Sattler, Veronica (40 page)

That
had been more than ten days ago, and in the ensuing time, no amount of industry
or expense had been spared in seeing the Tudor-style cottage redecorated. In
record time dozens of painters, plasterers, carpenters and footmen had swarmed
over the structure's ten rooms—five below, including a kitchen and
accommodations for a small staff, and five above: this spacious bedchamber; a
sitting room; a dressing room; one maid's room; and a small drawing room that,
like the bedchamber, had had a small wooden balcony added during Queen Anne's
time, when the dowager had been a former French
comtesse
who thought the
lake too lovely a sight to be viewed only from indoors on a warm evening.

Thoughts
of the balconies prompted Ashleigh to wander toward the French doors that had
remained closed for most of the day, owing to a soft rainfall that had been
with them since last night. But now she saw a shaft of sunlight breaking
through the receding clouds of an afternoon that was growing brighter, turning
the droplets of water that clung to the newly replaced balcony railing and the
leaves of a nearby chestnut tree into tiny prisms of light.

With
a quick movement, she pulled the doors open and was instantly greeted by a rush
of cool, sweet air. It bore all the freshness of an English summer's day washed
clean by the kind of soft rains she would always remember as the sweetest part
of Kent. Drifting up to her from the lovely flower garden that had not been
neglected during the years the cottage remained vacant came the faint but heady
scent of damask roses, while her glance met with a riot of color she soon
perceived in the more definitive shapes of geraniums, lupines and lamb's ears,
and then climbing hydrangeas on a small stone wall near the front gate.

Her
eyes lifted to the near distance where the waters of the lake lay tranquil and
smooth. A pair of elegant white swans rounded a small island in the center,
then seemed to check themselves, pause and swing back in the direction from
which they'd come.

Then
Ashleigh saw what prompted their behavior. Cutting swiftly across the lake from
the other side was a small skiff, or rowboat. It bore two people; the one that
rowed looked like a liveried footman, judging by the vermilion color of his
coat; the other appeared to be a woman, for she wore a bright, flower-bedecked
bonnet that seemed to be slightly askew on her head. The boat was moving
unusually fast.

Carefully
raising her silk skirts to avoid tripping on them, Ashleigh turned and headed
for the door. There was no one else with her at the cottage right now, as
Hettie and Megan had gone to tell Patrick she was ready to be escorted to the
church in the village—where a special license obtained by Brett, with Patrick's
urging, had made it possible for the vicar to marry them in such short
order—and, Ashleigh realized, since whoever occupied that rowboat was heading
for the cottage, she would have to see what they wanted.

Moments
later she was out the front door and walking toward the gate, just in time to
see the skiff touch the shoreline. As the red-coated man jumped out and began
to haul it farther onto dry grass, she got a closer view of the bonneted
passenger. It was Lady Jane Hastings.

"Oh,
Miss Sinclair, Miss Sinclair!" cried the little rotund figure as the
liveried servant helped her from the boat. "I'm ever so glad to have found
you still at the cottage!"

Holding
her skirts carefully aside to avoid catching the droplets of rain that still
clung to the hollyhocks nearby, Ashleigh released the latch on the gate and
passed through, then walked down the cobblestoned path toward her approaching
visitor.

"Why,
Lady Jane, what a pleasant surprise! It's nice to see you again," Ashleigh
told her with sincerity. She'd become genuinely fond of the little woman during
their brief encounter the day of the party. It came from nothing she could put
her finger on, but there was something about her that invited instant sympathy
and kindness. All the more reason, Ashleigh thought with a brief inner grimace
as she extended her hand in welcome, to deplore the insensitive behavior of
Margaret Westmont toward this sweet little woman that day.

"Oh,
Miss Sinclair, I hope you'll forgive this intrusion, on this, of all
days," said Lady Jane as she panted from the exertion of having climbed
out of the skiff and then fairly run up the path. "It—it was my only
chance to come away, you see." She glanced briefly over her shoulder to
scan the lake, then back at Ashleigh. "They'd be terribly upset with me if
they knew. That's why I had to wait this late, until Blye here came off duty to
do the rowing. Blye and I go back a long way, don't we, Blye?"

