can stay as long as you like. Sheila Whiting's there with her, but she won't bother you."
Courtland averted his gaze as Jacko's eyes turned bright with tears. He looked to Chance, who had been on the doomed English ship that day, had been the one to grab Eleanor and run with her to safety. Chance only shook his head, shrugged.
They were quiet for long moments after Jack, his arm around the older man's shoulders, quit the room, before Spencer said quietly, "I never thought I'd live to see the day Jacko would— Well, there's all kinds of love, aren't there?"
Courtland immediately thought of Cassandra.
God.
He'd never said the word, had he? What sort of idiot was he, anyway? "I— it might be some minutes before Jack returns," he told the others. "I'll be right back."
Before Spencer could do more than look at him curiously, Courtland left the study and headed for the drawing room, hoping to find Cassandra. But she wasn't there; the large room was empty. Which, he realized, made some sense, as everyone was probably exhausted after the hours spent worrying about Eleanor and the new baby.
He stood there, considering going upstairs to Cassandra's bedchamber, to say precisely what he didn't know, when he felt eyes on him and looked across the room to Isabella's portrait hanging over the fireplace.
Slowly, he walked forward, until he was standing no more than six feet away from the portrait. "I love her, Isabella," he said quietly as she smiled down on him. "And I'll keep her safe for you, I promise. She's my life…"
He stood there for another few moments, until he began to feel silly, before turning around, figuring it was time he returned to the study and the business of putting Ainsley's plans into motion.
"Was she as wonderful, as perfect, as we remember her," Chance asked from the doorway, looking toward the portrait, "or have we and the years turned her into a saint? What do you think, Court?"
Courtland took another look at Isabella's young beauty. "She was little more than a child," he said at last. "A beautiful, brave girl just stepping into womanhood, a brilliant creature of light Ainsley loved with a fierceness that, looking back on it, was almost frightening. To love that much, and then lose that love in such a terrible, senseless way? How did he survive it? Are we fools, any of us, to dare to love that much, dare that much pain?"
"Jack's probably asked himself that question a time or two these last months, and a thousand times in the past twenty-four hours. But now he's learning something else, something I learned most definitely the day that bastard took my little Alice out onto the sands. You remember that day, Court?"
"I think of the good lieutenant from time to time when I pass by the sands," Courtland said quietly. "And then I spit on him."
"I never think of him. I think only of Alice, and what it would have been like to lose my daughter to that man and those shifting sands. That's where Jack is now, in two separate hells full of fear for both the mother and the child. Love
is
fierce, Court, and often frightening. And the more you love, the more you realize what you have to lose."
Courtland smiled wryly. "You make love sound like something to be avoided at all costs."
"On the contrary, safe, practical brother of mine. Love is something you embrace with both hands, because love, loving someone else, is the only way a man knows he's alive. A man's wife, someday, his children, as well. Now, is there something you want to tell me?"
"Not until I tell her, no," Courtland said quietly as Jack entered from the foyer, looking tired, but also happier than he had looked a few minutes earlier. "Jack?"
"Eleanor's awake," he said, pinching at the bridge of his nose, probably to wipe away a few tears. "Well, she was, for a few moments anyway. Long enough for me to tell her about our beautiful son and, bless her generous heart, long enough for her to smile at Jacko, tell him she loves him. She's sleeping again. I want to go back up to her, but I'll leave Jacko to sit with her for a while. Let's go back to the study, get this done."
"Good idea, Jack," Chance said, clapping his arm around his brother-in-law's shoulders. "Court's got a few other things to do once we've set our plans into motion. Don't you, Court?"
"You know, Chance, just when I wonder why I ever wanted to knock you down, you remind me," Courtland told him, and then smiled. "Thank you."
Chance flashed him a grin. "You're welcome…and God help you."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CASSANDRA WAITED FOR hours for the sound of Courtland's footsteps outside her chamber, but finally gave in to sleep some minutes after three o'clock, not waking until the sunlight coming through the windows crept far enough across her bed to find her eyes, waking her all at once, Courtland's name on her lips.
She threw back the bedcovers even as she looked at the clock on the mantel, realizing that it had already gone nine, and the entire world, save her, must be up and bustling, preparing for the days ahead.
Her first thought was of Courtland, but her second was of Eleanor and the baby, so that she quickly splashed cold water on her face and then threw on her dressing gown before running down the hallway to Eleanor's bedchamber.
Once inside the chamber, she stopped, took a deep breath and smiled. Eleanor was sitting propped up against a mountain of pillows, and Mariah was feeding her porridge. Eleanor was opening her mouth like a little bird. And Eleanor hated porridge.
"Good morning, Callie," Mariah said, looking at her for a moment as she dipped the spoon into the bowl. "Would you be so kind as to go into the dressing room and tell Onatah that Miss Eleanor would like to see her son now that she's eaten six whole bites of porridge like a good girl?"
Callie laughed as Eleanor pulled a face and said quietly, "Spencer says she should have been a general, and now I see why. Bring me my son, Callie, please?"
