Moonlight on My Mind (14 page)

Chapter 15

N
ight had fallen by the time Patrick finally made his way out of the study. Something Avery had said still bothered him, a piece of the puzzle that refused to fit. His father had been close to sixty. It was not a surprise that a man of that age might experience a decline in health, but Avery was right: his father’s precipitous death was sure to attract notice.

Worse than the thought of what his father’s death meant for him was the very fact of the loss. It hurt to think of the ignorance he had shown to his father in those months before Eric’s death. He would gladly give up his own life if it meant he could have Eric and his father restored to the family, but after the uncomfortable conversation with Lord Avery, he was worried he might be required to give it up regardless.

The glass of whisky he had tossed back with Lord Avery at the end had restored him to good graces with Julianne’s father, but it had done little to ease his mind. And unfortunately, it had near shredded his wits. He wanted nothing more than to stumble his way to his bed and a good night’s sleep. But as his mother was waiting for him just outside the door to the study, his wits would need to be reassembled, and his bed would have to wait.

“Am I to presume your discussion with Lord Avery has thwarted the possibility of a duel?” she asked.

Patrick fought a smile, the one his mother had always been able to wrench from him, even when he was in the blackest of moods. “I believe Lord Avery understands things better now. And I would not have permitted him to call me out. I think you’ve been through enough this past year without losing another son, don’t you think?”

“Indeed.” She studied him a moment. “Thank you for coming home, Patrick. Heaven knows this past week has been difficult enough, losing your father, penning that awful letter. Such necessary subterfuge.” Her calm façade slipped, just enough to reveal the devastation beneath. “I just . . . I hope you will be careful. I will not be happy if I have called you home to lose you to the gallows.”

Patrick inclined his head, his throat swelling around the question he needed to ask. “Do you believe me guilty then, Mother?”

She shook her head without hesitation, and it brought a lump to Patrick’s throat to see it. “No, dear. Never. You are so much like me . . .” She lifted a hand to his face, a face Patrick knew was in need of a razor and three weeks of solid meals to be restored to the son she remembered. Her hand felt cool against his skin, and he wanted to lean into his mother’s strength. “You keep your emotions too well contained. But I knew. A mother always knows. You were as devastated by Eric’s death as any of us. You were in shock, and those who would be suspicious misinterpreted it as an expression of guilt.”

Much as he had interpreted his mother’s frozen silence as a belief in his guilt, it seemed. “Thank you,” he told her, his heart coming to rest on its side.

His mother’s hand fell away. “But the new Lady Haversham’s explanation didn’t help matters that day, did it? I confess I am surprised by your choice for a wife.”

Patrick clenched his fists, feeling oddly protective. “She is more than she seems.”

“Well, you are a man grown, capable of making your own decisions. The earl now. I only hope she proves worthy of your trust.” Her serious brown eyes met his, the same as those he saw in a mirror when he took the time to look. “Your father always thought she would be a good choice for Eric, but I had my doubts. She seems quite . . .
fashionable
.”

Patrick hesitated, resenting the slice of jealousy his mother’s innocent words conjured. Julianne was admittedly not the sort of woman he would have once imagined marrying, and he could well believe she would come as a surprise to his mother, even without the history of her accusations against him. And yes, she cut quite a sharp figure, one he had watched more closely than he would like to admit these past few days.

But she was also loyal and brave and altogether maddening. All told, “fashionable” was somewhat low on the list.

“I was just heading up to see her.”

“Don’t you think you have at least one more interview to complete tonight before returning to your wife?” His mother’s words were gentle but firm. “Mary and Eleanor are waiting. I told them of your return.”

Patrick nodded his agreement, even as he wondered if his sisters’ reception would really be as welcoming as his mother imagined. “You are right, of course.”

Even if he dreaded the accusation he feared in his sisters’ eyes, there was little he could do now except apologize to the earnest hearts who had probably been the most damaged by Eric’s untimely death and his sudden departure.

Gemmy was lying on the stairwell’s first landing as Patrick made his way up, the dog’s nose poking between the banister slats. “Poised for a quick retreat, no matter which direction she comes from, eh?” Gemmy’s tail thumped on the smooth wood of the landing. “You don’t look half as contrite as you ought. Perhaps if you didn’t go barging in, hackles raised, Constance might have greeted you in a more civil fashion.”

