Dawn in My Heart (20 page)

She would see about that!

Taking a deep breath, and ignoring her beating heart, she stepped into the light. Immediately all four pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

“Good evening,” she said through stiff lips.

An immediate chorus of “good evening” greeted her. As she stood there, hesitating about crossing that large expanse between the door and bed, Tertius said, “It's good to see you, Gillian.”

She cleared her throat, her fingers playing with the ribbon hanging from her dress. “I just…just came to look for my pets.”

Tertius waved to the two sleeping cats at the foot of his bed. “Here they are, as comfortable as you please. Won't you come in and join us?”

She looked away from him. “No, thank you. I'll just take one of the cats, if you don't mind.” Why was she so unsure of her actions? She marched across the room and scooped up one of the furry balls curled up by Tertius's legs.

“We'd love to have you join us.” Althea's soft invitation came to her.

She used the cat to hide her face in as she answered. “No, thank you just the same.”

She left, their silences, like their expressions, weighing on her and angering her. By the time she entered her own room, her cat scrambling to be let down, she felt as if she were fleeing. Fleeing her own domain!

What did he want? Why had he come here? Since he'd regained consciousness, she felt his presence wherever she went in the house. Why hadn't he remained in London? Why couldn't she go back to London?

She
must
go back! Somehow she must find the means. Once more she went to her jewelry box and removed the necklace and earrings. She would find a way to sell them. Perhaps tomorrow.

In the light of her lamp she glanced down at the rings on her finger. A pinpoint of red light reflected off the diamond from where the lamplight hit it. She shifted her finger a fraction and the pinpoint turned bright blue; another fraction and it transformed to brilliant green, then back to red. Gillian continued shifting her hand back and forth, watching the colors in fascination.

Suddenly she stopped and yanked the rings off her finger. Why was she still wearing them? She was nothing to that man lying in the next room and he was nothing to her.

Husband! The word was an affront.

As she began to lay the rings beside the necklace in her jewel case, she noticed the inscription inside the wedding band. She had never realized it contained an inscription.

Slowly she picked it up and held it up to the light, deciphering the minute script.

To Jilly Girl, My Wife.

The words brought a sudden lump to her throat. Was that how he had thought of her before…

The endearment conjured up a loving partner, a man to honor and cherish her. How she had longed for such a man to love and be loved by.

Through her own perfidy and lies, had she been the one to forever destroy her chances at having such a husband?

She wiped angrily at a tear that ran down her cheek.

Her father had always called her Jilly dear.

Without giving it conscious thought, Gillian replaced the wedding band on her finger, telling herself it wouldn't fetch much anyway, an inscribed band of gold. She gathered up the other jewels and put them in her reticule.

The next afternoon, Althea knocked on the side of the sitting-room door and asked, “May I come in?”

“Of course,” Gillian replied, where she sat sewing. Once again her plans for going into town were thwarted by rainy weather.

Althea took a seat beside her. “Tertius is coming along very nicely. He even was able to stand this morning. Soon we won't be able to keep him in bed.”

Gillian concentrated on her stitches. “How nice.”

“I wanted to ask a special favor of you.”

Gillian met her gaze then. “Yes?”

“Could you take a turn at reading to him? He is getting
tired of lying abed, and I'm afraid my voice will give out.” She gave a hesitant smile.

Gillian looked away, wondering how to turn down her sister-in-law's request. Why did she fear being in Tertius's presence? Would he be able to read the treachery in her eyes?

“I'm afraid I'm not much for Bible reading,” she finally replied.

“You don't have to read the Bible.” She glanced around at the tables in the room and, seeing the books, suggested, “You could read to him whatever you are reading.”

“Are you sure he'd be interested? It seems to me all he cares about now is hearing Scriptures,” she asked in an acid tone.

“That's what he cares about most, but I'm sure having your company would be far more important than the subject matter you were reading.”

Gillian sighed, suddenly tired of dissembling. “My husband almost died, and if he had, I would have had my freedom. As it is, I am still his prisoner. So don't expect me to share your joy at his recovery or join your cozy Bible parties upstairs. As far as I'm concerned, his life is at the expense of my freedom.”

