Rebecca (17 page)

Eliza was silent as she tried to assimilate the advice. She was so enrapt in her own thoughts that she did not notice the expression on the face of her sister-in-law.

Rebecca was thinking of her own words. Was that what love truly was? A true, lasting love? If so, it must be a nascent love she felt for Nicholas. The thought of leaving him and Foxbridge Cloister sent a pain deep into her soul. She did not want to love him. She did not want to love the man who had hurt her to satisfy his own needs without caring for hers. Immediately her heart refuted her words. Nicholas cared for her. He cared very much, as he had from the very beginning.

“Excuse me, Eliza,” she said, shakily, as she rose.

“Do you feel poorly?”

She waved her hand weakly. She did not want to stay and explain. Only in the haven of her room could she sort out the strange thoughts bombarding her brain. “I'm fine. Just tired. Please tell Curtis I will see him tomorrow and explain to Nicholas that I decided to go to bed early.”

As quickly as she could in her bulky gown, Rebecca ran along the hallway. She did not want to meet the men coming out of the dining room. She did not know what she possibly could say to Nicholas when her heart was in such an uproar.

Up she went past the huge, stained-glass window and into their suite. Collette looked up in shock that Lady Foxbridge would be returning from dinner so early. She did not say anything as she saw the distress on her lady's face. All she did was put out one of the new nightdresses which had been delivered with the gowns and other apparel. Wishing her lady a good night, she left the room quietly, unsure if Lady Foxbridge had seen her from the depths of her misery.

Rebecca refused to think of anything as she put her nightgown on and brushed her hair as she did each night. Although she was not tired, she got into bed and rested her head on her pillow. Tears dripped onto its muslin cover as she tried to deny that this could be love she felt for Nicholas. She would not let it be love. If she could choose any man in the world to love, it would not be the egotistical, self-confident Nicholas Wythe.

That was all true.

Yet, if it was all true, why did her heart leap in joy at the sound of his voice and threaten to break when she considered her trip home to Keith and her family?

To the dark of the room, she whispered, “I do not want to love you, Nicholas! I do not!” She buried her face in the pillows as she wept for the love she had lost and the one she did not want to find.

Chapter Eight

“Brody,” Rebecca asked as she descended the stairs the following Sunday morning, “would you please have the carriage brought around?”

“Yes, my lady,” he answered. He sent a lad running to the stable with the message. Turning back to her, he watched as she adjusted her gloves and settled her bonnet more securely on her dark hair. “If my lord should ask, whom shall I tell him you are calling on this morning?”

With a chuckle, she said, “For
your
and Nicholas's information, I'm going to church.”

He nodded, hiding his surprise. The only church in town belonged to the Church of England. That Lady Foxbridge had practiced the rites of a different sect had been well circulated throughout the house with almost as much interest as if it had been announced she believed in witchcraft. He did not say anything of that as she waved lightly and went out the door.

Thanking Sims for holding the carriage door, she entered the carriage. It seemed so empty without Nicholas with her, but she needed to get away from Foxbridge Cloister and the sweet ties which were urging her never to leave. Perhaps in the quiet of the church she would be able to think her problems through and find the answer which had eluded her so far. The problem had been plaguing her since her discussion with Eliza.

Lost in her thoughts, the journey went quickly down the hill and into the village. Heads twisted at the strange sight of the Wythes' carriage coming into the small village which was simply called Foxbridge. Whether it had been in existence before the monastery or had grown up in the shadow of its walls, no one seemed to know. The two were so interconnected that they were inseparable.

“I shall wait for you, my lady, if you wish,” said Sims as he helped her from the coach.

“That isn't necessary. Go over to the Three Georges, if you want,” she said with a smile as she pointed at the rickety tavern at the edge of the green. Not wishing to offend any of the last three kings, the owner of the local taproom had named his place for all of them. It was the gathering place after work and long into the night on the men's few days off. The men who had started drinking draughts last night would be sleeping off their bouts in the chairs and on the tables. A few hardy souls would still be bending their elbows as they leaned on the bar that Rebecca would never see. No ladies of respectable mien would enter.

