Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (4 page)

She was assailed by delicious, fresh, cool air, and stole a moment to relish it.

It was a lovely late autumn day. The air was crisp, the sky clear blue, and the leaves on the trees were russet and gold. As she watched, some drifted down to join the gilded carpet on the ground.

When Sebastian was alive they would walk out on days like this, across fields and through woods. The children would run about and explore, while Sebastian thought up elegant phrases and noted them in his book. Judith would just drink in the sights, the sounds, and the aromas, and be content.

There had been money then. Not a lot but enough with careful management for a cook, two maids, a gardener, and leisure.

Time and security, the two things she missed most.

Six-year-old Rosie, a pretty girl with her father's fly away pale blond hair and her mother's big blue eyes, came running to help. She passed the pegs and supported trailing ends as Judith fixed the laundry to the rope.

By the time they'd come to the bottom of the tub, Bastian, as her second Sebastian was always called, came out. "Can I help you with the prop, Mama?"

Judith smiled. "Thank you, dear. That would be wonderful."

The two children fixed the forked end of the long stick under the line then pushed up, settling the other end securely in the earth. They checked the laundry was raised well away from ground and bushes and that the prop was secure then turned, well satisfied with themselves.

Judith gave them both a hug. She was blessed with wonderful children. They didn't complain at their simple life, and they did their best to help with the work. They were her greatest joy, but also her greatest concern. She noted that Bastian's head was up to her shoulder now. Her first babe was growing fast too fast.

Keeping him in clothes was a strain on her purse, and she had no idea how to provide for his future. She knew her own family would always give her and the children a roof over their heads, but more than that was impossible.

Sebastian's family were not particularly wealthy either, but they had provided a small but adequate annuity for him when he decided to set up as a poet. It had continued even after their deaths, and been sufficient. Judith had not known that income would die with Sebastian.

That blow, on top of his sudden death, had almost undone her. She had written to his brother and received help. Thank heavens for Timothy Rossiter. If it wasn't for the small quarterly allowance he sent she didn't know what she would do. From his letters, she feared Timothy could ill afford it, but she could not refuse to take it.

If only Sebastian's poems had made money, even a little, but instead he had actually paid to have them printed—on vellum, bound in Cordovan leather—and then given the handsome copies away. It had seemed a harmless indulgence when the money had been available, but now she grudged every glossy leather volume.

He had kept one copy of each work. They sat in a row in the front room of the cottage—eight slim volumes full of poetry about her. Her sole inheritance.

She was occasionally visited by the traitorous thought that real devotion would have been more provident.

She had just enough money for this austere life, but there was nothing to spare. Even the fee for an apprenticeship in some skill would be a perilous expenditure, and Bastian was entitled to more than that.

"Mama." Bastian's voice was a welcome interruption to depressing thoughts. "You know Georgie's rat?"

Judith shuddered. She knew Wellington all too well. Georgie was Bastian's closest friend, and Wellington was Georgie's inseparable companion. The creature was well behaved and even seemed clean, but she still had an urge to beat it with a broom.

Bastian took the shudder as answer. He sighed. "I don't suppose you'd let me have one..."

"No!"

"But it wouldn't eat much, and Georgie's found another clutch of babies. He's taking one for himself, because Wellington's getting old—"

"No,
Bastian. I'm sorry, but I could not tolerate a rat in the house. Off you go now, both of you and finish your work." Impulsively, she decided the raisins could wait. "When I finish the whites," she promised, "we'll walk down to the river."

They hurried back into the house, and Judith sighed. Really, they asked for so little, and got even less.... But a rat! The Hubbles' cat had just had kittens. Perhaps she should take one, and that would do as well...

Judith went back to the laundry, popping into the front room of the cottage to check that the children were doing their work correctly, and praising them. They were both so bright and good. They deserved a chance in life. Was she to see them end as servants?

As she began to haul the steaming whites out of the boiler and into the rinse water, she thought bitterly that a more useful woman would be able to earn some money—be able to write novels or paint pictures. Something with a marketable value. The only thing of excellence she could create was elderberry wine. She looked at the rows of newly bottled wine, her hope of some small increment to their income, and sighed.

They would make no impression at all on her desperate situation.

* * *

Leander sat on his gray, Nubarron, and considered Judith Rossiter's cottage. It was one of a row that lined a lane winding off the main street of Mayfield. It, like all the rest, was small and thatched—could do with rethatching, in fact—but it had the distinction of rose vines around the door. They were bare of blooms now, but he supposed they would pretty the place up in season.

He also supposed the cottage to be damp and cramped. He knew such houses, and they were rarely as appealing to live in as to look at. He'd checked out Mayfield House on his way here; this was quite a comedown for the Weeping Widow.

In truth, he was put off by that description, for though he didn't want a doting wife, a sorrowful one would be little better. A pale-faced creature in dripping black could become wearing very quickly. In fact, he decided, if he did offer marriage to this woman he'd insist she stop mourning entirely. That could hardly be considered an unreasonable request.

He thought he heard voices at the back of the cottage and looked for a way around. There was a path at the end of the row and so he trotted down and followed it. As he hoped, it took him to a spot overlooking the narrow back gardens.

The widow's garden was clearly devoted to vegetable production and was mostly turned and bare, though a few plants remained. He had no idea what they were producing; such matters had been no part of his education. Three people stood talking on a path. They had just finished putting out laundry; three small dresses, and one larger black one, flapped in the wind. The figures were a blond girl in pale muslin and shawl, a dark-haired boy in nankeen trousers and jacket, and the widow in black.