She jabbed her needle into the muslin to punctuate her point. There! Let the good Althea think the worst of her. It was no more than she deserved, she thought, remembering the letter she had written to Gerrit.

She saw the shock and distress in her sister-in-law's eyes and felt a perverse satisfaction. It would come as no surprise, then, when Althea found out Gillian had run away from her husband.

“He's your husband. The two of you were joined in holy matrimony,” Althea began quietly.

Gillian stood, unable to bear the confines of the chair. “My husband, as you call him, is a brute! I was forced to marry him, but I never dreamed he'd be such a monster. I hate him! I hate him!” The more she voiced the feelings that had been pent up inside her for so long, the more justified she felt.

“I'm sorry, my dear. I'm sure Tertius didn't mean to hurt you—”

Gillian covered her ears. “I don't want to hear any more. Leave me alone! All of you! I shall soon leave here and you can have your private little gatherings, spouting Scripture!”

Unable to bear Althea's sympathetic expression, Gillian rushed from the room.

 

A few days later Gillian finally received a reply from her friend Charlotte. Gillian's heartbeat quickened. Could it contain a reply from Gerrit?

She took it up to her room and locked the door behind her. Breaking open the seal, she breathed a sigh of relief when from the letter fell another which had been tucked inside the first. Her salvation had come!

She immediately recognized Gerrit's handwriting on the inside letter. He had answered her letter—her plea—for help!

She unfolded it and scanned its contents.

Gillian hugged the letter to her breast. He still loved her! He would wait for her! She did have a place to go! She needn't be left to feel an outsider by these people around her.

She sat at her desk and reread his letter. He still thought Tertius lay at death's door. Of course now she would have to tell him of Tertius's miraculous recovery. But if Gerrit loved her, it shouldn't make any difference. They could flee England together. Now that Napoleon had been defeated, they could live in France or Italy. Isn't that what so many others had done in the past for the sake of true love? Even Princess Caroline, the Regent's poor wife, was living the life of a virtual exile since he wouldn't grant her a divorce. And hadn't the poet Shelley eloped this summer with Mary Godwin, even though he already had a wife and child?

She and Gerrit could have a good life on the Continent. Anywhere but here. Her fevered thoughts grasped at this opportunity to escape.

 

By mid-March spring had come to the West Riding. The grass turned vibrant green, and the sheep were let out to the pastures on the sloping fields.

Tertius was determined to regain his strength as quickly
as possible. He felt an urgency on him to do the work the Lord had for him. For the first time in his life, he felt he had a purpose to fulfill, a purpose with eternal value. But he knew he could do nothing without first making things right with his young wife.

Althea and Nigel continued to nurse him, but he no longer wanted to be treated like an invalid. The times he enjoyed most were gathering together, the four of them, he and his sister with the two servants and discussing what they had read in the Bible. Second to this was reminiscing with Althea about their childhood.

He was unprepared, then, for the day Althea told him as the two sat in the drawing room, “I must return to London.”

He turned from surveying the parkland from the window. He'd been watching Gillian walk along a tree-lined lane toward the moors.

“What? When?” he asked in alarm.

She smiled. “I left many things pending when I came here so hurriedly.”

“What kinds of things?”

“At the mission. I have many responsibilities there.”

He came to sit beside her. “Forgive me. I haven't asked you much about your present life. I'm sorry you had to come here in such haste.”

“Don't be. I came here gladly. I know the Lord led me to you. He has blessed me with seeing the fruit of my prayers,” she said with a smile, then sobered. “You know, I don't wish to leave so soon. You haven't fully regained your strength, and I don't want you to overtax yourself. Give your body time to heal properly. You also have only just begun your
discipleship. I hate to leave you only a babe, but I sense the Lord would have me go at this time.”

“But what am I to do without my teacher?” he asked, merely half in jest.

