Not Quite Married (31 page)

“In a moment of weakness, I assure you.”

“Let us not disappoint our hostess. Come sit, and let me woo you properly.” He patted his lap, grinning. Brien did sit down, but on the far end of the couch.

“What is your father like, Aaron? You’ve made reference to hard feelings between you. Surely, it has not always been so.”

He was silent a moment, analyzing both the question and the motivation behind it. “My father is a man of keen mind and great ability . . . much of which he has buried under the burdens and duties of his title. I respect his loyalty to his duty, but I know I could never live the kind of life he has. From the time my mother died, when I was seven years old, until this day, I cannot say I have seen him smile. He’s as hard as the walls of Coleraine.”

In the pause, Brien watched his serious expression and wished she could reach into his darkened thoughts and draw him back to her. She squeezed his hand instead.

“When I left to make my home in Bristol,” he continued, glancing up at her briefly, “he swore to disown me entirely if I did not return to beg his forgiveness. I told him my brother Edward would make a much better subject for his ambitions.”

“Will you go home now, Aaron? Now that you have your ship?”

She was thinking of her own father and how narrowly she had missed knowing and loving him. His reply startled her.

“No. He has nothing I want and I have nothing for him.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do mean it. I will never be an earl. I have left that all behind me now.”

“But your duty—”

“Is to conduct my life according to my values and principles. And foremost among those is the conviction that freedom is more precious than wealth or fame or privilege or a hide-bound tradition that places greater value on some men than others.

Freedom to speak and learn and change . . . freedom to pursue a dream . . . freedom to use whatever talent and effort and resources you can muster to achieve a dream . . . that is the promise that America holds for the world. And I want to be part of it.

“I am not proud of some aspects of my life, Brien. But I have tried to be honest in my dealing with men and women alike. I don’t ask favors or privileges, don’t expect special treatment because of the circumstances of my birth. I only want to have the chance to live my own life as I see fit . . . to build something of value in this world.”

Brien felt for the first time the real impact of his rejection of the class to which they belonged. Her heart skipped. Until now she had harbored a suspicion . . .
a hope
. . . that fate had somehow destined her for a life with him. He was a true match for her in every sense, even to the fact that his father’s rank matched her father’s exactly. In the quiet of her bed at night, she was coming to think of her life and his, side by side, someday linked by more than just fate.

“Brien, I must tell you. The coming trip back to England—
The
Lady’s Secret
will bear American colors.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, realizing as she did that he was declaring his intention to leave England permanently.

Registering his ship as an American vessel would mean declaring himself a citizen of the rebel provinces.

“No,” she breathed as the sense of it overwhelmed her.

“Brien, I intend to make Boston my home.” His golden eyes probed hers deeply for her response, even as she searched her own heart.

Both found only confusion.

She had felt that she understood his rebellion against tradition and his father—but to give up his citizenship as a final stab at his father’s position and authority—to cast away every tie to his land, his people, his home—

She stood up, feeling compelled to action but at a loss for how to halt the widening of the rift between her convictions and her emotions. She turned to the window and stared, unseeing, out into the balmy afternoon.

“I thought you should know.” His voice was steady behind her.

“When did you decide this?” Brien fought the despair overtaking her.

“It has been my plan for some time.”

For how long? While he poured out his heart to her in their talks aboard ship? During that sweet, steamy night in her chamber? On that hilltop overlooking America’s bountiful promise? And what did he think she would do when she heard the news? Wish him well in his new life on the far side of an ocean? Surrender and sink into his arms?

Suddenly it was all too clear. He expected her to choose.
Him.

But to have a life with him she must abandon her father, her position, her country—everything she had known and loved.

A sardonic voice rose inside her. And if she chose him, what would she have? The lot of a sea captain’s wife? Lonely months in a strange country while he was at sea, plying his carefree trade? Years of resentment at having handed her life over to him just when she had found it? An inner door crashed shut, sealing away newly awakened feelings and trust.

