Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (8 page)

Did he think her that much of a fool, that she would cling to her son rather than see him given such a magnificent start in life? It had been her worry and her dream ever since Sebastian's death.

But school, she now realized, was where he would be up against masters, and even senior boys, armed with birch and cane. Her brothers had gone to school, though a much less grand one than Harrow, and brought home horrendous tales.

"Oh dear," she said and stared at him, seeking some kind of reassurance.

He seemed to read her mind. "All I can say, Mrs. Rossiter, is that I will treat your children as I will my own, as I was treated. My father permitted physical punishment only for serious wrongdoing. Unless a child is steeped in wickedness, I'm sure most crimes can be handled by admonition and a suitable penalty. However, if I think a caning is called for, I will administer it, or order it when Bastian has a tutor. In fact," he said with a rueful smile, "I remember as a boy I was generally quite glad of it, for it made me feel I'd paid and it was quickly over. I found it far more hurtful to feel under a shadow of shame for hours, or even days."

Again she wavered. "And Rosie?"

"I will leave to you. Perhaps girls have purer souls. They seem to get up to mischief much less often."

Judith raised her brows. "I think you said you had no sisters, sir. That is obvious."

"Then flog her if you wish, but I won't do it for you."

Judith looked at her work-worn hands. This impossible, ridiculous plan was taking on an almost irresistible reality.

But it was still ridiculous.

Leander rose and came to her, took her hands, and raised her to her feet. "It comes down to trust," he said. "You are going to have to trust me as I am willing to trust you. Bastian cannot inherit my title or estates, but in every other way he will be my son. I will cherish him, give him every advantage, and ease his way into whatever life he seeks. Rosetta will be my daughter. If, that is, you will be my wife."

Judith bit her lip, still afraid to take the step. "I'm older than you."

"That matters not. Grasp fate, my dear. It is here before you, and I have been scrupulously honest in presenting it."

And I have not been honest with you, she thought. How could a marriage prosper based on lies? Judith sought the conventional escape. "I need time, my lord."

He looked a little disappointed, but nodded. "Of course. Shall I call on you tomorrow?"

She would like to ask for weeks, but she sensed he would refuse that. "Why is there such hurry?"

A hand expressed unease, but he answered. "It's past time I took up my responsibilities as earl and settled in my home at Temple Knollis. I've spent too long abroad, however, and I need both a chatelaine and a helpmeet by my side there. But my land cannot abide delay. It has been neglected too long."

Helpmeet. It was a lovely word and implied a real need that she could fulfill. "Tomorrow then," she said, looking into his mysterious eyes.

"I will come to your cottage at eleven o'clock." He raised her hand and kissed it. "I hope you are going to say yes." He seemed to mean it. He tucked her hand in his arm. "Let's walk down to the paddock to find the children, and then I will arrange for a carriage to take you home."

Chapter 4

Judith was aware before she was back at her cottage that she really had no choice. When she'd seen Bastian's face as he fed apples to the marquess's magnificent horses, and the wistful longing on Rosie's, she'd known she couldn't reject this miraculous opportunity.

Again she was glad of the kitten. Magpie obligingly played with some tangled yarn and distracted the children from their delirious reflections on horses, cake, and lemonade.

That evening, when she'd settled them in bed and begun the ironing, she admitted that she couldn't even claim that their present life was tenable. Because there had been no alternative she had persuaded herself that she could manage, but the fact was that they always needed a little more money than they had, and she was eating into her small savings at the end of every quarter. Heaven help them if anyone fell sick.

Could she risk the poorhouse just because of foolish qualms about total honesty? All the same, she would feel a great deal easier in her mind if she could tell him the truth.

That, however, would be to ruin everything.

Lord Charrington had sought her out as the Weeping Widow, the inconsolable one. He would withdraw his offer immediately if she confessed the truth: that she had fallen out of love with her husband many years ago; that she had been only slightly sad for his death, as at the death of a mere acquaintance whose life had been cut short.

When she was sixteen—the daughter of an impoverished curate and living a very simple, country life—Sebastian Rossiter had entered that life like a vision from heaven. With his flowing hair, his gentle brown eyes, and his elegant, romantic clothing, he had seemed straight out of a novel.

She had met him when he stopped to view the tomb of Sir Gerault of Hunstead, their crusader and only claim to fame. She was in the church laying out the prayer books, and directed him to the marble effigy, relating what was known of Sir Gerault.

Sebastian visited the parsonage that evening to present her with a poem he had composed about her.

Sweet angel by the tomb, about you glows

The everlasting beauty of the rose.

A virgin standing in a holy place,

With sapphire orbs in alabaster face.

These days she didn't think it one of his better efforts, but at the time it had practically made her swoon with delight. Nothing so utterly romantic had ever happened in her life before, and at that tender age she had been primed for romance. From the wisdom of almost-thirty Judith shook her head at the foolish girl she had been.

Her parents had been confused, and a little awestruck. They did not quite like the reference to a virgin—her mother because she thought it indelicate, her father because it smacked of popery—but they were not about to object to such a wonderful suitor to their daughter's hand. Any lingering doubts were soon soothed by his impeccable behavior, and his assurance of his firm adherence to the Protestant faith.