“Depend on the Lord even more. He shall teach you Himself.” She opened the Bible that was never far from her side and flipped through it. “Listen. ‘The anointing which ye have received of Him abideth in you, and ye need not that any man teach you: but as the same anointing teacheth you of all things, and is truth, and is no lie, and even as it hath taught you, ye shall abide in Him.'”

He took the book from her and read for himself. “I never would have understood these words before. They were meaningless to me. It's about revelation, isn't it?”

“Yes. The Lord has opened up the Scriptures to you. He has much, much more.” She smoothed down her skirts, as if still wishing to say something more.

“What is it, Althea?”

“There is another reason I feel I need to leave now.”

He waited.

“You have a lovely young wife who has been deeply hurt. I believe the two of you can begin mending things the sooner you are alone together.” She sighed. “But I shall miss you, Tertius. I feel I've only just begun to have a brother.”

“I shall miss you, too. Terribly,” he said with a grin. “But we'll see each other again soon in London. I promise.”

“I look forward to that. I shall be praying for you and Gillian.”

“Thank you. I shall be praying for you and your work, too, dear sister.”

T
he evening after Althea left for London, Nigel came into Gillian's sitting room.

“Yes?”

“The master requests you come and read to him for a little while.”

“Tell him—” She had been at the point of telling him that she was not going to take his precious sister's place, but she stopped herself. She had hardly seen Sky since he'd recovered, and she was curious to see if he indeed was “cured.”

Part of her wanted to crow over him now that his closest ally was gone. Perhaps he needed to see who was in charge.

She entered his room and had her first surprise. Although he was abed, his aspect was already so much different from when the fever had left him. His face was cleanly shaven, his hair neatly combed, but it went deeper than that. As he
smiled at her in welcome, she realized she had never seen quite such a genuine smile on his face.

His face looked young and open—there was no hint of the irony or mockery it had habitually contained.

“Thank you for taking pity on me and agreeing to read to me for a bit.”

She sat down, the book she had brought in her lap. “Well, don't expect a long reading of the Scriptures,” she snapped. “I'm in the middle of
Waverley
and if you wish to hear something else, you shall have to read it for yourself.”

He chuckled. “Read anything you wish. I'd rather listen to your voice.”

She glanced at him at that, but at the warm look in his eyes, she quickly opened the book to her bookmark and began to read.

“Chapter Eight…”

She didn't stop until she had finished the chapter. Despite her reluctance to read to him, she had gotten caught up in the story and forgotten Tertius's presence. He hadn't spoken or made any sound to distract her.

She placed the book upon the night table and poured herself a drink of water, realizing how dry her throat had become.

“Why don't I ring for some tea?” he asked, his hand already on the bellpull.

“If you wish,” she said, eyeing him warily as she placed the glass back on the table.

“You have a nice reading voice.”

“I'm sure it's not as inspired as Althea's,” she couldn't help commenting.

“I read
Waverley
when it first came out last year.”

“So did I,” she retorted, “but since I didn't have time to pack my books, and your library here seems not to have had any new additions for at least a century, I've had to content myself with rereading those few books I did bring.”

An awkward silence fell as they both thought of the reasons she had been brought there.

“I don't remember the last time I was here at Penuel Hall,” he remarked. “I daresay my father rarely visits.”

When she said nothing, he cleared his throat. “Did I hurt you very much…that night?”

She stared at him, hardly believing what she heard. How dared he bring up that night? All the pain, the humiliation, the absolute terror he'd put her through came rushing back as if it were happening all over again.

Without a word, she stood, the book falling with a thump to the floor, unheeded by her. She ran from the room, ignoring his “Gillian—”

 

The next evening as she looked in vain for her book, Nigel again appeared at her door. “If you would be so good and come read to the master again, he would be most grateful.”

That's where she'd left the book! Swallowing her exasperation, she finally decided to fetch her book.

She'd retrieve it and leave straightaway, showing him by her action that he no longer had the power to frighten her.

But when she entered the room, and glanced toward the table for the book, refusing to look toward the bed, she heard Tertius's voice. “Good evening, Gillian.”

