THE DEEP BRIM OF HER BONNET blocked Valeria’s view in her headlong ride. Heedlessly she tore it off. Tarquin ran as fast as he ever had, and she bent low over his neck and gripped the reins so hard her fingers ached; her right leg, clenched on the sidesaddle leaping horn, burned with pain. Still Valeria thought she would just ride on and on, away from Bellegarde Hall, away from her stepfather and Lady Jex-Blake. She wished mightily that she could, but of course it was impossible.
They reached the courtyard still at full gallop, but Tarquin knew he was at his own stable now, so he came to a sliding stop, reared, and then stood, his skin quivering. Two grooms came running out of the stables to assist her, but heedlessly Valeria jumped down and threw her arms around the horse’s neck. It was soaked with sweat and foam. “Oh, Tarquin, Tarquin, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” she murmured over and over again. After long moments she felt him ease up somewhat, and he reached his head around to nose her side affectionately.
One of the grooms had taken Tarquin’s reins, the other stood close. Both of them were staring at her with shocked expressions. Valeria realized then that her hair was falling down in wild abandon. Her white afternoon dress, a round gown with a narrow bottom, was ripped up one side seam. Tarquin’s blood was smeared along the hem. “Where is Timothy?” she asked tightly. “I want Timothy.”
“Yes, miss,” they gulped, and one of them ran back into the stables.
Timothy Buckley, the youngest groom, had attended Tarquin’s birth, and Valeria had fallen in love with the beautiful black colt with the diamond blaze on his forehead as soon as he was born. She and Timothy had become good friends, as he had, at her insistence, taught her everything about taking care of Tarquin.
He came running out, struggling into his coat, for the Bellegarde grooms wore livery, a brown coat and waistcoat, tight buff pantaloons, and top boots. He was a slight but sturdily built young man of eighteen with ash-brown hair and plain features, including friendly brown eyes. He skidded to a stop and grabbed Tarquin’s reins from the other groom, who slipped away. Timothy looked aghast as he took in Tarquin’s agitation, the blood on his side, and Valeria’s state.
“Oh, Timothy, look what she’s done,” Valeria muttered in a strangled voice. “How could anyone be so cruel?” She grabbed the horse’s bridle and pressed a kiss to his nose, again murmuring endearments to him.
“I’m so sorry, miss,” Timothy said quietly. “I thought she needn’t be riding Tarquin; but his lordship was telling her that you were the better rider. Her ladyship didn’t take it kindly, like, and insisted that she’d show him.”
Valeria gritted her teeth, and several extremely unkind epithets came into her mind, but of course she would never say them out loud. With one last stroke of Tarquin’s nose she murmured, “You’ll take good care of him, I know, Timothy. I couldn’t bear to leave him if it weren’t for you.”
“Yes, miss, thank you, miss. And just so’s you’ll know, as Tarquin is your horse and all, I believe I’m seeing he’s got a stone bruise on his off hind. I’m thinking he mustn’t be rode for a day or two,” he said with grim determination.
“No, he surely mustn’t,” Valeria agreed gratefully. “Thank you.”
She hurried into the house and to the sanctuary of her bedroom, seeing no one in the Great Hall or on the stairs. Slamming the door closed behind her, she went to her dressing table and sat down, staring at herself in the mirror.
Her eyes widened, and she touched her left cheek, only now aware that it was stinging painfully. The crimson print of a long-fingered hand showed on it as clearly as if it had been painted on. She thought of how very white her face was, as pale as the moon, except for that handprint; and her eyes were stretched wide and seemed a flat lifeless black. Her throat was constricted so tightly that it hurt, but not because she wanted to weep. She didn’t feel in the least like crying. She felt anger, but it was not sharp and vengeful now. It was a low dull throb in her chest.
Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool, and she had difficulty in comprehending what she had just been through. Never in her life had she been subjected to such a terrible scene, she had never even imagined that people could behave in such a manner. With sudden dread she tried to marshal her thoughts—had St. John seen? Oh, please, merciful Lord, not that…
Resting her forehead on her hand, she closed her eyes and forced herself to replay the scene. Her mother standing at the cart, comforting Mrs. Purefoy because of the peacocks; the landau pulled up behind it, and Ewan Platt and the grooms standing there, ready to take the riders’ horses; her stepfather and Lady Jex-Blake on this side of the landau as she came to confront them; beyond, Colonel Bayliss, St. John, and Niall at the lakeside…on the far side of the oak where the picnic pallet was spread. No, they could not have witnessed the ugly spectacle. Valeria felt a measure of relief.