The silence grew strained. He joined her by the window and tried to put his arms around her. She pushed away, shaking with emotion, and turned to him.

“You’ve already made the decision . . . by yourself, for yourself.

Do you not see what this does to us? You’re throwing away the very things that bind us together.”

“What? The fact that we were both born into noble houses in a society that—” He searched her as he followed that trail of thought. “I see. Now, without the promise of a title, I’ve lost my appeal.”

“It’s not like that. I never thought of you as having a title.” But his accusation echoed strongly in her. If he went back to his father, assumed the life of a proper English earl-to-be, would her objections to a life with him just fade away?

“All I have is yours, Brien. But all I have is in America now.”

There it was. The ultimatum she dreaded, delivered with staggering effect. By his choice, he had put an ocean between them. Now she must choose . . . between everything she knew and loved and this extraordinary man who had claimed her desires, her body, and finally her heart.

Her internal battle finished quickly and vanquished hope crept back into the recesses of her heart. She turned pointedly away from him and felt a pricking in her eyes. A deathly calm descended over her. There was no trem-bling or weakness now, only a cold, sobering wave of self-reproach.

Aaron stood behind her, trembling, feeling furious and foolish, hurting in places he hadn’t known he possessed.

He had just lost the battle. His chest tightened so that it was difficult to breathe. For a long, excruciating moment, he wavered.

If he took it all back and undid his decision . . . if he returned to England . . . to Wiltshire . . . to his lordly father . . .

After a painful silence, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

TWO DAYS AFTER the fire, an offer came for the purchase of Weston Trading. A man named Harrison, from New York, made a firm offer of twenty-four thousand sterling. Brien received the news with overwhelming relief and set about making plans to return home. By week’s end she had signed the papers, taken possession of the bank drafts, and secured passage on a ship called the
Morning Star
bound for London. And she said good-bye to Boston and the colonies with an aching heart.

Twenty-Two

THE PASSAGE HOME was long and miserable. The
Morning
Star
was not designed with passengers in mind and rolled and pitched on her square bottom like a warped bucket. Brien fell sick on the first day out of port and spent her mornings hovering over the chamber pot. As the day wore on, her health improved and she was sure this odd bit of seasickness would pass. But the next morning she would be seized again by violent spasms, and blamed the miserable craft for her inability to keep food in her stomach.

To make matters worse, Jeannie was once again deathly ill. Being confined with her in the small cabin they were forced to share was almost intolerable at first. Unable to exercise on deck and bundled like a mummy to withstand the cool air from the open windows, she had a great deal of time to think.

Inescapably her thoughts returned to Aaron and the details of his beautiful ship. If the
Star
was typical, it was small wonder the
Secret
aroused such interest. Inexperience had kept her from understanding just how remarkable an achievement his ship truly was. And if she hadn’t appreciated the ship, how much more had she undervalued the talents and abilities of the man who had designed it?

Being so far away, she felt it safe to let down her guard and remember the pleasure of his presence . . . his tart wit, his exhilarating kisses, and his warm, comforting touch. Then she recalled the pain and frustration in his face as he turned from her that afternoon in Silas’s parlor. It was harder now to stay angry with him for a decision that he was probably destined to make.

Desperate to escape the sadness and sense of loss that accompanied thoughts of him and the colonies, she tried instead to conjure images of the life to which she was intent on returning.

She needed to anticipate something, someone . . . anything, anyone.

She concentrated on Harcourt but the vision paled and it was impossible to bring specific colors and room arrangements to mind. She thought of her new friends, and discovered that Charles Medford merged into Reydon Hardwick, and Celia Evans was virtually indistinguishable from Sophie Etheridge.

Closing her eyes, she thought of
home,
and what came to mind was an image of Byron Place before the fire. That Byron Place didn’t exist anymore. In its place were stone piles and scaffolding and wooden beams that resembled nothing quite yet and held no memories or allure. The only thing of substance that she managed to conjure in her mind and heart was her father.