Gemmy’s ears drooped. Patrick understood how he felt. It was the same way he’d felt after mucking things up with Julianne in their wedding bed. So far he’d failed to banish that dishonorable memory, and given the way this night was going, he doubted he’d find a way to erase it from either of their minds any time soon.

“Come on, then.” He snapped his fingers and headed up the remainder of the stairs. “Perhaps things will go better for me at this next stop with you in tow.”

With Gemmy on his heels, Patrick found the door he sought and knocked in an unmistakable pattern. Two slow knocks, followed by three sharper raps in quick succession.

“Who is it?” The voice that reached him through the door was achingly familiar, and rightfully suspicious.

“Bonny Prince Charlie,” he quipped, lapsing into the familiar game they used to play.

The door opened to reveal a face heartbreakingly older than the last time he had seen it. Mary was already dressed for bed, her hair in plaits and a white cap covering her light brown hair. Despite his worry, Patrick felt a smile steal across his face at the sight of her. “Miss me, sprite?”

Recognition widened Mary’s brown eyes, and she launched herself at him with a small, soft cry. Eleanor hit him next, a second kick of surprise. Patrick swooped them up, one in each arm, so full of family he couldn’t draw a breath. And then he was setting them down and they were pulling him inside, almost hopping with excitement.

“Mama told us you had returned,” Mary exclaimed. “But then you didn’t come.”

“This funny little dog came by to visit us though,” Eleanor added. “He only had three legs, and I thought, oh, Patrick would like this dog.”

“And then I said what if it
was
your dog—” Mary interjected.

“And then we both prayed it was your dog—”

“Quite hard, actually. Elle gave herself a headache.”

Patrick bounced between his sisters’ erratic thoughts, his interpretation skills a few months rusty. He smiled as Eleanor threw her arms around the little yellow terrier, who had wormed his way between them and was wiggling almost as much as the little girl.

“So Gemmy found you first, did he?” Patrick chuckled at the mention of his dog’s wanderlust. He could well imagine the dog had spent much of the last hour prowling the house, urinating in corners, looking for places to hide from Constance.

“So he
is
your dog?” Eleanor smiled up.

“Of course. Who else do you know who would have a three-legged dog?”

Mary smiled. “And his name is Gemmy? I think it’s a lovely name.”

“That’s because you like gems,” Eleanor pointed out. “I prefer horses. You should change his name to Trotter.”

Mary gasped. “I like horses too, Elle, and you well know it.”

“Although I suppose you can’t name a three-legged dog Trotter,” Eleanor tumbled on, “because the poor dear thing would limp, and it would hurt his feelings to have to live up to such expectations.” She paused for a breath, then regarded Patrick with a somber expression—far too serious for plaited hair, at any rate. “Why did you come back? Was it because Papa has died?”

Patrick tugged at a brown braid, setting Eleanor’s nightcap askew in his attempt to make her smile. “No, sprite. I’ve come because of
you
. I am so sorry you had to manage all of this without me. Father would be proud to see how well you’ve taken care of Mother.”

“I am
so
glad you have come to see us tonight,” Mary said, leaning against him as if she were afraid he might suddenly disappear again.

Eleanor nodded. “Yes, it would have been ever so cruel if you’d made us wait for breakfast.” Her face scrunched up. “We’d have had to sit in our chairs and look at you, but ne’er say a word.”

“I’m glad I’ve come too.” And he was. How could he have forgotten what it felt like to be silenced by the chatter of a sister, or hugged by small arms? “I wanted to be the first to tell you both. I’ve brought home a wife. You’ll meet her at breakfast.”

“A wife?” Both girls stared at him, their mouths wide enough to catch dust, had the maids at Summersby been permitted to let any settle. “But . . .
why
?”