He nodded. “That's kind of you, my lady. When church is over, send one of the lads for me. The vicar tends to be long-winded some Sundays.” As she started to walk toward the church, he added, “By the way, my lady, if no one mentioned it, the Wythes' pew is the first one on the right side of the church.”

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. Without her friends at Foxbridge Cloister, she certainly would have made too many unforgivable errors already. The system of etiquette was so much stricter than the one she had known. Many strictures were put on her, and she had learned that her title brought her only less freedom.

The church was as plain on the inside as on the outside. It appeared that none of the stained-glass windows at the Cloister had been used in the building of the church which had replaced it as a place of worship. Even if Sims had not told her which pew belonged to the Wythes, she would have guessed. It was the only one with a door and cushions on the seats.

When the sexton saw who was entering the church, he leapt from his post at the back of the sanctuary to hurry down the aisle to unlock the special pew which had not been opened in years. At one time the lord and his lady had attended every Christmastide and Michaelmas, but that tradition, like many others revered by the peasants, disappeared. He could not remember the last time one of the Wythes had attended services at this church.

He was not the only one who reacted with astonishment as the churchgoers turned to see why he was unlocking the pew. Eyes widened in disbelief as they saw the young woman coming alone into the church. In her light-pink gown with its flounces and bows, she could have been one of the angels in the treasured Bible on the altar.

Like the sexton, they immediately identified the lady. Few newcomers came to Foxbridge on the wild, west coast, so each one was noted carefully. Nobody knew quite what to make of Lord Foxbridge's wife, for she was an American, and everyone admitted that they were a most strange breed. By nature cautious, they were waiting to see why she had crossed the invisible class lines that divided the village from the Cloister. When the last Lord Foxbridge had deigned to interfere in their lives, it had meant only trouble. They were anxious to see what this new lord and his odd lady intended to make of Foxbridge.

Rebecca was aware of the consternation, but believed it would be best if she acted unconcerned. She thanked the man who unlatched the pew. Flustered by her warm smile, he scuttled away to his usual seat in the last pew. She wished every eye in the church was not glued directly to her back. If she made a mistake during the service, it would be evident to everyone. There was nothing she could do about it. She could not get up and walk out before the service started.

When the minister came along the aisle to the altar, he stopped to welcome her. From his lack of surprise, she surmised that he had been informed of her presence. It showed Rebecca more than anything else in her experiences at Foxbridge Cloister that everything she did was subject to public scrutiny and opinion. As the wife of Lord Foxbridge, her life in a large way was no longer hers alone. If all the lands belonged to the lord of the Cloister, Lord Foxbridge and his family belonged to these people. It was just another way in which the bonds which had been formed and tempered for centuries enmeshed them.

“It is lovely to see you here, my lady.” His face above his ecclesiastical collar and frock was handsome. He was a young man with intelligent, blue eyes not so different from her own. His light-brown hair was tied back sedately at his nape.

“Thank you, Reverend.” She was careful to hide her amusement. This poor man must be of interest to the mothers with marriageable daughters. Such good looks combined with a living in the parish made him extremely desirable to any maiden looking to better herself. “I have been anxious to attend your services. I have missed attending church.”

He smiled before he continued to the altar. The service was a very enthralling one with the music Rebecca enjoyed so much. She sang well and had helped with the small choir in her own church. She avidly sang the songs with which she was familiar. By carefully listening to the words spoken from the altar, she was able to make her way through the differences in the service without making any gross mistakes. Only at the end, when the minister left the church after the final benediction, did she err. When she saw no one departing, she tarried also until she realized that they were waiting for her to leave first.

Rebecca hurried along the aisle, glad her bonnet shaded her cheeks which must be a brighter rose than her gown. At the door, she greeted the minister. “I'm afraid I am the cause of the delay for your parishioners leaving, Reverend. I don't yet know all of the traditions of this title I possess.”

