Angus crossed the threshold of the scullery, skidding in the growing pool of dark, sticky liquid to crouch beside Emily who was curled up on the floor by the kitchen fire, gasping. She jerked her head up at his touch, her eyes wild.
Dear God, she reminded him of a terrified enemy soldier with a sabre at his throat.
‘I’ll call for the doctor. He’ll be here soon,’ he reassured her, turning his head from her pain and fear to seize a piece of flannel Miranda had left over the back of a chair. Right now, stemming the flow of blood was his most urgent task. When Miranda clattered in through the rear door only seconds later Angus sent her to raid his linen chest for its meagre resources, then next door to dispatch Mrs Cooper’s boy to fetch help.
Now Emily lay on the bed with her legs raised upon a cushion, a bloodied blanket between them, whimpering that she needed to cover her soiled dress for modesty’s sake.
‘Mrs Cooper is fetching blankets,’ he hedged, knowing he had no more linen unless he tore down the curtain.
‘Cover me, please.’ Emily clenched her fists and Angus recruited his heavy, none-too-clean greatcoat which he snatched from the hook on the back of the door.
‘Hush. Be calm. The doctor will save the baby.’ Angus stroked her brow, calling on platitudes to comfort her, knowing how much more she’d hate him if his reassurances were empty. He stared out of the window, preoccupied with the best course of action, unaware he was unconsciously now stroking her swollen belly.
Surprised at the warmth that penetrated her gown, he glanced down.
He’d never touched her so intimately before and was suddenly overcome by the desire to feel the living, breathing unit that was his wife and the child. Without considering her reaction, he placed both hands on the taut mound. A weak, indistinct movement fluttered beneath his hands, and in sudden excitement he cried, ‘I can feel it moving,’ before dropping his hands as Emily convulsed, shivering.
The flowering of hope was quickly extinguished and his stomach contracted. Emily was going to die of cold unless he got her out of her sodden, blood-soaked clothes, and soon. He strained to hear sounds beyond the squawking of chickens and masculine shouts of the farm boys which drifted in from outside. Miranda and Mrs Cooper had been gone a long time.
‘What are you doing?’
Angus glanced down at her terrified face and registered the knife in his hand, poised at the fastenings of her gown. He’d lost patience with the promise of help and had raised Emily into a sitting position, but now he dropped his arm so the knife was out of her line of vision while he attempted a reassuring smile. ‘You’ll catch your death in those sodden garments.’
She retreated into the pillows more furious, he thought, than fearful. ‘You will not use a knife to rip my clothes from my back! I have precious little to wear, as it is.’ Her voice contained an edge of hysteria. ‘What do you know about delivering a baby? Where’s Miranda? Where’s the doctor?’
‘They’ll be here soon,’ he soothed, although her questions echoed his own concerns. Despite her protests, he sliced off the buttons that ran down the front of her gown. Then, taking a fistful of linen in each hand, he tore the garment from neck to hem.
‘How dare you?’ she shrieked, collapsing into tears as if it were catharsis to channel her fear into anger.
He’d seen reactions like it before in the army and was more concerned that she was shivering like a jelly, her skin now icy to the touch. Once he’d rid her of her blood-soaked garments he’d have to find more blankets.
‘Do you make a habit of tearing women’s clothes from them in wartime? Do you enjoy listening to their protests as you take a knife to them?’
In another situation her words would have been wounding barbs, but Angus was familiar enough with blood, fear and urgency to remain unmoved by Emily’s terror-induced taunts.
Once he’d peeled off her outer wear he inserted his knife beneath the drawstring of her chemise and again, shredded that in half. For a brief moment she lay still and naked before giving an outraged shriek as she brought her hands up to cover her breasts.
His gaze did not linger. There was no room for sentiment and this was no seduction scene.
‘I’m sorry, Emily.’ Gently, he again covered her with his great coat. ‘It’s hard to be so helpless.’ He squeezed her wrist before stepping back, but her gaze was blank.
When Mrs Cooper arrived bearing an armful of blankets for which he paid her handsomely on the spot, she told him the doctor was attending a breech birth and would come as soon as he could.
Angus relayed this to Emily who chewed on her knuckles and muffled her sobs as she moved her hips to try and shift the pain.
‘I’m losing the baby, aren’t I?’ she whispered.