She looked at him reluctantly. There in his hands was her book. She'd have to approach his bed to retrieve it.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I left my book here last night,” she stammered, her hands clasped in front of her. She felt a vast space separating the two of them, and the only way to retrieve her book was to cross it. Shaking aside the ridiculous thought, she walked boldly to his bedside and reached out her hand for the book.

Before he gave it to her, he said, “Forgive me, Gillian, for hurting you that…night—and for bringing up a painful subject. All I can say is that I wasn't myself that night. I was so angry to think I had been made a fool of…I wasn't capable of thinking of anyone but myself at the time.”

She said nothing, fighting with herself not to yield to his gentle tone. Did he think a simple apology would wipe away that night of horror and shame? Would it wipe away the months of solitude and utter separation from every familiar face?

She must have taken a move backward, which she wasn't even aware of, for he said suddenly, “Please don't leave. Will you read to me some more, if it's not too tedious for you?”

He handed her the book, leaving the choice up to her. She took it from him and found herself sitting back down on the chair instead of leaving the room as she'd intended.

Well, no matter, she told herself, she was only there to read the story. She had wanted to continue it that evening and whether in this room, or another, made little difference.

When she'd finished her chapter, he said, “Would you like to continue?”

“No, I must go back down.” But she didn't rise from her chair immediately.

“I'd like to ask you something,” he began, “but find myself oddly hesitant at the thought for fear you'll get up and leave before hearing me out.”

“What do you want?” Suddenly she was nervous. Did he somehow know of her correspondence with Gerrit? If he did, what would he do this time? Kill her?

He glanced down at his hands lying on the coverlet. “I'd like to ask you…if—” he faltered then recommenced “—if you think it might be possible, during my recuperation, to pretend that we'd never met until this moment and imagine how it might go this time around?”

The question was so different from what she'd been thinking that she slumped in relief. Then she realized what he was asking. “That we'd never met?” She made a sound of disbelief.

He glanced at her ruefully. “I was afraid you'd react that way.”

“Well, you must agree it would take a stretch of the imagination.”

“Perhaps. But what if it were so?” he said. “What if you and I had met at a dance or assembly? Let's say it wasn't even in London, but here in the West Riding.”

Despite the absurdity of the game, she said, “It could have been at someone's country house.”

He leaned back against his pillows, fingers to his lips, and mused aloud, “It was not even during the season, but at a local squire's ball. I had almost decided not to go, the squire was known to be tedious…”

She added, intrigued by the game, “And I almost didn't attend, but a friend begged me to accompany her.”

“It was when you came in, a few minutes after the com
pany was gathered, that I spotted you across the room. I interrupted my conversation with my host—”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “The tedious squire.”

“The tedious squire.” He smiled back. “I thought to myself as I saw you, ‘what a pretty brunette. I haven't seen her before.'”

“I was visiting from London,” she added, her imagination taking hold.

“I knew then that I wanted an introduction.”

“I didn't notice you right away,” she was quick to point out.

He waited, a dark eyebrow upraised.

She smoothed back a curl behind her ear. “There were so many people present that night,” she explained. “My friend introduced me to her many acquaintances. It was hard to remember everyone's name.”

“But I was persistent. I pressed through the crowd surrounding you and gained an introduction through our host.”

“The tedious squire—” they both said at the same time and then laughed.

Before she could rein in her laughter, he went on, “I asked you for the allemande.”

“I hesitated,” she replied, immediately caught up again in the scenario. It was like reading a romantic novel. “You didn't seem like a gentleman I'd care to know,” she added, mixing fact with fiction, as she remembered her own initial reaction to him.

“What was your impression?” he asked her, as if sensing that somewhere along the way they had passed from fantasy to reality.

“Cold and arrogant.”

“At least you didn't say ‘too old,'” he said wryly.

“I could have thought it but been too polite to say it,” she countered.

“True.” He laughed, his head thrown back against the pillow. She noticed the fine line of his jaw and tendons in his neck as her gaze traveled down to the open collar of his white nightshirt.

