Sattler, Veronica (58 page)

She
sighed. "Ah, it was the hardest thing to bear, I think, losing Brett...
harder, even, than the loss I felt with Edward, or with Gregorio's death.
Death, after a while, brings an acceptance of a kind. One comes to terms with
it. But to fully accept the loss of a living child—or in your case, a husband
you love—knowing he is still... somewhere, living, laughing, feeling pain,
perhaps healthy, perhaps not..." She shrugged, giving Ashleigh a look that
was meant to be resigned, but succeeded more in appearing helpless—and
infinitely sad.

Ashleigh
nodded thoughtfully and took a sip from the mug she held between her hands.
"Have you given up hope of ever seeing him again, then?"

"Oh,
no." Maria smiled. "One can always hope! Miracles do happen, you
know. Look at my children. They were thought to be among the hopeless once. But
here they are, aren't they? Loved, cared for... and happy, I think."

"Oh,
how can you doubt it?" cried Ashleigh. "Maria, when they found
you—or, rather, when you found them—they became the most fortunate, happiest
children alive!" She paused in thought for a moment, and her hand moved
absently to her belly, which had grown quite rounded by now, visible even
beneath the Empire cut of her gowns. "I can only wish this little one I
carry to be as fortunate as they, after... after she arrives."

"Ah,
so it is to be a young lady, is it?"

Ashleigh's
smile was wistful. "I have prayed that it will be a girl, yes. For if it
were to be a boy, I..." She looked into Maria's eyes, her expression
troubled. "Oh, Maria, I cannot think but that a boy needs a father by his
side when he is growing up! And this wee babe will have none!" As if
ashamed of this emotional outburst, Ashleigh dropped her eyes and stared into
the contents of her mug, then added softly, "Yes, I want it to be a
girl."

The
contessa
was silent for a moment, then reached to place a gentle hand on
Ashleigh's arm. "He may try to find you, you know... just as he did
once—no, twice—before, as I recall. We, Gregorio and I, had word through my
husband's war connections, that Brett is highly placed in certain... official
functions of the Foreign Office—naval reconnaissance, I think, was the term
Gregorio used. As such, not to mention the many private means at his disposal
through his vast personal wealth and connections, he could probably trace you
here if he chose—especially now that peace has come." Maria shifted
slightly. "Tell me, Ashleigh, what will you do if he comes for you?"

Ashleigh
raised startled blue eyes to her. "Why, I—I don't really know! I hadn't
thought about it, actually. Indeed, most of my thoughts since leaving London
have been bent on resigning myself to the idea that I shall never see Brett
again."

"Hmm,"
said Maria. "Yes, I can understand that. But I will tell you something, my
dearest. Even as a small boy, my son was a determined fellow, knowing, from the
time he could express it, exactly what he wanted and rarely veering from a
course that would obtain it for him. And, over the years, the reports I've had
of him seem to have borne that characteristic out, being true of the man he has
become as well.

"Knowing
this, I suggest, darling, that you begin thinking on the possibility he might
turn up. I suggest it very strongly, and urge you, with all the love a mother
could have for a daughter—for I do love you, Ashleigh, as much as if you were
my own—to decide what you will do when he does."

It
was the coldest winter in memory. Late in 1814 and continuing on into January
of the New Year, a monumental deep freeze had settled over the face of England,
blanketing the land in snow and ice. London was no exception, and for the first
time anyone could recall, the Thames was frozen solid, immobilizing river
traffic and the commerce it affected.

But
Londoners were hardy souls and made the best of the situation. Soon, a number
of fairs and temporary marketplaces appeared directly on the ice, with vendors
erecting booths that offered everything from roasted chestnuts to hot cider and
sausage rolls. Children and adults alike skated across the ice in a holiday
mood, playing games of tag, gossiping with their neighbors, dancing about the
great bonfires set right on the surface of the ice that had frozen thick enough
to withstand their blaze.

It
was early evening on the second Saturday of the New Year. A pair of
enterprising fishermen's sons had managed to cut a hole in the ice and were now
busy casting their baited hooks into the freezing, dark water below.