‘Not if I can help it.’ Angus sat on the bed beside her, listening to Mrs Cooper boiling more water downstairs.
He reached for her hand, but she pulled it from his grasp, turning her face to the wall. ‘It’ll be a relief if I die, too,’ she whispered. ‘A relief for all of us.’
He didn’t know how to answer. Did she want soothing, or fierce rebuttals?
So he said what was in his heart, understanding her rage at her impotence and the power he had over her. It was a strange relief to be able to unburden himself to her like this. Careful not to touch her, he was also careful to see she was attending to him.
‘We’re strangers, Emily, but we won’t always be.’ Her body was an indistinct mound beneath a pile of coverings but she was still, her eyes open. Alert. He placed his hand on top of her covers, somewhere in the region of her shoulder. ‘And this won’t always be where we live nor will this coarse woollen great coat be your only comfort. One day I will buy you silk and cashmere and you will know I love you and perhaps even be glad for it.’
She did not answer and he sighed, preparing to let her be. Then reconsidered. He would not be deflected by her coldness. This was not the Emily he’d fallen in love with: the dazzling, joyful creature whose movements on the dance floor had held him captive as if she were a proud Spanish beauty performing her finest for her coterie of admirers.
Insinuating his hand beneath the covers, he searched for her hand. This time she did not pull away.
‘Silk and cashmere,’ she repeated in a murmur. He felt the splash of tears before they fell upon her wrist, though there was no trace of them in her voice. ‘Why would I deserve silk and cashmere when I’m lucky just to have a roof over my head?’
It had gone quiet outside. It was just him and his wife. ‘I suppose your father said that.’
With her other hand, Emily reached out to touch a mark on the wall. ‘And that I am beyond redemption,’ she whispered. Another large tear oozed from the corner of her eye. Angus could see it in the dull light.
He squeezed her hand. ‘No doubt your father deeply regrets what was said in a moment of anger.’ His own father was remote and distant to all his sons. The one he called father. Angus thought of the note his mother had written and knew he’d have to dispatch a reply shortly. He still wasn’t sure how he felt. Disconnected. Unaffected. He’d only met his real father twice. Had not known who he was until his mother had told him and then he’d been so consumed by anger he’d not spoken to her for a week.
‘Papa never says anything he doesn’t mean.’ Emily sounded like a young child. Angus felt the bond between them grow. The only interest his real father had shown in him was when he’d bought him a commission in the prestigious Rifles. Angus had written to thank him but there’d been no contact since.
‘Shall I send for your mother?’
Emily gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Papa would never let her come.’ She moved restlessly. Sighed. Added listlessly, ‘Papa had such plans for me. I tried so hard to please him but I couldn’t marry the man he chose for me. I just couldn’t.’ She swallowed and her sorrow dissipated, her gaze suddenly luminescent. ‘Then he introduced Jack to me. Perhaps it was atonement … I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t believe he’d sanction such a match for Jack had no title or fortune.’ Her mouth curved at the memory though her eyelids grew heavy. ‘But it was love at first sight and for the first time for as long as I could remember, Papa seemed happy. As for me, all my dreams had come true.’
He could see she was drifting. Her eyes fluttered shut and her voice was indistinct as she added, ‘Papa said I’d made an excellent choice.’
Angus stretched out his legs as he stroked her brow. Let Emily reminisce about Jack, though when the child was born it would be raised to call Angus Papa and Jack would have faded from Emily’s mind.
God, he hoped it would come to pass.
Emily stroked her belly. Despite the fact it was an effort, she was clearly disposed to talk. About Jack. ‘Jack knew how to charm people. He told me that in France he lodged with a family called the Delons when he was doing his government work—’
‘Government work?’
Emily opened her eyes and clasped a hand to her mouth. ‘Did I say that? I swore I’d never—’
‘Then I’ll ask you no more.’ Angus smiled as if the indiscretion meant nothing, but he was surprised. He knew Jack Noble for a womanising braggart. Not the kind usually recruited by the Foreign Office.
‘Well, Jack was so charming that the Delons considered him like family after his first stay with them.’ Emily shifted and stared at the ceiling. ‘If the child is a girl I want to call it Madeleine. The Delon family had a daughter Jack was fond of. She chose the ribbons Jack used to send me. He said if we had a daughter we would call her Madeleine.’