The
old man's crumpled lips rounded into a yellow-toothed smile. "Yes,
m'lady."

"Well,
Lady Jane," said Ashleigh, "won't you come inside? My brother is
coming with the carriage soon to take me to the village, but perhaps I can fix
a quick cup of tea before—"

"Oh,
dear me, no," smiled Lady Jane, "and, please,
do
call me Jane.
It's all I'm accustomed to. But, no, my dear. It's awfully kind of you to
invite me, but I wouldn't dream of it. I only came to—to wish you well—on your
wedding day, you see... and to—" She turned again to the patiently waiting
Blye. "Blye, dear, I've forgotten them in the boat. Would you be so
kind...?"

"Of
course, m'lady." With a polite nod, the old retainer turned and headed for
the skiff.

Jane
returned her attention to Ashleigh. "My, my, how lovely you look, all
dressed up in your bridal finery...." Suddenly a faraway look crept into
the old woman's eyes. "I was a bride once, too... a very... beautiful
bride, or so they said. Everyone came... it was all so lovely, with the church
all decked in roses and the children's choir singing...."

All
at once Jane's eyes went from misty to dark. "I was a mother once,
too," she said, but her voice was so low, Ashleigh had to bend to catch
the words. "But it all turned wrong... all wrong... and empty... yes, an
empty cradle.... But they filled it up again soon enough, oh yes they did. Made
me a mother, double, they did! But—" she raised forlorn eyes to Ashleigh
"—but I wasn't really a mother. I tried to tell them, but they wouldn't
listen! Can you understand? She forbade them to listen!"

Ashleigh
grew uncomfortable, not so much from the strangely disjointed words Jane
Hastings uttered, although in themselves they were perplexing enough, but from
the chill, hollow sound of her voice as she spoke—not to mention the look of
anguish that shone from her hazel eyes.

"Jane,"
she said softly, "perhaps you've overtaxed yourself coming across the
lake. If you like, we can sit—"

"Oh,
here they are, fresh as when I picked them!" interrupted Jane as she
whirled to meet Blye. "Thank you, Blye." Turning back to Ashleigh,
she handed her a bouquet of gorgeous tea roses. "For you on your wedding
day, my dear. I grew them myself, in my own garden, and while I may not be
allowed to see you at the church, I do hope you'll let them take my good wishes
with you when you go." The gentle smile that accompanied this was filled
with warmth, bearing not a hint of the dark looks that had haunted her eyes a
moment before.

"Ohh,"
said
Ashleigh, smiling and pulling the bouquet toward her to inhale its scent.
"How
beautiful!"
She breathed in the soft, heady fragrance, then looked at
Jane with a smile. "Jane Hastings," she said with a small tremor,
"you've just given me the loveliest wedding gift a bride could wish for.
Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Not
at all, my dear. I knew you would love them, and so I determined that you
should have them, didn't I, Blye? Well, we must be off, now. So sorry to run,
but they'll be missing me before long if I don't." She turned and placed
her hand on Blye's proffered arm, then paused a moment and turned back to
Ashleigh. "Be happy, my dear. I wish it for you with all my heart. There
are too many about who wish you ill, and—" she glanced at the bouquet
"—well, my tea roses have always been lucky flowers, and I dearly hope they'll
bring you luck, too."

She
turned toward the lake again, but as the two started back down the path,
Ashleigh cried out, "Wait! Please, I'll only be a moment!" and then
darted toward the cottage.

A
few moments later Ashleigh had what she wanted. Taken from the tiny springhouse
behind the kitchen, it was a small bottle of fresh cream. She handed it to
Jane.

The
old woman's eyes grew wide, then bore the shimmer of instant tears. With a
quick movement, she reached out and gave Ashleigh a hug about the shoulders.
"How very kind you are, my dear. I shall never forget this. God keep
you!" Then she turned, took Blye's arm, and walked to the skiff.