She thought of the earl’s face as he watched her carriage drive away from Harcourt. He’d looked so gray and drawn and sad to see her go. She could only pray that he’d continued to recuperate and she would find him in better health and spirits. He was her family. All she had.

By the end of her third week at sea, the weather calmed and her seasickness seemed to ease. She spent some time tidying the cabin and taking care of Jeannie, who seemed to do better the closer they came to London. When Brien roused herself and insisted that Jeannie join her on deck for a bit of fresh air and exercise, Jeannie groaned and sank back onto her bed, holding her middle and complaining that as if the ravages of the sea weren’t enough . . . her courses had just come upon her. Brien winced with sympathy, pulled a thick shawl around her shoulders, and left the cabin.

Halfway up the steps to the deck, she stopped dead.

Courses.

How long had it been since she had experienced a similar complaint?

Her blood drained from her head as she realized that she had not suffered her usual course since . . . since she was aboard
The
Lady’s Secret.
Six weeks? More like two months. Her eyes widened and she looked down at the front of her heavy blue woolen gown. Surely not.

But as she stood there, holding the railing, she went back over the events of the last two months, searching for evidence that she was wrong and finding none. Her knees weakened. Not a day’s indisposition. Not a single ache or bit of discomfort. Until she stepped aboard the
Morning Star
and began losing her breakfast every blessed morning.

Not seasickness.
Morning sickness.

She sat down on the steps with a plop.

Helen had spoken of it . . . had told her that it was a bit different with each woman during pregnancy. Some were deathly ill; others didn’t lose so much as a single step to discomfort. It was just one of many lessons in womanhood she had learned from her American friend. And now she found herself forced to apply that alarming lesson!

No courses. Morning sickness. She looked down at her breasts, which suddenly felt full and tender in a way that alarmed her.

She was pregnant.

Putting her face in her hands, she tried to will it and then wish it away. But several minutes later, when the captain of the
Morning
Star
started down the steps and found her there, the reality of it was still the same. She was with child. And Aaron Durham was the father. Assuring the captain that she hadn’t fallen and wasn’t grievously ill, she allowed him to help her up onto the deck and stood looking off the stern of the ship . . . toward America and Aaron and all she had left behind.

Pregnant.

What on earth was she going to do?

AS THE SHIP sailed up the Thames, Brien and Jeannie emerged from their cabin to watch the English countryside glide by. It was late summer and the grasses were tired and yellow and the fields were full of harvested stubble. All along the river were shacks and clutches of small boats . . . dead fish, refuse, and butchers’

offal floated by on oily slicks of waste from tanneries and whale-rendering vessels. As they slowed and waited for the tide, she watched some fishermen on the nearest shore begin a brawl over the rights to a net that contained just a few bottom-feeding fish. It was hardly the homecoming she had hoped for.

Everything looked so tired and old and worn.

Alarmed by the comparison she was making in her mind, she banished that thought and forced herself to focus on the comfort of Harcourt’s snug, warm rooms, plentiful hot water, and soft down coverlets. But foremost in her mind was her desire to see her father, to reassure herself that he had recovered fully from his brush with death, and to share with him the news of her successful trip.

When she saw the earl of Southwold waiting on the dock, her heart surged with joy. He looked ruddy with health and stood straight and tall beside the carriage on the dock. The tears that formed in her eyes told how much she had missed him. She waved excitedly to him and as soon as the gangway was in place, hurried down it into his outstretched arms. It was a full minute before either could speak.

“Oh, Father, it’s so good to see you!” she cried, locked securely in his embrace.

“My darling Brien! How I have missed you.” Weston’s face was red and his eyes watered with unspoken emotion. “So much has happened these last two months—the rumors of war and all—I was afraid you would have trouble securing passage.” He pushed her back to look at her. “Great Heavens, but you look wonderful.