‘If it’s a girl you can call her anything you like,’ Angus murmured. ‘But if it’s a boy, we must choose a name together, for it will be a McCartney and we McCartneys have a proud naming tradition for our sons.’
‘But—’
He put a finger to her lips to stay her protest. Forgetting his diffidence, he leaned over her and cupped her face. ‘Emily, like it or not, your child will be a McCartney.’
No, he was not a true McCartney, but he’d been reared as one. He drove his point home. ‘Regardless of how many children we have, Emily, they shall all be reared without distinction but with love and affection. You surely didn’t imagine it would be any other way when you married me?’
He’d hoped for a flicker of appreciation. Resting her hands on her swollen belly she said woodenly, ‘Papa says I am beyond redemption and you will forever despise me.’
‘It’s not true.’ Before he could reassure her further she twisted her head away from his touch.
‘I thought I’d found happiness and a few days wouldn’t matter. Now,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘I’m in Purgatory.’
He gripped her wrists almost roughly so that she opened her eyes in surprise.
‘Purgatory is when there is no hope, which would indeed be the case if I despised you. Now count your blessings, Emily, for here is the doctor.’ He put his hand around her waist to support her into a sitting position and drew back the curtain to confirm the truth of his words.
‘Forget about what your father says and start believing what I say, for like it or not, I am your husband.’
He was not ashamed for the rough edge to his voice. Though her slavish devotion to her dead betrothed was understandable there was a limit to how long he’d indulge her.
Angus had his pride.
Emily awoke to the sound of splitting wood outside. She raised herself, blinking in the light that gleamed through the curtains from a sun that was high in the sky. She was not usually such a late sleeper, but then she’d been in bed for five days and her life and that of her child had been hanging by a thread.
Her hands went to her stomach. It was huge and taut.
And she felt movement.
Joy battled with grief. With a shuddering breath, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, silently blessing the conscientious young doctor who had attended each day. Jack’s baby lived. Her last link with the man she loved still breathed within her.
She managed to dress herself unaided, tidied her hair which Miranda had freshly braided two days before, then went in search of Angus.
He was working near the wood shed. Emily hesitated upon the back step, reluctant to approach him and ask whether she were required to provide breakfast now that she was up. She wanted to thank him for all he’d done but hadn’t the words. Angus had stayed with her, reassured her and tended to her physical needs. Angus, more than the doctor, had ensured she’d kept her child, but Angus was still a stranger.
… though not such a remote one.
Stripped naked to the waist, her husband wielded the axe with strong, rhythmic movements.
First glance caused her to blush and lower her eyes, but then she strained for a closer look. She was surprised at the bulk of muscle, and the thick sinews of his arms which stood out at each stroke. This almost ascetic man was unexpectedly the athlete beneath his uniform.
Unconsciously she stroked her stomach as she leant her weight upon the door frame, watching him. There was something cathartic and relaxing in the sight.
‘Mrs McCartney?’
She gasped at the interruption, guilty embarrassment burning her cheeks.
For a moment her visitor appeared as discomposed as she. ‘Miss Micklen?’ Rising from his bow, banishing the astonishment from his tone, the soldier before her added formally, ‘Good morning to you.’
‘Good morning, Major Woodhouse.’ Emily forced a smile for the young man she had met on a handful of social occasions. A friend of Jack’s and now, it seemed, wanting Angus.
‘I’m here on business, though … your husband’—he made it sound a question—‘is not expecting me.’
The last time Emily had seen Major Woodhouse she’d been on Jack’s arm at the Christmas Regimental Ball. She remembered his courteous admiration, had thought him handsome and likeable with his brown curling hair and open expression. Now his green eyes darted to her stomach and his smile seemed assessing – although perhaps that was only her imagination – as he remarked, ‘Major McCartney is a lucky man. I did not know he’d married.’
‘A whirlwind engagement, Major Woodhouse.’ She wished her voice sounded stronger, for her tremulous whisper only emphasised her position as an object of shame. She indicated the half-naked man at the bottom of the garden. Angus’s torso glistened with sweat in the morning sunlight. Engrossed in his task, he was unaware he had a visitor.
From a distance he looked strong and manly. Her heart seemed to shift a little, as if the heaviness of her unhappiness were almost too great a weight for it to bear.