Her hair was as dark as her dress. She wore it in a knot on her head, but strands were coming loose and flying about her face in curly tendrils. Every now and then she would push them back. She was turned away from him so he couldn't see her features but her figure appeared good, and there was an impression of energy and supple strength. He did not find it unattractive. Certainly not a drooping, weary type.

He suddenly felt self-conscious about assessing the lady's parts as if she were a mare he proposed to buy. He pulled the gray's head around, and returned to the lane onto which the cottages fronted. He knew, however, that he was definitely interested in pursuing this matter of marriage to the Weeping Widow. He considered carefully how to go about it.

He could simply ride up and put the matter bluntly. There were various arguments against this. In the first place, without the briefest meeting, he couldn't be sure she would do. Though his requirements for a bride were minimal, he didn't think he could bear an inane chatterer, or a particularly shrill voice. There were doubtless other characteristics which would make a lifetime in her company impossible.

In the second place, no matter how businesslike the whole affair, experience had led him to believe that people, and women in particular, preferred even business wrapped up in spangles and lace. If he was too blunt he could be refused as a matter of principle. On the other hand, he had golden-tongued diplomacy in his blood and should be able to sail through this assignment.

So how to meet the Weeping Widow?

He rode slowly back to the main street of the village aware of curious glances from the people of Mayfield. They'd stare even more if they could read his thoughts. He himself wondered occasionally if he were crazed, but without great concern. Some of the most interesting people he had met had not been quite as most people were.

He wanted to settle in England and put down roots, and would go about it in the most direct and expeditious manner possible.

Still, he sometimes wondered if he should have accepted Lord Castlereagh's offer of a post in Vienna. The man had as good as told him it was his duty to put his skills to work for his country, but Leander had had his fill of a wandering life.

He stopped Nubarron in front of the Dog and Partridge under the interested stare of a couple of ancients soaking up the afternoon sun. He gave his horse to a stable lad, and went in for a tankard of ale.

He told the publican that he was a guest of the Marquess of Arden and soon had the beefy man chatting. It was a natural skill of his to put all kinds of people at their ease.

"And I hear you had a famous poet in these parts?" he asked at one point.

"Aye, sir. Mister Rossiter. He could spin a lovely verse, he could. Had 'em printed up in Lunnon."

"Died, I hear."

"Aye, over a year back." The man shook his head. "Took a chill and it settled. Never did have the look of a hearty man, if you know what I mean. Once or twice I said to him, 'You ought to take to drinking stout, Mister Rossiter,' I said. But he mostly drank tea and water, and never a barley brew. And look what come of it."

Leander took a deep draught of his ale to prove he wasn't so foolish. "Indeed, but perhaps it's the poetic temperament. So many of them seem to die young. Did he have family hereabouts?"

"Came from Lunnon, as I hear tell, sir. But he married a Hunstead girl. His wife and children still live in the village. If you know of him, you'll know of her. Wrote nearly all his poems to his Judith."

"Ah yes." Leander put on a sentimental expression. " 'My Angel Bride.' "

"That's right, sir!" declared the man with a pleased smile. "Can't say I go for that sort of rhyme misself, but the womenfolk love it."

"It was a very affecting piece. Does the lady live nearby? I would like to gain a glimpse of her."

The innkeeper gave him a narrow look then shrugged. "She seems to be quite famous. I've been asked afore." He gave directions to the cottage. "You might care to visit Mister Rossiter's grave, sir. A very touching monument his widow raised, I must say." He leant forward confidentially. "Round here they call her the Weeping Widow, took it so hard she did."

Well, why not? A wise soldier scouts the territory before going into action. Leander paid for his ale, checked on his horse, and strolled off toward the village church and graveyard.

The church was ancient—he thought he saw Saxon work—and the churchyard was graced with mighty spreading trees and old, tilted stones covered with moss. Beyond the ranks of stones the land sloped away down to the same river that wound along the edge of the gardens at Hartwell.

He wandered through the churchyard looking for the poet's grave. It was easy to find because of its newness and grandeur. In fact, it looked very out-of-place. An angel drooped on a pedestal, weeping, two cherubs at its—her?—knee.

He read the inscription.

In loving memory of Sebastian Arthur Rossiter, Poet, born May 12, 1770. Died October 3, 1814.

Sadly mourned by his wife Judith and his two children, Bastian and Rosie.

He had been a good deal older than his wife, then. Leander had gained the impression that he was a young man. There was a verse engraved below.

When I am gone to rest be sure, my dear,

That I will watch and treasure every tear.

On high, forever faithful, I will wait,

Longing to greet my angel at the gate.

Presumably the poet had composed his own epitaph. Leander thought it distastefully morbid and possessive but noted there were fresh flowers on the grave. He questioned his plan. Would there be a ghost in the marriage bed?

Pondering this, he continued through the graves and down the slope to the river's edge to idly toss stones into the shallow water.

He wondered whether Judith Rossiter really did long to join her dead husband; what it felt like to feel such grief. He hadn't mourned his parents, for his father had been too wrapped up in his work to engender fondness, and his mother had been too wrapped up in his father. He'd grieved for the death of a number of brothers-in-arms, but he'd felt damn-all desire to share their fate.

If this miserable clinging was the consequence of love he was better off without it.

But then he found himself thinking of Lucien and Beth. They'd made him welcome and not at all uncomfortable, and yet he sensed the power of the bond between them. They fought—which wasn't surprising in view of Lucien's blue-blooded arrogance and Beth's egalitarian principles—but they were bound together in a way no petty disagreement could touch.