“It's no problem, Lady Foxbridge,” he said with a laugh as his eyes sparkled with boyish good will. “Any excuse to get them to stay longer in church is always a good one.” He bowed over her hand, startling her, for she had not expected such an action from a man of the cloth. “My name is John Middleton, my lady.”

“Reverend Middleton, I enjoyed the service very much. I hope my arrival will not be so disruptive next week.”

He hid his surprise that she intended to attend regularly at his small church. When he had been sent to Foxbridge a year ago, he had been informed quickly by his flock that the gentry did not come to this church. “We will be glad to see you whenever you wish to join us, my lady.”

“Thank you. Good day.”

She stepped down the stairs to see Sims sitting on the ground by the carriage. That surprised her, for she had thought he was going to wait at the Georges. When she walked out onto the road toward where the coach was parked, she understood why he was nearby. In a half-circle on the green across from where the fine vehicle sat, a group of men were ogling her with open admiration. She did not have to be close enough to smell the alcohol on their breaths to guess these were the men who had been patronizing the pub all night. One of them started to move toward her, but paused as he saw Sims step out from behind the carriage.

As if he had not seen the men, the carriage driver opened the door. He tipped his cap to her, but out of view of the others, he winked. She felt her lips twitch, but was able to control them long enough to wait until he had closed the door before she began to giggle. She wondered what Sims had heard at the pub that had warned him that the village men were interested in meeting Lady Foxbridge face to face. She was sure she never would get used to the curiosity of these people.

The ride back to Foxbridge Cloister was lovely with the light taste of sea in the indolent breeze. It was a summer day made to order for picnics and poets. When the carriage stopped at the door, she alit, but did not go into the house. Instead she walked toward the side of the house which overlooked the ocean.

The formal gardens seemed to go on forever, but eventually she left them behind. Knowing that she was a good distance from the house, she untied her bonnet and bent to unbuckle her shoes. Pulling her shoes and stockings off, she dropped them into the depths of her bonnet which she tied over her arm as if it was a bag. Once again she was Rebecca North, running in her bare feet through the summer grasses on her way to the fields or school at the church in the village. She twirled in the warm sunshine and felt the fine silk of her gown whirl around her. For the first time since she had come to England, she was herself and not someone named Lady Foxbridge. Gathering wild-flowers, she wandered through the meadows steadily sloping toward the shore.

The pulse of the waters could be heard in the distance as the waves beat themselves to nonexistence on the shore. She took a deep breath of the fresh air which was one of the few things here that she found more delightful than Connecticut. She had discovered the sea and wanted to be near it always.

She sighed as she realized it was too far to go. By the way the sun was climbing in the sky, it soon would be time for luncheon. Lady Margaret had made her displeasure with her so clear that she did not want to do anything to alienate her mother-in-law further. Already it was so late that she would have to hurry if she wanted to get to the house before the meal was served.

Swinging her bonnet in her hands, she strolled toward the main house. When she reached a small copse, she hesitated going through it in her fine dress. Then, when she thought of the ridicule she would face at Lady Margaret's hands if she arrived windblown and late for luncheon, she did not pause any longer. Tipping her bonnet onto the ground, she pulled her stockings on again and redid her shoes that reached above her ankles. She retied her bonnet under her chin. Too many lectures she had heard already from Nicholas' mother on how a lady was never seen outside without something on her head.

She folded her dress and petticoats tight to her legs. It was bulky, but this way she could get through this thicket without snagging the material of her gown. Wishing she had not gone so far and made herself late, she plunged into the wood.

Rebecca had no warning as she set her foot on what had been forgotten for more years than she had lived. When the deadly thing had been hidden no one would recall, but it had remembered its purpose despite years of lying in wait in the heat of summer and beneath the winter snows. Her light step was enough to trigger it. When the trap encircled her leg, it threw her to the ground so hard that a burst of pain was the only thing lighting the darkness which soon swallowed even her agony into its maw of nothingness.