‘If you want to make yourself known to my husband I shall organise tea.’ Turning, she went inside, wondering if she would be able to find what she needed, even for so simple a matter. Major Woodhouse could draw his own conclusions, but it was best for them all – her unborn child, included – that her domestic clumsiness not reveal just how new a bride she really was.
Angus let the axe fall and turned as he sensed a presence, which he knew was not Emily. She’d looked like she could sleep for a hundred years when he’d checked on her early this morning after he’d risen from his makeshift bed on the floor by the scullery fire. An odd spark he was reluctant to identify burned in his chest at the memory of her face, lovely and serene in repose. Emily and her child lived. Emily was still his wife and he could still look forward to the little family that gave him hope there might be happiness on the horizon.
‘Woodhouse!’ Wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm he smiled and looked past him to the house. He was about to – dubiously – offer refreshment, but the other man cut in.
‘A brief visit, Angus. Strictly business so it would be best if we were not interrupted. Thing is …’ Major Woodhouse drew level and rested his boot on top of the newly split pile of logs. ‘A rather urgent problem has cropped up and we need your help.’
Angus waited. Several years before, he had been involved in a reconnaissance mission in Spain, scouting out the mountains ahead of their unit before the troops advanced. He’d been commended for the detail and accuracy of his intelligence but had resisted becoming involved in similar operations.
Though Woodhouse had never declared direct involvement in the government’s clandestine efforts to destroy the French Republic, Angus knew he sympathised with their desire to restore the Bourbons to the throne once Napoleon was defeated; that he passionately believed it to be in England’s interests; however, he did not know how closely involved Woodhouse was in covert operations.
It didn’t take him long to find out. ‘The Foreign Office advised me one of our agents was attacked in Bern last week.’ Major Woodhouse came straight to the point as he withdrew a leather drawstring pouch. ‘I’m looking for a dependable envoy to supply him with replacement papers.’
Angus betrayed nothing. Not his distaste for subterfuge when he was comfortable on the battlefield where he knew exactly who and where the enemy was. Nor the unexpected frisson of excitement that he was about to be offered a mission that would give him something meaningful to do after so long on half pay, doing nothing.
‘Francois Allaire, wealthy banker, is his alias.’ Major Woodhouse tapped the pouch. ‘You’ll find passports and letters of introduction for both of you. In just over a week he’s due to meet the Paris prefect of police, but without the right papers he’s in a perilous situation.’ His brow clouded. ‘Some months ago and in similar circumstances we lost a valuable and long-serving agent. We can’t afford the same to happen, which is why I’m approaching you to help us.’ He sent Angus a searching look. ‘There is no one I’d trust more than you.’
Practicality and a healthy dose of aversion to lying, even for so good a cause, made Angus hesitate when only moments before he’d all but embraced an opportunity to feel useful and serve his country.
‘And my disguise? The green jacket of the 60th?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Woodhouse. While I’m no friend of Bonaparte’s, you need a diplomat, not a soldier.’
The man he’d known and respected for so many years since they’d joined as recruits contemplated him a moment. When he spoke again there was a brittle note to his tone.
‘My apologies. It never occurred to me you’d decline.’ With a brief but pointed scrutiny of the back of Angus’s humble dwelling he added, ‘I thought if your patriotism were not inspired you’d at least view affairs differently in light of your changed domestic situation.’
Angus put a conciliatory hand upon his friend’s sleeve. ‘I am still in the pay of the British government and my loyalty will always be towards my country. I’m just questioning whether someone else would do this job better than I.’
Major Woodhouse kicked at a chicken pecking his boot before fixing Angus with a level look. ‘In Spain you spent three days and nights in rain and sleet lying out ahead of Bonaparte’s army. Your intelligence was first rate. When you were eventually caught and interrogated your quick wits saved your life. You were promoted to Major. Since then you’ve continued to serve the army with distinction.’ He paused, assimilating his argument. ‘It’s because I knew you planned to resign your commission, and in consequence would be champing at the bit’—he sent another contemptuous glance, this time towards the scrapheap by the back door where Miranda was scraping out the remains of a bowl of gruel—‘that I thought you’d be open to my proposal.’
For the second time in a few days Angus felt mortification at his inadequacy. The dwelling was supposed to have been a short-term abode after he’d come back from war. Stretched for funds and with only himself to worry about he’d not bothered to look for something else.