Patrick hesitated. “She’s going to help me fight the suspicions regarding my role in Eric’s death.” He wondered if he ought to say more, but decided it was as much explanation as was needed. Simple, perhaps, but true. He could see his sisters’ heads trying to wrap around the notion, and it occurred to him that—unlike real life—they no doubt considered marriage something magical, a fairy tale of princes and true love. Julianne herself must have once been such a mysterious creature. And just like that, he was reminded again of his duplicity.

Christ, but he was a cad.

He’d raged at her last night, when she’d been brave enough to face such a difficult confession. He’d ignored his new wife much of today, when she probably would have appreciated a smile to help pave the way into Summersby. He’d spoken the truth to his sisters. Julianne
was
helping him fight these charges, helping him stay with his family. No matter how angry he had been with her last night, no matter how frustrated he sometimes felt toward her, Julianne was the reason he had come back to Summersby.

And he had treated her poorly, all things considered.

“Who is she?” Mary asked, her voice curious. “Is she pretty?”

“Very pretty. You probably know her as Miss Baxter. She attended mother’s house party last year.”

Eleanor cocked her head, her freckled nose wrinkling. “The lady who said you killed Eric?”

Patrick shifted uncomfortably. When he had departed so hastily eleven months ago, chased by his grief and those who would have his head, he hadn’t considered what his sisters might know, or what they understood. “She made a mistake, Elle. And she is very, very sorry.”

Mary smiled up at him. When he’d left, her front teeth had just been coming in, but they’d emerged in full and now appeared too large for her face. Like those teeth, Patrick could see a new startling maturity in her eyes. “As long as she loves you like we do, we shall like her.”

“But she won’t make you leave again, will she?” Eleanor asked suspiciously.

Patrick truly had no idea what the morning might bring, but he was loath to admit that to his wide-eyed sisters. And the mention of love from his sister’s innocent lips made him squirm uncomfortably. No, Julianne didn’t love him. He’d be lucky if she came to tolerate him. “She brought me home to you,” he said evasively. “So I rather doubt she wants me to leave.”

Mary’s brown eyes seemed to swim in her face. “Have you been to see Eric’s gravesite?” she asked.

Patrick found himself at a loss for words over the question. “No, sprite. I’ve just arrived, after all.”

“You should go. He is buried by the lake, where you always went fishing. Papa said he should be in the family plot in Shippington, but Mama insisted on the lake. She said he would be happier there, and we could visit with him whenever we wanted.”

Patrick had presumed his brother would have been buried in the family crypt at Shippington’s cemetery, where generations of Havershams lay in some semblance of rest. He’d left too quickly, knowing he would be unwelcome at the funeral, chased by the suspicions others held of him. The crypt was a cold, foreboding place.

The lake, however, was not.

Mary smiled. “I planted flowers there this spring.”

“And I tried to catch a fish,” Eleanor broke in. “But I couldn’t figure out how to tie the lure the way you showed me.”

“I’ll go there tonight,” he promised. He might be weary, but this was not something to be put off. No matter his explanations to his sister, no matter his plans for Julianne, he had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

And he owed his brother this much, at least.

A
scratching at the door jolted Julianne awake, and for a moment, the strangeness of her surroundings pressed in on her. But then Constance yawned in her lap, and Julianne’s eyes adjusted to the almost violent light surrounding her, and she remembered where she was.

Summersby. Patrick’s room.

She’d fallen asleep in a sturdy reading chair, unwilling to disturb the bedclothes before he returned, anxious for some news of how the interview had gone with her father. As the room had fallen dark, she’d lit every lamp she could find. After the care she had seen him exercise in minimizing waste on oil and tallow, the extravagance would probably make Patrick frown. But she’d needed light to clean Constance’s shoulder, which had thankfully turned out to be little more than a scratch. And it wouldn’t hurt to show Patrick that he no longer had to pinch pennies, that there was no shame in being the new Earl of Haversham . . . and indeed, that he had as much right and strength of character to occupy the position as anyone else.

When she cracked the door, Gemmy nosed his way in, whining anxiously. She cast a quick look down the dark corridor, but could not see Patrick anywhere.

“He’s abandoned us both, hmmm?”

Gemmy cocked his head, but she shook a finger at him in warning. “If you come in, you’ll need to behave yourself. No attacking Constance again, or I won’t be held responsible for what she might do to you.”