Ashleigh
watched them row out until they disappeared into the mist that was forming on
the far side of the lake. She was still standing on the path holding the
bouquet of tea roses and pondering the significance of some of the things she'd
heard Jane Hastings say when the sounds of an approaching carriage drew her
attention.

"There
you are, sweetheart!" Patrick called out over the barking of a joyful Finn
who bounded down the drive ahead of the brougham.

Laughingly
ordering the wolfhound to "stay" before he could cover her gown with
mud from his huge paws, Ashleigh patted his head and then turned her attention
toward the carriage. There, being helped out by the liveried driver, she
suddenly beheld the most striking couple she'd ever seen.

Patrick
had followed Megan down from the brougham and the two of them stood together
facing her. Tall and majestic, each of them wore attire befitting a guest at a
duke's wedding. Patrick, in his black coat over a white satin waistcoat
embroidered with gold thread, and black pantaloons with black and gold tasseled
Hessians, was the image of the perfect Corinthian in heroic proportions; Megan,
wearing a simply cut, yet utterly elegant, pale misty violet voile gown with a
deep violet silk pelisse over it, played the perfect female counterpart to his
masculine grandeur. With her glorious hair bound up with violet and gold bands
into a high version of a Grecian coiffure, she appeared nearly as tall as he,
and as they stood there, side by side, Ashleigh had to fight the notion that
they had somehow always been together, having been wrought together to form a
pair from the outset.

"Well,
you two," she finally managed to say as they began to walk toward her,
"Don't you look grand!"

"Not
half so grand as the colleen we're lookin' at now," smiled Megan as she
came to Ashleigh with an embrace. "Faith, but she's grown lovelier since I
left t' fetch ye, Patrick."

"Indeed,
a beauty," murmured Patrick with a soft, tender look at his sister.
"How are you, little one?"

"Well
enough, I suppose," Ashleigh told him honestly. She and Patrick had spent
many hours together, daily, since the morning of their initial talk, and she
knew he entertained no illusions regarding her feelings toward this marriage.
He knew she was reconciled to it as a means of honoring his wishes—for she
loved him to distraction and told him so, often—but where her groom was
concerned, her attitude was more one of resignation than reconciliation.

"But
still not all that excited about becoming a duchess, I see," Patrick was
saying.

"Oh,
Patrick, surely you know me well enough by now, despite our years of
separation! I really—"

"Cannot
place all that much value on the importance of a title. Yes, yes, I know,"
said Patrick with a smile. "You know, Ashleigh, with sentiments like
yours, you really ought to try living in America. You'd feel right at home
there."

"And
'tis not surprisin' that that poet, Shelley, had sent an invitation t' Ashleigh
t' visit him in London," Megan added. "Apparently he and his lady
friend found her ideas t' their likin', too."

Patrick
raised an eyebrow at his sister. "So now you're taking up with radicals,
are you?" There was a teasing light in his blue eyes.

"Mr.
Shelley and Miss Wollstonecraft? Why, I hardly spoke with them!" Ashleigh
protested.

Patrick
broke into easy laughter as he led her toward the brougham. "Bristles
easily, doesn't she, Megan?"

Megan
was also laughing. "Well now, Patrick, d' ye suppose 'tis against the
rules fer a duchess t' bristle? Why, I'd have thought they were
twice
entitled
t' do so!" She winked at Ashleigh. "All that upper crust makin' them
so stiff in their skirts, ye know!"

"All
right, all right, you two!" said Ashleigh, joining in their laughter. She
recognized what they were doing, falling into this easy banter and cajolery.
They were trying to ease her apprehension in the face of what was about to take
place in the church, trying to lighten her mood as the time for the wedding
drew near, and she loved them for it; therefore, she was determined not to let
them down by showing just how fearful she actually did feel inside and readily
matched them in their lighthearted tone. "Just remember, after today when
you're out with me in public, I expect to be 'Your Graced' to the utmost."

"Oh,
aye!" giggled Megan as they reached the carriage and she withdrew a
cloth-of-gold, floor-length cape to place over Ashleigh's shoulders.
"We'll 'Yer Grace' ye t' death, won't we, Patrick?"