Major Woodhouse’s tone became cajoling. ‘This mission is part of a complex campaign to ensure homeland security. Our agent, in his guise as a Swiss banker and funded by the British Government, is proving that English gold is an effective tool in turning the loyalties of key French generals who are themselves starting to predict the fall of Napoleon. If Allaire’s cover is blown, every agent we have recruited throughout Switzerland, Spain and France is compromised.’ Woodhouse looked grey as he added, ‘For he will be induced to talk.’
Angus digested this in silence. He was no coward, but espionage did not sit well with him. He would have preferred a mission that involved straightforward tactics.
Woodhouse clicked his tongue. ‘For months you’ve been searching for something worthwhile to do, anyone could see it, Angus.’ He sounded impatient. ‘All I’m asking of you is to help ensure we don’t lose another valuable, long-serving agent.’ His lip curled as his glance encompassed Angus’s dwelling briefly once more. ‘I can’t imagine a man of your pride relishing your current situation.’
He could see Angus was wavering. He cast another disparaging look, this time at Angus’s worn boots, before warming to his theme. ‘Our British agents are in league with French generals disenchanted with the Corsican invader. Together with representatives of the House of Bourbon we are confident of soon toppling Napoleon. But to ensure success we need to send someone who speaks impeccable French; someone dependable – and fast – to furnish Allaire with the necessary papers.’ He cleared his throat. ‘On a more practical note, the job I’m offering you comes with a government pension after the war is won.’
A pension. Instant remuneration. Angus stared at the lowly lodgings to which he’d consigned his beautiful wife and registered that he was not insensible to his friend’s rising passion; and not only from a pecuniary point of view. He missed excitement.
‘All we’re asking of you on this mission is to play the messenger. Play yourself if you’re uncomfortable with charades: the painter who won’t let a war raging across Europe interfere with his passion.’ Major Woodhouse’s tone became more persuasive. ‘Tuck your easel under your arm and dust off those letters of introduction to the curators of the world’s finest art collections to which the war denied you access.’
Angus shifted, the frisson of excitement within tempered by the reality of his changed circumstances. Even a veritable host of galleries could not outweigh his concern for Emily and his desire to see her safely delivered of her child. Some naïve part of him kept alive the hope that through his steady dependability Emily would develop for him some small affection.
He realised it was a pipe dream. Emily would appreciate him far more if he were playing the hero abroad than slavishly attending to her meagre comforts at home.
‘My wife is in a delicate condition. How long am I likely to be away?’
‘Once you’ve delivered the requisite papers to Allaire your mission from this side is completed.’ Woodhouse muttered over the calculations. ‘Two hours hard riding to the coast; the packet leaves every Tuesday and Friday; the channel crossing might be done within three hours, if you’re not becalmed, and then another two to three hours to reach the home of Monsieur Delon. Perhaps you’d be looking to return to England several days after that.’
‘Delon?’
Woodhouse raised an eyebrow. ‘You are familiar with the name?’
‘I have heard it mentioned in connection with Jack Noble.’ Woodhouse’s momentary confusion was replaced by suspicion. ‘Miss Micklen … I mean, Mrs McCartney, spoke of this?’
Angus tried to dilute his friend’s objection by returning to the matter at hand. ‘I presume there will be future requirements?’
Woodhouse hesitated, then replied, ‘For many years the Delons have assisted foreign emissaries who would see a Bourbon monarchy reinstated.’ He stared at Angus as if determining his friend’s commitment. ‘If you do accept, yes, this will be the first of further operations. It is likely they will introduce you to other members of their association.’ Clearing his throat, he added, ‘I will therefore need reassurance that your loyalty to the cause extends beyond this first operation.’
Angus hid the frisson of irritation swept over him at his friend’s pomposity. Although Woodhouse was the first he would turn to in a crisis, the man had the ability to get under his skin like no one he knew. Yet Angus also knew he had more to lose by rejecting the opportunity being presented. Not only from financial considerations.
‘And this unfortunate soul you mentioned previously. Should I not know the circumstances of his death if you fear Allaire faces the same peril?’
Woodhouse reddened. ‘Initially we attributed the late Monsieur Perignon’s death to his well known voracious … carnal appetites, however it appears he was betrayed,’ he hesitated, ‘though we have no proof of this. Then all went smoothly until Allaire was attacked. Again it appears Allaire’s perilous situation is due to betrayal within our ranks. He sent Angus a searching look. ‘So you will help us?’
