A slant of late-afternoon sun illuminated the rows of leather-bound books in Chatton Castle’s library, but Roger didn’t notice. He was here because he never sat in this room. Neither had Fenella, and so it reminded him of nothing in particular. Not that this stopped the rush of tender memories, which hurt more than anything he had ever experienced before. Part of him simply refused to believe that she wouldn’t walk through the door in another minute and ask him what in the world he was brooding about.
His mother and Macklin had herded him home. He hadn’t wanted to come. But even he had been forced to admit that lingering on the shore opposite Lindisfarne—in the stinging rain of a squall, when everyone else had departed—was doing no good. Fenella was gone, such a short time after he had understood, at last, that she was just the woman for him. No one survived a night in the North Sea.
If only he had realized the truth sooner. If only he’d had more sense. If only… His mind teemed with regrets. None of which made a particle of difference. All was disaster. He couldn’t really see where his life would go from here. Onward in numbing routine, he supposed, all his plans in ruins. He’d thought he had a second chance. This had turned out to be a cruel illusion.
Every bit of his attention was occupied by mourning. He didn’t hear a cart arrive outside, and when the chamber door opened quietly, he didn’t turn around. “Go away,” he said to anyone who might imagine he could be comforted.
“Very well. I just wanted to tell you I was home,” replied a woman’s voice, familiar and yet altered by a rasping croak.
Roger whirled and leapt up so quickly that his chair tipped over and tumbled onto the carpet. Fenella! Could it be? Or had he gone mad and begun conjuring phantoms?
Her red hair was a wild snarl. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and she was wrapped in a bulky cloak. He ran over and swept her into his arms. She was reassuringly solid. He whirled her in a great circle. “I can’t believe it! You’re really here. I thought you were dead.” He remembered his promise to himself. “I love you,” he blurted out.
“I love you,” said Fenella at the same moment.
“I meant to tell you,” they said in unison.
Then spoke together yet again. “I’m sorry.”
Fenella giggled. Roger couldn’t laugh. In a little while he would, when this miracle had sunk in. But not yet.
The cloak came loose, revealing the top of her salt-crusted shift. He noticed bruises on her neck, scratches on her hands. “You’re hurt!”
“Well, I have been through a bit of an ordeal. I’ll tell you, in a moment. It’s so very good to be home.” She swayed in his arms.
Rather than berate himself for not noticing her condition, Roger sprang into action. He half carried her upstairs, scattering orders among the servants who lined the corridors for a bath to be filled, food and drink to be brought. Fenella’s half-laughing protests were ignored as he piled on command after command. He was only just able to leave her in the hands of her maid as cans of hot water began to arrive from the kitchen.
An hour later, they sat together in her boudoir, surrounded by the results of Roger’s demands, along with other treats added by Mrs. Burke and the cook. His mother had sent her delighted congratulations. Macklin had added a kind word, as had Mrs. Thorpe. Now they were finally alone. Wrapped in a warm dressing gown, with her feet up on an ottoman, Fenella had told him the story of her battle with the sea. She looked tired but content.
Roger couldn’t let go of his wife’s fingers. “I shall never allow you to swim again.”
She raised her eyebrows at the word allow, but said only, “I don’t want to just now. That’s certain. We will see about the future.” Fenella sipped hot chocolate with her free hand, one of the many delicacies that had been produced for her. Trays were crowded with small sandwiches and cakes and sweets. “Lally said they found Mrs. Crenshaw in the sea,” she said.
Roger nodded. “I don’t wish to say I can’t forgive her, but…I haven’t yet.”
“She created a domestic tragedy with her schemes.”
“Two,” said Roger. “First for Arabella and then very nearly for us.”
“‘Very nearly’ isn’t the same,” said Fenella.
After a moment he acknowledged this with a nod.
“She was sorry for what she’d done to Arabella.”
“Not as sorry as others,” he had to say.
“No. Her daughter, and you, bore the brunt of her mistakes.” Fenella considered. “And Mrs. Crenshaw herself, in the end. She was dreadfully unhappy.”
“That doesn’t excuse her.”
“No. She was broken by grief, I think.”
“I was desolate when I thought you dead,” Roger objected. “But I didn’t plot to kill anyone.”