"'Ats
it Jamie, play 'er out right careful like, and mind yer 'ands! They'd freeze
right ter yer mittens if yer wuz ter get 'em wet!"

"I
know whut I'm about 'Arry," said his companion as he carefully lowered his
line into the swirling waters at the bottom of the hole. "'Ere, bring 'at
lantern closer, would yer?"

Jamie
waited as Harry complied, and when the fish line was sufficiently lowered to
meet with the acceptance of both, the two boys, who looked to be about fourteen
or fifteen, settled back on their haunches to await their first catch. While
they waited, they looked about them, taking in the busy scene on the river.

Several
dozen yards away, a string of children were playing "snap the whip"
as they skated along on crudely fashioned, homemade wooden skates resembling
clogs, in contrast to the more sophisticated variety some of the wealthy had
purchased from the Dutch merchants who were able to make it through before the
river froze over in December. On the far bank a horse-drawn sleigh skidded
merrily by, lit by the glow of several small bonfires along the bank. The air
was filled with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, people calling to
one another, and laughing lovers, strolling two by two under the dark, frozen
sky.

Not
too far from where the young fishermen squatted, there was the booth of a
bookseller who, quick to size up the situation, had closed up his shop on Fleet
Street, which was too cold these days to be heated by its single iron stove
anyway, and moved his wares out here on the ice.

Suddenly
the boy named Jamie whistled softly. "Blimey, if it ain't 'at toff all
London's buzzin' about, 'Arry! Whut's 'is name, now? You know, the devilish
'andsome one whut just got wed, an' now they say 'is wife left 'im an' 'e's
always in a black, killin' mood."

Harry,
too intent on his fishing line to glance in the direction of the bookseller's
booth, merely mumbled, "The 'andsome one? Oh, 'at'd be Lord... Lord
Somethin'-or-Other...um...ah, I've got it! Lord Byron! Wed just last week, 'e
wuz."

"No,
no," muttered Jamie, "not 'im! 'At one's got a crippled foot, I
'eard, an' this bloke's tall an' fit, by the looks of 'im. 'Ere, 'Arry, give a
look. 'E's standin' right over there... an' bloomin' broodin', too, by 'is dark
looks."

Harry
finally deigned to cast a glance in the direction pointed out by his companion,
and when he did, he saw the dark silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man,
bareheaded and wearing a greatcoat, as he stood beside the bookseller's booth,
outlined from behind by the light of yet another bonfire.

"Oh,
'
im
!" muttered Harry. "'
E
ain't just no lord—'e's a
duke!
Raven-Somethin'-or-Other. Oh, I'd mind me own business if I wuz you, Jamie!
'E's a mean one these days. They say 'e's killed two men in duels just fer
lookin' at 'im crosst-wise!"

Jamie's
mouth gaped wide at this revelation, and when the tall man laid aside the book
he'd been holding and took a few steps closer to where they were squatting,
both boys busily involved themselves in their ice fishing.

Brett
jammed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and gave the scene of
revelry and merrymaking around him a final, scornful glance. It was no use. No
matter how he tried to distract himself from the images that haunted him these
days, nothing worked. Tonight he'd forsaken the feverish rounds of partying,
gambling, drinking and, yes, even fighting—though the rumors of duels were just
that: exaggerations growing out of the city's appetite for gossip fed by its
lively imagination. But he'd certainly thrown himself into all kinds of wild
activity every night for the past several months; only tonight, he'd thought to
immerse himself in the gay crowds of common folk out here on the river, hoping
it would be different from the distractions he'd tried to summon among the
ton.
But there was no difference. No matter where he went, even in the thickest
of crowds, he was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Where
was she now? Was she safely ensconced in Patrick's home in America, beginning
at last the decent, new life she'd longed for while a menial at the brothel? Or
was she hiding out somewhere on the Continent with her brother, awaiting the
end of the conflict with America before chancing it across the Atlantic?