His laugh was a hearty laugh, like that of a man enjoying himself thoroughly. She'd never seen him laugh like that. His sense of humor had always struck her as tinged with mockery, either self-directed or directed at those around him and always restrained.

His laughter ended and he met her eyes. The humor still lit his face as he continued looking at her.

She rose, realizing how comfortable she was beginning to feel with him again. She wouldn't let herself be fooled by him a second time.

“I must go.”

“Must you?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she said firmly, remembering to take the book with her this time.

She was destined to hear that laughter again in the days and weeks that followed.

As spring came to the West Riding, Gillian was amazed at the progress in Tertius. He refused to stay in bed, but was soon dressed and coming downstairs before his legs could hold him. Before long, he was walking outside. After his first venture outside, he asked her to accompany him on his walks.

“In case I fall on the moors and no one knows where to look for me,” he quipped.

“Very well, but if anything happens to you, I can't be held
accountable. The moors are muddy now. I'm sure a physician would say you are mad to go out so soon.”

“Since it wasn't a physician who was responsible for my recovery, I think I can dispense with whatever advice he would give.”

“And whom do you credit with your recovery?” she asked.

“Jesus,” he replied simply.

“He decided you were worthy of healing?” she challenged.

“He saw my unworthiness and gave me life in spite of it.”

“Soon you'll be taking holy orders, the way you talk,” she said with a light laugh, though she didn't see the humor of it at all.

 

On Sunday morning, Tertius appeared at the breakfast table dressed in a dark green cutaway coat, buckskin trousers and starched cravat. Gillian had to restrain herself from staring at him. He looked as if he'd walked in off a London street. She was surprised at how quickly he was regaining his strength.

“You appear fitted out for a stroll down Bond Street this morning,” she told him dryly, buttering her piece of toast.

“I am going to church. Care to join me?”

She did stare at him then, the bread halfway to her mouth.

“I didn't know you attended services regularly,” she said at last.

“I didn't. I had become quite deficient of late. But that is something I am about to remedy. So,” he said, unfolding his napkin, “would you care to come along? I've already given orders for the carriage to be brought round.”

She remembered herself then. “No, thank you. A Sunday
service in a third-rate parish with a third-rate curate does not appeal to me.”

“A pity.” He turned his attention to his plate. She watched him dig into his ham and eggs. He ate with relish, and she remembered how abstemious he used to be at the table.

“You seem to have regained your appetite.”

He looked up and smiled, and she had to harden herself against that open smile—it almost made him look boyish.

“Yes, thank God. He has healed me so completely I am able to eat anything. It wasn't too many weeks ago everything used to disagree with me.”

He returned to his food, and Gillian quickly finished her tea, no longer having an appetite for what remained on her plate. She excused herself and left him to his breakfast.

She watched him from her window when he departed toward the village. A part of her felt resentful at being left behind, which she knew, of course, was nonsense. She reminded herself he was still her jailer. His very invitation to church implied she could only come and go at his pleasure.

She would show him. Tomorrow she would take the carriage to the market town in the valley.

When they met at luncheon, he came into the dark-paneled dining room, rubbing his hands together. “Well, what has our dear cook prepared for us this day?”

“Our dear Mrs. Mudgeon has most likely prepared the usual fare of boiled mutton and potatoes. Her repertoire does not seem to extend to anything beyond that.”

He laughed and spoke a few words to Harold, who served them.

“I suppose we really should see about increasing the staff if we are to continue here a few weeks more.”

“We?”

He looked at her seriously. “I hope you will use your full prerogative as mistress of this hall to order what you see fit.”

“That's rich, for someone who left me without a farthing,” she commented, taking a bite of her boiled mutton.

“I'm sorry. I had no right. I shall rectify that immediately. Now, what about hiring a housekeeper?”

“You may do whatever you like. I have no interest in the day-to-day running of this estate.”

“Very well.” Again her words seemed to have no effect. He ate heartily for the next several minutes, and then sat back as the old servant cleared away the plates and brought the pudding.

“Have you been to the village church?” he asked her.

“The first Sunday,” she replied.