Angus needed no further persuasion. Betrayal from within was an insidious threat and in a different league altogether from simple espionage. He nodded. ‘I assume you wish me to leave at the earliest. Tomorrow? Anything else I need to know?’
‘If Mrs McCartney questions you, say nothing of the real nature of your business.’ Woodhouse frowned, as if imagining the lengths to which a woman might go to have her curiosity satisfied. ‘She may try to persuade you that Jack Noble kept her apprised of his activities. Do not be swayed. Noble was under the strictest instructions to say nothing.’ His scowl deepened. ‘If you heard the name Delon mentioned by Mrs McCartney it is clear she has no understanding of the need for discretion.’
‘I’d have thought the charge of indiscretion was better laid at Jack Noble’s door,’ Angus muttered.
Woodhouse appeared to be making an attempt at mastering his exasperation. ‘Noble was recommended for his position by no lesser personage than the Foreign Secretary himself.’
‘Then I fill esteemed boots,’ Angus replied with heavy sarcasm for he knew Woodhouse would consider Noble’s selection as unlikely as Angus did. ‘And the risks? There are always risks it is well to be apprised of.’ He was thinking of the perils that dogged him in Spain: the silent, deadly wraiths of the night that could slit a man’s throat before he knew what had happened.
He was not expecting a woman’s name.
‘Madame Fontenay … Fanchette Fontenay …’ Woodhouse’s look turned to contempt. ‘She’s been a thorn in the side of the English for years. A blood-thirsty revolutionary responsible for the deaths of countless British agents … including our lately departed aforementioned agent in Paris.’ His lip curled. ‘I’ve heard she had a rare ability to inveigle her way into the trust of the most cynical using her vast arsenal of apparently limitless feminine wiles.’
At Angus’s undisguised interest Woodhouse continued, ‘She was last seen heavy with child many years ago before disappearing into the shadows. Then within the last twelvemonth a woman fitting her description was seen in the vicinity following the deaths of Perignon and several fellow compatriots.’
‘Anything else?’
‘She married, surprisingly, some unwitting nobleman. Whether he knows it or not, he now funds her zealous hatred of the Bourbons and all who try to return them to their rightful throne.’
Angus nodded thoughtfully. ‘A physical description would be helpful.’
Woodhouse raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Hair like a raven’s wing, eyes like liquid amber and skin like honey … despite not being in her first flush of youth. If you can enlarge upon that lyrical tribute you’re not likely to pass it on, I’m told. Word is she was once mistress to one of Bonaparte’s trusted generals and that she and Bonaparte remain on good terms. Well, I think you’ve heard enough.’ He turned on his heel and preceded Angus up the garden path that led around the house. ‘Take care when it comes to this Fontenay woman, Angus,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Though it’s not your immediate mission, we rely upon her capture. That said, if she entered your orbit you’d have no chance. Her kind is only successful through an instinct for sniffing out a man’s susceptibilities, and I know damsels in distress are yours.’
Now that the serious business had been discharged he was in a lighter mood. Near the back steps he stopped and turned. ‘Don’t glare at me like that, old chap, when I’ve gone all out to praise your many fine qualities.’
‘Madame Fontenay—’
‘Madame Fontenay is, as I told you, another mission altogether. Right now, all you need do is deliver Allaire’s papers.’ Major Woodhouse pulled out his timepiece. ‘Perhaps you’d better acquaint your – er – wife with matters as they stand and be ready to sail on the Friday packet. Everything you need to know is contained in there,’ he added, pointing to the pouch which Angus now held. ‘Allaire is at a safe house. Monsieur Delon’s address is amongst the papers I’ve given you.’
Emily was relieved when she glanced through the window to see Major Woodhouse mount his horse, doff his hat in her direction, and ride off. Glancing up once more as she removed the kettle from the hob she was even more relieved to see Angus had resumed wielding the axe.
She found the end of some rather stale bread and a hunk of cheese and ate it with her tea, sitting on a stool in the scullery while she contemplated her sparse surroundings.