Fenella nodded. She sipped her chocolate. “How could she do it?”
He addressed the literal part of her question, as the philosophical was beyond him. “She was staying in a cottage on an estate north of the island. The owner who let it was at the pageant, and he recognized her when she was taken from the sea. She arranged the visit from London with a false name. Corresponded with the fellow’s wife and gained her sympathy with a tale of being widowed and wanting to get away from home. Told them she was fond of history and meant to look around the area, ending with the performance on Lindisfarne. They lent her a horse to use, but never noticed that she had a bow.” Roger realized he was babbling. Relief had set in. His brain felt as if it was fizzing.
“People don’t take much account of an older woman if she dresses plainly and keeps to herself,” said Fenella. She set down her cup and stretched. A soft groan escaped her. “I’ll be stiff for days, I suppose.”
“We will wait on you hand and foot.”
Fenella smiled at him. Fatigue was making itself felt after the excitement of reaching home. She would crawl into bed soon.
“I keep thinking if only Arabella had—” Roger clamped his lips together, as if he had to prevent further words from escaping. “No,” he said.
“No, what?”
“No trying to blame Arabella.” Roger passed a hand over his forehead as if he felt a pain there. “Part of the horror of this day was how much sorrier I felt about your death than hers. She deserved better of me, and the world.”
Fenella squeezed his hand. “Our children shall do as they please,” she murmured.
Roger returned the pressure of her fingers. “We will have those years together. You’re not gone. We will have a family.” He bent to rest his head on her forearm. “I do love you so. I am resolved to tell you that every day. Possibly several times.”
She caressed his bright hair. “I made the same resolution when I was lying on a freezing sandbar in the darkness. We will make a positive spectacle of ourselves.” She found she didn’t care. “I think perhaps I’ve loved you most of my life,” she added.
He looked up. “The wretched sprig I was? With my rudeness and the sodding sheep? You can’t have. You have much better taste than that.”
“I do.” Fenella smiled again. “And yet.”
“Yet?”
“I think I was enchanted by the wild, fearless boy you were.”
He looked touched, and a bit guilty. “I can’t say that I—”
“Of course you didn’t feel the same. I was…in hiding. It took an extraordinary goad from my father and a force of nature like my grandmother to release me.”
“If I’d had any sense, I’d have seen the truth.”
“Nonsense. I didn’t know myself.”
He leaned forward to embrace her gently. “I mean to strive for the rest of my life to deserve your regard.”
Fenella gave him a saucy look. “That should be quite satisfactory, my lord marquess.”
* * *
Lord and Lady Chatton bade farewell to all of their houseguests on the same day in early September. John departed first, in the company of Wrayle. But he didn’t seem to mind the man’s presence quite so much as before, to the valet’s evident chagrin. John was on his way back to school, of course, where there existed a sympathetic master who kept preserved specimens of various fascinating creatures in jars in his classroom. John had realized that this teacher might well know how a fellow prepared himself to lead expeditions of scientific exploration, and would probably be glad to impart that information. “The study of snakes is called herpetology,” John told Tom through the window of the post chaise. “I looked it up in the library.”
“Herpetology,” repeated Tom from the courtyard, with his customary appreciation of a new bit of knowledge.
“I will write to you.”
“Tell me about herpetology,” replied Tom agreeably.
“Will you write back? About what you are doing? I expect it will be much more interesting.”
“I don’t think it will be, actually. I reckon you’re bound for great things.”
John basked a bit in the compliment. “But you will write?”
“That I will. When I have the chance.”
“I suppose you’ll forget. Or be too busy off in Shropshire. Why are you going there again?”
Tom ignored the last question. “Not I. I promise.”
“It is past time for us to be off,” said Wrayle from the far side of the carriage. The whine that often entered his voice was more pronounced. He leaned out to speak to the postilions. “Will you go!”
They signaled the horses. John was still hanging out the window and waving when the vehicle sped out of sight.
Not long after this, Lord Macklin’s comfortable traveling carriage was brought around to the front door, a mound of luggage tied up behind. The earl, Tom, and Mrs. Thorpe got in. They were traveling together for a good part of their journey, before Macklin turned west and Mrs. Thorpe continued on south to London. All of them welcomed the company, not least Tom, on both sides of the conversation.