It was short-lived as she thought of her mother, however. No matter how awful she herself felt, she knew that her mother must have been even more sickened than she. And Valeria had escaped, but her mother couldn’t. This wasn’t because she would worry about the etiquette of leaving her guests; she knew that her mother would have hurried to her if it hadn’t been for St. John. Dully Valeria wondered about the aftermath, and how everyone had reacted. Then she realized that they would act as all well-bred Englishmen acted, as if nothing bad or shameful or embarrassing ever happened in polite company.
After a few painful moments, she was sure that they had all gone about their picnic, and her mother would have to stay there and play-act along with them, for St. John’s sake.
The door opened, and Craigie came in, carrying a tray. She set it on a side table in front of the open window, then came to Valeria and, without a word, put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face. Valeria stared up at her with some bewilderment; she still wasn’t thinking clearly. Craigie’s eyes narrowed to sparking blue slits, and she grimaced.
“What happened?” she asked tightly.
Valeria bowed her head and said numbly, “I can’t speak of it. Ask Platt when he returns.”
“Come over here, my love, I’ve brought tea,” Craigie said with sudden gentleness. She took Valeria’s arm and led her to the side table, sat her down, then pulled up a chair and sat next to her. Pouring out a lightly steaming cup of tea, she said, “Drink this, it’ll help.”
“Green tea, yes,” Valeria murmured. “Thank you.”
Craigie sat in silence as Valeria sipped the tea. After a while Valeria said vaguely, “I lost my bonnet. In the glade, down by the lake.”
“Don’t worry about that, my love, Platt will find it.”
“It was very expensive, I believe. And I’ve torn my dress…and…and there’s blood on it.”
“So I see.”
Another long silence. Valeria reflected that Craigie was one of the most comforting people in the world to be with. She was silent and economical in her movements, and she had a stillness about her when she was listening that was very peaceful.
Valeria finished her cup of tea, staring unseeing out the window. Carefully she set the teacup down, then slumped her shoulders tiredly. “I—I feel—soiled. I need a bath, a very hot bath.”
Craigie patted her shoulder and rose, whispering, “Poor little mite.”
“I don’t want to be a poor little mite,” Valeria cried in a strangled voice. “I want to be strong, like my father!”
Craigie said quietly, “You are exactly like your father, Valeria.” Then she quietly left the room.
In a few moments she and Joan returned, each carrying a trifold screen. They set them up to screen Valeria from the far end of the room, for manservants had to carry in the heavy copper tub and the water. Valeria poured herself another cup of tea and tried to prepare herself for what was going to be a terrible ordeal—attending dinner. She tried to imagine how she would conduct herself.
She heard them bring in the tub, and immediately she heard water splashing into it, bucket after bucket. A delicious smell permeated the room, and Valeria sniffed appreciatively. Craigie used different herbal bath preparations for different times. This time it was lavender, chamomile, and rosemary: a soothing bath. Wearily Valeria thought that it would make her sleepy, and wondered if she had time for a short nap before dinner. She had no idea of the time; she couldn’t think how much had passed since she’d left the picnic. It troubled her.
Craigie came around the screen and said in a businesslike manner, “Let’s get you undressed, and take your hair down. I’ve brought some new hair-wash that her ladyship ordered special from London and just came in today. It’s rose-and-lilac-scented, and by all accounts it’s good for both fair and dark hair, to give it a special shine.”
As she had done when she was a child, Valeria stood limp and yielding as Craigie undressed her down to her chemise. More buckets of water splashed, and the sweet scent in the room grew stronger. Joan came around the screen and curtsied. “May I do anything else, Miss Platt?”
“No, I’m just going to brush out her hair and then we’ll have our bath,” Craigie answered briskly as she sat Valeria down again at the dressing table. Valeria grew more alert. “What time is it, Craigie?”
“It’s going on five o’clock, miss.”
Valeria said, “Craigie, when my mother returns she is going to need you. I’m sure she’ll need a bath too, and most likely she’ll be suffering from headache. Joan can attend me.”
“Are you sure, miss?” Craigie asked doubtfully.
“I’m sure,” Valeria asserted in the most purposeful tone she had used since she had come home.
Craigie left, and Joan came to take down Valeria’s hair and brushed it out until it was smooth, with not a single tangle. She adjusted the screens, so that they were now in front of the door.
Gratefully Valeria sank into the hot bath. Pinching her nose, she fully immersed herself for so long that Joan must have begun to worry, but finally she came up spluttering and already feeling cleaner and better. Taking the bath brush, she rubbed herself so vigorously that her skin began to turn red, but it felt delightful. “My back, please,” she murmured, then wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned forward. With satisfaction she realized that Joan had observed her and knew her wishes, as she scrubbed Valeria’s back hard. Then she washed Valeria’s hair, rubbing her head vigorously to work the hair-wash into a foamy lather. Lastly she poured two buckets of warm water over Valeria’s head for clean rinsing.