Miranda entered with a clatter of pattens – for the backdoor opened onto a veritable quagmire – her apron filled with wood which she added to the fire. Not a woman of many words, she jerked a nod of greeting in Emily’s direction before picking up her scrubbing brush.
Emily chewed thoughtfully on the end of the bread. With renewed health came a revival of her spirits. Aunt Gemma’s funds must be coming soon for Angus had spoken of their new residence. He was a decent man, she would allow him that. He had been kind and his decisive action had saved the baby. He’d made plain his concern for her. For both her and the baby. But she couldn’t rid herself of the conviction that their present discomfort was due to Aunt Gemma’s money being withheld due to some stipulation she was unaware of. Who knew what the two had plotted as fair recompense for
Angus to salvage Micklen honour?
She tried to rein in her scattered thoughts. Marriage was a contract for most couples of her station and she must get over the bitterness of losing out on love, for she had been provided with what most fallen women – yes, she must not forget that was what she was – could not even dream of: a marriage to enable her to keep and legitimise her child, and a home.
Hopefully a commodious home with separate apartments for each of them so she could reflect in privacy, read Jack’s letters without fear of interruption, sing songs to the baby about its father—
She pictured Jack’s roguish grin, her breath shuddering as her daydream was swept away by an image of Angus bending over her, his dark-brown eyes blazing with intensity as he vowed to save her child and protect Emily.
The sentiment and his actions were those of a good man and she must try to keep that at the forefront of her thoughts rather than hug her grief to herself over Jack’s death. Yet how could a man as upstanding as Angus care for and respect a woman so steeped in sin as she? Could his concern stem only from the fact that if she died too soon he’d lose out on Aunt Gemma’s money?
‘Get back to bed with ye, girl,’ grumbled Miranda, looking up from her scrubbing. ‘Yer as white as a ghostie.’
Emily swallowed the last of the dry bread and fixed Miranda with a level stare. Soon she’d be in her own fine residence with servants who treated her with respect.
But it was true. She was feeling suddenly light-headed from her modest exertions. She accepted that Miranda, also, had been good to her, when the servant had every reason to despise her new mistress for being no better than someone’s fancy ladybird with her swollen belly and too fresh wedding ring. Lacing her hands over her bulge, Emily waddled back to the bedroom, closing the door and reaching up for her shaw on the hook.
Then the pain struck again.
She regained consciousness in her husband’s arms. Eyes closed, she remained limp as he covered the distance to the bed. He was still shirtless. The direct contact of her cheek against the coarse hair of his chest, beneath which she could feel the beating of his heart, evoked an indefinable, confusing response. She’d never been close enough to him to smell his fresh sweat, to touch his skin. Whereas Jack’s chest had been smooth and hard, Angus’s was dusted with dark hair.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked, realising she had come to. ‘There’s been no more bleeding, but I’ve sent Miranda to fetch the doctor, in case.’
Embarrassed by this clinical assessment and wondering at the nature of his examination while she’d been unconscious, she heard the tightness of her voice. ‘Clearly you’re accustomed to blood.’
He smiled his tense, thoughtful smile as he tucked her in, smoothing the pillow and again she wondered who had caused the scar that sliced his cheek.
‘It comes with the job. Would you like a mug of sweet tea?’ ‘Perhaps later.’ She sighed, though his concern was reassuring. There was no doubting the constancy of his feelings and she took comfort in his presence, she realised, but she was exhausted. She felt wrung out, emotionally and physically. Closing her eyes, she felt for the reassuring movements of the baby.
‘Two more months, Emily.’
At the intensity of his tone she blinked to see him crouching beside her, his eyes level with hers. The room was dim with the curtains closed against the sun, but even in the gloom his eyes glowed. If she didn’t know how ridiculous a thought it was, she might have said, with excitement.
‘Two and a half,’ she corrected him.
‘He only needs another two to have a fighting chance.’ ‘You think it’s a boy?’ Despite herself she couldn’t help smiling just to contemplate the living, breathing creature within her. Then she remembered it was Jack’s child. Stiffly, she added, ‘Besides, what would you know about such things?’ and was immediately ashamed of her churlishness.
‘I’ve delivered a baby.’
He must have seen her shock, for he laughed softly as he resettled himself on the stool at her bedside and took her hand. ‘The battlefield isn’t only about death. There’s a huge contingent of women and children who follow their menfolk around the globe and they endure terrible hardship.’