Their farewells were even warmer than the previous ones, the marquess, his wife, and his mother expressing their sadness at seeing the visitors depart. They stood waving at the castle entrance as the coach pulled away.
“A visit with you feels rather like being part of a traveling theater company,” said Mrs. Thorpe to the earl when they had passed under the archway in the wall and out into the countryside. “The play is over, and we move on to the next place on the tour. Not that I’m going this time.”
“‘Our revels now are ended,’” quoted Macklin. “‘These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air.’”
“You do have a hint of Prospero about you now and then,” she replied.
“Who’s that?” asked Tom, with no fear that his inquiry would be resented.
“A magician in one of Shakespeare’s plays,” Mrs. Thorpe answered. “The Tempest. Prospero moves the other characters around like a puppet master until he settles everything just as he wishes.”
“I make no such claims,” said Macklin.
She raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? You managed another successful union. You should hire yourself out to the matchmaking mamas at Almack’s. I will give you a reference.”
The earl laughed. “No, thank you. The thought makes my blood run cold. And I don’t do very much really. Just stand about and hope, it seems to me sometimes.”
“More than you realize.” Mrs. Thorpe shook her head. “And you’ll need all your skills for the next one, if I’m any judge.”
“Why do you say so?”
Tom leaned forward, clearly interested in the answer.
“People in Shropshire seemed to think your young duke was a bit cracked,” continued Mrs. Thorpe.
“He seemed sensible enough when I met him in London,” Macklin replied. “A little anxious perhaps, but the circumstances were odd.”
“You would know better than I,” she said. “I’m only repeating what I heard.”
“And I appreciate your reconnaissance. I’m happy to have any preparation. Did they say anything else?”
“That he was a kind young man, for all his quirks, and they wished him well. Unlikely as they predicted that to be.”
“Why?”
“It seems his family, these Rathbones, are dogged by ill luck.” Mrs. Thorpe held up an admonitory finger. “But I may have fallen into the clutches of a local wag. There is a distinct possibility of that. He was very fond of the sound of his own voice. He even tried ‘the curse of the Rathbones’ on me, until I made it clear I thought the idea nonsense.”
“I’ll have to see for myself,” said Macklin, nodding.
Silence fell in the carriage. When it had lasted long enough to show that this bit of conversation was complete, Tom leaned forward again. “Tell me more about this Prospero fella,” he said.
* * *
A good many miles away from Macklin’s cozy carriage, Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton, set a moldering implement beside his plate at the dinner table—an open wooden paddle strung with a grid of sheep’s gut. The thing was ancient, as was just about every item that he possessed. Ancient and useless and falling apart. Some ancestor of his had used it to play bouts of tennis with Henry VIII. And if the fortunes of the Rathbones were anything to go by, he hadn’t had the sense to lose. It was no good for any sort of game now, but Peter found it convenient for another purpose.
Conway, one of the two aged footmen he employed, tottered in with a tureen of soup. He ladled some into Peter’s waiting bowl, releasing an enticing aroma on a wisp of steam. Peter picked up his spoon. No one could fault his cook at least. She might never ask him what he would like to eat, or pay any heed if he tried to express a preference, but every dish she provided was delicious.
Before he managed to taste, a bat swooped into the dining room, as they continually did, everywhere in the house, no matter how often Peter sent workmen to examine the roof. They couldn’t seem to find any holes in the slates, and yet there were always bats.
Peter lifted the paddle, moving slowly so as not to spook the animal. He sighted on the creature’s trajectory, and when it passed close to him, he gave it a sharp rap. The bat fell to the floor. He was expert at knocking them senseless, had been since he was eleven years old.
Conway bent and picked up the small body with one gloved hand. He wrapped it in a napkin from the sideboard, a necessary measure in case it awoke and began flapping.
“Out to the battlements as usual,” the duke told him.
His footman sighed audibly.
“I know it will probably fly right back in,” said Peter. “Or, all right, it certainly will. But I really can’t bear to be killing them day in and day out, Conway.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman carried the small bundle out of the room.
Peter ate his savory soup. Sitting at the long table, in the large, silent, empty house. The last Rathbone. He winced. He could just about manage to keep going if he refused to think about that. And so that is what he would do.