They had married six months after their first meeting. She was wafted off in dreamy delight to Mayfield House, a solid modern structure of red brick with five bedchambers and a conservatory.

She knew now it was not a particularly grand house, but coming from the crowded, ramshackle parsonage it had been heaven. She'd been mistress of a comfortable home with money to purchase all that was required, married to a man who took endless pleasure in looking at her, and composing poetry about her.

It began to pall.

At first, in her youth, she thought she was at fault. How could anyone object to being adored, even if it meant sitting for hours under a particular sunbeam as he contemplated her? Perhaps it wasn't reasonable to want to entertain, to visit neighboring houses, to dance, to laugh, to have friends.

All Sebastian wanted was peace and quiet and her company.

Even if she played the piano, which was not a favorite occupation of hers, she must only play slow, dreamy pieces. Lively music, laughter, and running were all forbidden for they would disrupt the flow of words in his head.

It took her some months to find the courage to question the physical side of her marriage. Though she was hazy as to details, she was country-bred and knew there had to be more than kisses if there were to be children. Children had become increasingly attractive as something to occupy her time.

The subject had embarrassed him, but he had come to her bed that night, and at regular intervals thereafter, and eventually she had conceived a child.

At first Sebastian had been delighted by the thought of children. He wrote a number of anticipatory verses about sleeping cherubs and tender mothers. Not long after Bastian's birth he had written "My Angel Bride." But children are not by nature peaceful. They are noisy, and as they grow, they are naturally energetic. Bastian was no exception. Nor was Rosie when she arrived.

The children were a great joy to Judith, but they did not improve her marriage. Life became a constant struggle to allow them the necessary freedom, while maintaining tranquility in the house. It was an impossible situation which led to fretful complaints from her husband, and increasingly sharp bursts of his peevish temper.

It wore away the romance until there was none left.

Judith had realized one day that she didn't love Sebastian anymore, and perhaps never had. She didn't even like him, and perhaps never had. She thought his precious poetry sentimental nonsense, and his affected looks ridiculous. When she saw him in his curling papers she was hard-pressed not to laugh.

There was, however, nothing to do about it. She had made her bed and must lie in it. She could at least be grateful that he rarely joined her there, for the fascinating activity that had been the subject of endless girlish, giggling debates had turned out to be a tedious, rather messy business with no pleasure attached. The only wisdom she had seen in Sebastian was his disinclination to indulge in the first place.

The failure of the marriage wasn't even Sebastian's fault, for he was generally kind and generous, and his poetry evidenced his love. It was hers for being such a romantic twit at sixteen. So she continued to do her best to create a home for all her family, regarding Sebastian as another child rather than a mate.

In public she carefully maintained their reputation as a devoted romantic couple, for there would be no advantage to anyone in disturbing it. Sebastian didn't seem to be aware that there was anything false in it and continued to produce the verses that made her the envy of many women.

At least after Rosie's birth the marital duties ceased entirely, and Sebastian once more restricted himself to kissing her cheek, or occasionally cuddling her on his lap. Things being different Judith would have liked more children, for they were now the light of her life, but not at the price of yet more disharmony in the home.

Her life had been stable and not particularly unpleasant until Sebastian developed pneumonia and died. Her first reaction, she had to confess, had been a sense of liberation of which she had been ashamed ever since. Like a canary in a cage, however, freedom had been a frightening shock, and in the first days she had numbly obeyed the pressure of everyone's expectations and acted the part of the inconsolable widow. Her distress had become real when she had discovered he had left her almost destitute.

Her poor father had had the task of arranging her affairs, and it had taken its toll on him, too.

Judith had allowed herself and the children to be taken back to the parsonage, where she had languished in despair for weeks. When she began to pull herself together, and wrote to Timothy Rossiter for help, she discovered she had the name of the Weeping Widow. She hadn't cried for well over a year, but the name had stuck. She knew a part of it was the fact that she continued to wear unrelieved black, but what else was she supposed to do?

Virtually penniless, she hadn't dared buy anything for mourning and had simply thrown all her clothes into a vat of black dye. It had served well enough. Now there was certainly no money to buy new clothes until these were worn out. There'd be little money to buy new clothes even then.

Then there was the monument. She had almost had the vapors when a stonemason had arrived with it, saying that Sebastian had ordered it years before, had designed it himself, leaving only the date of death to be filled in. What kind of person did such a thing?

At least he had paid for it in advance. Judith had ordered it set in place, relieved that Sebastian had been provident in one respect, even if a macabre one. She winced, however, whenever she visited the churchyard and saw how out of place it looked there.

She sometimes dwelt on the fact that ten years ago Sebastian had received a legacy from an uncle and spent it all on installing a rose garden at Mayfield House. He had even commissioned a rose from a breeder, a rose called Judith Rossiter. It was a pale cream bloom of delicate form that had nothing in common with her. She sometimes wondered whether Sebastian ever saw
her
at all.

When she'd left behind that rose garden at Mayfield House, and thought of the money it had cost, she had felt a spurt of pure hate. But she had fought it, and buried it. Hate served no purpose.