"You want me to…
carry
him?" Cassandra had seen the baby, watched him be born, and she had been amazed at how strong he'd been, how little he was, and how…how slippery he'd seemed. Not that he had been all that lively, not at first, not until Onatah, who had slipped into the room unnoticed, had taken his bluish body from Sheila Whiting, dug into his small mouth with her finger, and then blown her breath into his small face. Then? Then he'd drawn in a huge breath and begun to cry, and when Onatah laid him on his belly, the remarkable infant had managed to get himself up on his hands and knees, as if ready to crawl, even as Onatah laughed and said he wouldn't do that again for months and months. "I don't know that I— "
"I'd be happy to do it," Lisette said, entering the room to stand behind Cassandra. "Courtland was looking for you, Callie, downstairs. He said if I saw you that he'd be at the stables for a while, and see you back here at the house sometime before luncheon."
Cassandra nearly hugged Lisette for saving her and quickly ran back to her own chamber to finish washing and dress for the day. She chose one of her riding habits, just in case Courtland wished to return to Dymchurch, for she was not going to be left here to wait and worry, not when all the action would take place in Dymchurch. Snatching up her blue woolen cloak, she headed down the wide, curving staircase.
She stopped off in the morning room to grab an apple from a lovely tower of fruit on the sideboard, and then stepped outside into the chill breeze of a sunny November day. Her second to last day in England at Becket Hall.
The realization hit at her unexpectedly hard and she walked over to the balustrade to look out over the Channel that had been out there every day of her life at Becket Hall; unchanging, steadily pushing unceasing lines of small waves into their sheltered harbor. Seagulls wheeled overhead, squawking and arguing with each other. The sunlight turned the waves almost silver, brilliantly reflecting off the water and stinging at her eyes. The entire world lay beyond this shore, and she was about to become a part of some new place, some foreign scenery that she knew she would grow to love as much, if differently, as she did the view from this terrace.
Because Courtland would be with her. Wherever they went, wherever they landed, wherever they built their lives together, that place would be her home.
She lingered for a few more minutes, until she heard Sergeant-Major Hart's voice sharply calling out orders and turned to her right to see the differently dressed but perfectly aligned troops marching onto the one cleared area of shingle beach for their morning drill, Clovis Meechum dancing about the lines, shouting into faces, shifting a rifle more firmly onto a shoulder. Even Bumble, their cook, who had a peg for a left leg below the knee, was marching this morning.
But hadn't Papa all but assured her that they'd all leave from Dymchurch, and that Becket Hall need not fear an attack?
Holding on to the edges of her cloak, Cassandra set off for the stone steps leading down to the beach, intent on finding Courtland and asking him a few pointed questions. She had to jump back quickly, though, when another troop came marching from the side of the house, this one much more ragtag, and composed of faces she didn't recognize. Men. Women. A scattering of children.
"Here now, Miss," a large man in a butcher's apron asked her in a booming voice, "where would be Mr. Courtland Becket, hmm? We was all told to reconnoiter at that village over there, but there ain't nobody there, so we come lookin' here. That's all right, ain't it? Comin' here instead?"
"I…um…" Cassandra stammered, wondering how this large group had gotten past the Becket Hall defenses. "He's probably at the stables. I'm going there now, if you'd like to— "
"That I would, Miss," the man said, turning to the people behind him. "Silas? Head on back down the road, to show the others where to come to, hear? I'll go see Mr. Becket, get us all straightened out. Long ways to Dymchurch, you know. When are those wagons goin' ta be here?"
Still wondering what on earth could be going on, and beginning to believe that Courtland had been hiding something from her, Cassandra motioned for the man to follow her, and set off at a near run toward the stables.
She saw Courtland just outside, unsaddling his own horse, for all the men who were usually working at the stables were now marching on the shingle, being yelled at by Clovis and the Sergeant-Major. "Court? This gentleman wishes to speak to you," she said once she was close enough for him to hear her. "And then, Mr. Courtland Becket, if you don't mind, so do I!"
Courtland's smile faded at the tone of her voice and he looked past her to the man who seemed to slowly have come to the conclusion that he may have done something wrong. "George Gummer, beggin' your pardon, Mr. Becket," he said quickly. "Rode with the Black Ghost a time or three, I have, and m'sons, as well. At your service, sir."
"Why, yes, thank you, George," Courtland said as Cassandra crossed her arms and glared at him. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment?"
Cassandra turned on her heel, sure Courtland would follow her, and stopped a good twenty paces away from the uneasy George Gummer. "Well? Why would Mr. George Gummer and his friends need wagons to take them to Dymchurch, Court? Would you like to explain that to me?"
"And a good morning to you, too, Callie. Did you sleep well?"
"After waiting up half the night for you to— No, I did not sleep well. And you look as if you haven't slept at all, and your poor horse looks like he's been ridden hard all night. And then there's the matter of the Sergeant-Major and Clovis drilling troops on the beach. If nothing is going to happen here, then why is there any further need for them to— "
He took her by the elbow and walked her over to the fence overlooking the paddock. "Forget everything your Papa told you at the gaol, Callie, please. His orders to me were very different, and they've been set into motion."
"Yes, I think I can see that much on my own. When were you going to tell me?"
He looked away, ran a hand through his hair. He had the beginnings of a beard this morning, proving to her that he had been up all night. She longed to wrap her arms round him, comfort him because he looked so tense and yet so fatigued. But, stupidly, at the same time she found that she was angry with him for, clearly, whatever her papa had told him to do, Courtland had not wished to let her in on the plan.