Valeria got out and began toweling herself down. Joan moved the screens again, then went out and instructed the maids to empty the tub and have the manservants return to take it away. She returned and finished drying off Valeria. Wrapping her wet hair in a large soft flannel she said, “Now, miss, if you’ll just lie down I think you’ll feel even better after a massage. I believe we’ll have the lilac-scented cream, as it’ll blend nicely with that wonderful hair-wash.” It amused Valeria that Joan was turning out to be just as motherly and bossy as Craigie. Then it struck her that she had relaxed enough to feel such a light emotion as amusement.
Joan had strong hands, and the massage she gave Valeria was expert. Valeria felt the last bit of tension draining away from her body, and she almost dozed off. But with determination she said, “That will do, Joan, I’m getting too sleepy. We need to start drying my hair, or I’ll be going down to dinner with it still dripping.”
Joan dressed her in her softest chemise and a light dressing robe, and again Valeria took her seat by the window, so that the late afternoon sun blazed in on her head. Joan fetched several smaller flannels and began partitioning sections of Valeria’s hair and drying them.
The bath and the screens were soon cleared away, and almost immediately afterward Regina came into the room. She was hurrying, for she hadn’t even taken off her bonnet.
“Valeria, my darling…please excuse us, Joan.” The maid curtsied and left.
Regina untied the ribbons on her bonnet and took it off, then sat down, her eyes never leaving Valeria’s face. “I’m all right, Mamma,” Valeria said evenly.
Regina nodded and swallowed hard. Valeria saw tears start in her eyes. Reaching over, she grabbed her mother’s hand and said, “Please, Mamma, please don’t weep. It would only make me feel worse.”
“Then I won’t,” Regina said, wiping her eyes. “Of all things, I don’t wish to make you feel worse. Oh, Valeria, I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Valeria said gutturally. “You’re not responsible for what he does, Mamma, never think that.”
“But I am,” she said quietly. “He is my husband. I must share his burdens. I know that he will never apologize to you, Valeria, and so I must beg for your forgiveness for him.”
“No, I can’t! I won’t! How can you even say such a thing? You—you should never have to be—subjected to—exposed to—” Valeria’s voice, along with her sudden rage, faded away. Finally she went on, “Mamma, how can you stand it?”
“Because I promised that I would.” She rose and went to Valeria’s secretary and returned with Valeria’s prayer book. Opening it, she turned to a page that she evidently knew very well. Softly she said, “This was my promise: I, Regina Carew, take thee, St. John Edward Charles Bellegarde, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
She looked back up at Valeria, and in her face Valeria now saw no sorrow, no sadness, only compassion. “Oh, Mamma,” she sighed, “I shall never be as good as you.”
“Nonsense, my love. You’re so young, too young to understand, really, and I would give my life if you weren’t forced into the position where you need to fathom such hard things,” Regina said regretfully. “But we are here, and we must learn to live with the trials that we have. And so again, Valeria, I beg your pardon for your stepfather, and ask that you forgive him. No—don’t say it, I know very well what you’re feeling. And it’s useless for me to tell you that you must have charity, and to insist that you must forgive even your enemies. Only the Lord can give you this kind of love, and the ability to forgive. If you will ask Him, you will find charity, and love, and forgiveness.”
Valeria was reminded of Mr. Chalmers’s homily at morning prayers. Charity…love…forgiveness…it’s all very well for Mr. Chalmers, and my mother. They are truly virtuous, pious people, always kind, with no hint of pride. But I’m not like that! I feel—such anger, such bitterness, I can’t even think how to begin to be such a devout Christian!
Still, Valeria felt a strong sense of responsibility to her mother, and she determined that at least she could make Regina proud of her right now. “I will try, Mamma,” she said humbly. “Anyway, I promise you that I will behave with all decorum and grace at dinner tonight.”
“You’re not going to be able to come to dinner tonight,” Regina said matter-of-factly. “You have a headache, and you are excused.”
“But—I really don’t—”
“Yes, you do,” Regina said with a small smile. “You see, I learned a very hard lesson today, dearest. I know that for so long you’ve struggled to protect me, and I have appreciated it more than you can know. But I was wrong to let you struggle alone. I am the one who must protect you and St. John.”
“But how can you? You can’t, I know that you can’t, any more than I could protect you,” Valeria said passionately.
With more determination than Valeria had ever seen in her gentle mother, Regina said, “With God’s grace, I will find a way. I promise you, Valeria, that somehow I will find a way to protect you and St. John, so that we may never have a day such as this, ever again.”