Inside
the pocket of the greatcoat, Brett's fingers closed around a folded letter he'd
received a few days ago from Simon Allerton, an agent who sometimes acted as a
messenger for those involved in the more clandestine dealings of the Foreign
Office. The letter said a schooner had been spotted off the Leghorn... a
schooner flying a Dutch flag, but bearing the inscription
Ashleigh Anne.
Was
it Patrick's ship? And if so, what were they doing in Italy where there were
still too many of Napoleon's brothers and other sympathizers about? Didn't
Patrick realize that area of the world could become a powder keg if some of the
whisperings about Elba were true?

Brett
shook his head and smiled grimly to himself. But, of course, Patrick couldn't
know that. Few in the Foreign Office believed the rumors themselves. And it was
highly unlikely, after all. Where would Napoleon gather an army on that remote
little island?

Still,
Carlton House was interested, as were Whitehall and the Admiralty, and as soon
as this damnable deep freeze was over, certain reconnaissance ships would be
leaving the London Hole to do a bit of "unofficial" investigating. It
was Brett's choice as to whether he wished to be on one of them. On the other hand,
he could simply head south as a private citizen. It would certainly leave him
more autonomy in dealing with his private situation if this
Ashleigh Anne
did
prove to be Patrick's ship.

Did
he
want
to find her? That was the question that had plagued him ever
since he received Allerton's letter.
Damn!
He should have been quit of
her by now! Why couldn't he keep her out of his mind?

And
if he found her again, what did he plan to do with her? It had been months
since he'd been awakened by those dreams of some fitting revenge. Lately, the
nightly images had been of a different sort—of Ashleigh laughing as she bent
her slender frame over Irish Night's neck and raced her across the flats... of
Ashleigh looking incomparably lovely in a wedding gown of silk and old lace...
of Ashleigh raising solemn, wide blue eyes to his and saying, "It meant
everything to me."

Somewhere
there was an answer to the riddle she presented. Somehow he knew he had to
discover why he hated her and longed for her in the same breath, why he
couldn't seem to think of her as a she-devil without simultaneously, in his
heart, if he was honest with himself, believing she was an angel, the epitome
of the kind of woman he wanted by his side, to bear him children, to grow old
with....

But
she had
left
him, dammit! Just when he'd begun to think there was a
chance—that perhaps he'd been wrong about things....

A
few soft flakes of snow began to fall, and Brett left off his ruminations and
turned toward the near bank of the river where his carriage waited. His tall
form melted into the darkness as he walked, a solitary figure in the night.

* * * * *

Wearing
a midnight-blue velvet, hooded cloak lined with ermine, Ashleigh snuggled
against the cold in a deep wing chair Giovanni had set out for her on the
southern veranda. From around the corner of the east wing she could hear the
children breaking into fits of giggles as they readied their
"surprise." Smiling, she shoved her small, gloved hands more deeply
into her ermine muff—like the velvet cloak, a Christmas present from Patrick
and Megan. Her smile broadened as she recalled the newlyweds' note accompanying
the gift when it arrived on Christmas Eve: "Blue velvet to match your
eyes, ermine to match your soul—for it was once a fur forbidden to all except
royalty, and you are such to us. Happy Christmas, princess—we love you!"

Now
her smile grew wistful as she thought about those two. She hadn't seen them in
over a month, for they were still honeymooning in the south, and she missed
them terribly. Nevertheless she'd kept her letters to them bright and gay, for
theirs to her had bubbled with happiness, and she was determined not to dampen
their joy. And besides, her life here with Maria and the children held a joy of
its own. Every day was filled with an abundance of things to do, things deeply
satisfying because they involved sharing her time with those who truly needed
it; indeed, the more she gave of herself with these little ones, the more she
found her own life enriched.

It
was a time of reflection for her, too, of spiritual growth, enhanced by the
building of a certain kind of inner peace. And if it lacked the soaring rapture
she'd experienced once, for a brief euphoric time in her life, well, that too
was something she had come to accept during these recent weeks and months. Such
emotional heights, she'd concluded, brought with them valleys of
despair—emotional lows that could well destroy a person. It was better to seek
the middle ground; there, one could be safe.