* * *
Just before dinner, Regina brought Valeria a sleeping draught. She had never had one before, and doubted that it would be effective. After the sedative effect of her bath and massage had worn off, she had become disturbed and upset again. She tried to read a novel called Forest of Montalbano, but she found the prose overheated and melodramatic, and couldn’t lose herself in it. In her mind she replayed the events of the afternoon over and over again. She thought she would never be able to sleep.
But she did, soundly and dreamlessly. When Joan brought her toast and tea at eight o’clock, she awakened feeling much better emotionally, though she was sluggish. “Mm, I can’t seem to come all the way awake,” she said, yawning hugely as Joan set her breakfast tray in front of her.
“It’s from that sleeping draught, miss,” Joan said, pouring out the tea. “You’ll feel better after you get up and have a proper breakfast. That is, if you would be going down to breakfast, miss?”
“I certainly am,” Valeria answered sturdily. “I want to look particularly well this morning, so I will wear the lemon sarcenet. And you’ll take care with my hair.”
“Very good, miss.”
Valeria went down to morning prayers and greeted her mother and St. John with a smile. Regina looked pale but composed, and St. John was his usual rowdy self. It seemed to Valeria that Mr. Chalmers regarded her, as he spoke of Christ’s forgiveness of sin, with a special empathy that held no pity, for which she was grateful.
Valeria retained her gracious composure all through breakfast. She even greeted Lady Jex-Blake cordially. Her stepfather didn’t come down, and Valeria was glad, but she was determined to say a pleasant good-bye to him.
As the Bellegarde servants were so efficient, the company was ready to depart by eleven o’clock. Lord Maledon finally came down as they were all gathered in the Great Hall, saying their farewells. He didn’t meet Valeria’s eye as he shook his son’s hand, then gave Regina a chaste peck on the cheek. Purposefully Valeria went to him and said politely, “Farewell, sir. I hope you have a pleasant journey and that the shooting is good.”
He looked surprised, and Valeria thought she could sense some shame in him, although his ruddy face betrayed little of it. “Good-bye, Valeria. Take care of your mother and brother.”
It was the first time that Lord Maledon had ever referred to St. John as Valeria’s brother.
After they left, Valeria felt a strange lassitude. She and her mother spent the afternoon picking flowers and arranging bouquets, and they said little to each other.
At three o’clock Regina asked Trueman for tea, and asked that he tell St. John and Mr. Chalmers to join them.
Elegantly pouring for all of them, Regina said, “Since our guests and Lord Maledon have left, I’ve directed that we shall go back to our old routine. We’re going to have dinner at six o’clock, so that you can join us, St. John, and Mr. Chalmers, of course you must round out my table.”
It was an old joke, that the addition of the tutor at table would make two men to the two women. He smiled happily. “Thank you, my lady, I would be honored.”
“Huzzah!” St. John exulted. “I’m so glad all of those strange people are gone.”
Valeria expected Regina to scold St. John, but she was wrong. With a sweet smile Regina said, “I must admit that I’m glad those strange people are gone too, St. John.”
“You are?” he asked in amazement. “Even my father?”
“Your father enjoys shooting so very much,” Regina answered lightly. “So I’m glad that he was invited to Lord Kincannon’s shooting box, for Clayburn is reputed to have some of the most plentiful birds in the country. Your father will enjoy the season, I know.”
St. John seemed satisfied at this, and began asking questions of Mr. Chalmers about the different shooting seasons.
Valeria often wondered about St. John. Like his marital bond, Lord Maledon’s relationship with his son had deteriorated. Maledon had been wildly happy to have an heir. He had been married before, for eighteen years, to a woman eight years older than he. They had had no children, and the first Lady Maledon had died in 1803, tragically in childbirth; the baby girl had lived for only a few hours. When St. John was born, it seemed that Lord Maledon couldn’t be around the baby enough, and as he grew into a precocious toddler, Maledon was as proud of him as if he were a prodigy. That had all changed in the last two years. He barely took any notice of St. John at all anymore. Valeria doubted that St. John could remember when he was only three or four years old, and Lord Maledon adored him.
But, Valeria reflected as she watched her brother, how animated he was, how bright and cheerful, and she thought that she had little to worry about. He seemed to be a confident, well-adjusted little boy.
In the days following, the household regained the homey, relaxed atmosphere that had become routine over the last couple of years, as Lord Maledon had been at home less and less. Although Valeria was still angry with her stepfather and Lady Jex-Blake, particularly when she rode Tarquin, slowly she came to a better understanding of the disastrous scene at the lake. Painfully she faced the fact that she herself had acted wrongly, for she never should have confronted her stepfather with such heated rage. She tried hard to be repentant for her own behavior, but she simply couldn’t do it, and soon gave up the futile exercise.
But one thing she would not even attempt to do. She would never forgive Lady Jex-Blake…nor the Earl of Maledon.