Emily stared at him. ‘You delivered a baby?’ she repeated, trying to imagine how a commissioned officer of the prestigious 60th Rifles came to be involved in some sordid camp follower scenario. ‘Your … mistress?’ For some reason she’d never imagined Angus having a mistress.
‘Her friend,’ he corrected her.
So he had a mistress. Or once had. She digested this startling information in silence, unable to give voice to the multiple questions chasing themselves around her head.
He smiled. ‘We were in Spain and although a fierce battle had just been fought, the irony was that, with calm restored, the poor woman had fallen in the river when doing the washing and was wedged between two rocks. The birth pangs were well advanced by the time I arrived. Now I have a godson, a lusty boy who’d be about four.’ He rose, obviously amused by her shock. ‘Don’t fret over what you can’t change, Emily. You’re my wife and whatever happens, I promise to look after you.’
‘And where is your mistress now, Angus?’
She heard the tartness of her tone and added quickly, almost meekly, ‘I beg your pardon, Angus. That is not a question a wife should ask her husband.’
His look was difficult to read as he answered from the doorway, ‘You may ask me anything you like though I do not promise I will always answer you. What I do promise to offer you, however, is the truth.’ He was silent a long time before he said softly, ‘Jessamine is long dead after a liaison of very short duration. Now, regrettably’—he cleared his voice—‘I must go away for a few days. The doctor will be here soon and I shall make arrangements for your care.’
The surprise that he’d had a mistress whom he’d even discussed with her was replaced by astonishment that he should suddenly announce he was leaving, followed by fear that he’d consign her to living in these squalid lodgings during his absence.
‘You’re leaving me, alone? At a time like this?’ she gasped.
‘I’m on my way see my brother and his wife who will take care of you,’ he reassured her. ‘They live in great comfort. It will be far better for you to remain with them in the interim. Major Woodhouse has offered me an assignment abroad I was not in a position to refuse.’ With a sweep of his arm, he added, ‘One that will soon see us out of here and ensconced in something far more fitting. Besides,’ he gave a self-deprecating laugh, ‘I’m sure you won’t deny that a little time away from me will hardly break your heart.’
This was true enough, but she was still dismayed by the circumstances in which he left her, not knowing how far away his brother lived, for he surely did not refer to Bellamy. ‘I’m …’ She closed her eyes and shook her head as she forced out the words, ‘to go to your brother’s house? But of course, for where else can I go? Certainly not home.’
From the doorway he fixed her with another of his almost disarming level gazes. She wanted to dismiss his words, his actions, as the platitudes of a man who had secured his comfort through her wretchedness, but increasingly her conviction that Aunt Gemma’s bribes were somehow involved seemed without substance. Angus really did consider her comfort and safety as his first priority rather than an inconvenience now that adventure beckoned from across the channel.
‘Home is with me, Emily. One day, I hope, you will feel that. I shall ride to Honeyfield House to see my brother, Jonathan, and ask him to fetch you’—he offered her a rueful smile—‘as I obviously have no conveyance and his carriage is a great deal more commodious than any equipage I can hire locally.’ At the look on her face he reassured her, ‘The journey is less than an hour and my sister-in-law, Caroline, is a charming, accommodating woman. I’m confident you shall enjoy every comfort while I am away. To be perfectly honest, Major Woodhouse’s proposition couldn’t have come at a more fortuitous moment.’
She was surprised at how touched she was by his smile when he added, ‘I hope it won’t be long after I return from abroad that we shall move into a house worthy of you, Emily. I hope, then, that the rift between you and your father might be mended. You deserve to take your rightful place in society and to have your father’s respect. It is every good daughter’s right.’
With his attention focussed on the peeling walls he did not register her horror.
‘If you think he’ll forgive me you know nothing of my father!’ She jerked forward in the bed. ‘Reconciliation is not possible!’
Instead of declaring roundly, as Jack might have done, that he’d make sure it all came to pass, Angus took a while to gather his thoughts. ‘You are respectably married,’ he said slowly. ‘The child will be born legitimate. You’ve brought no shame upon your family. Restoring ties between you and your father is important.’
‘No, you don’t understand.’ She was close to tears as she gripped his hands which were suddenly clasping hers. ‘Papa is vengeful. I sinned. If he could find another way to compound my suffering, my shame, he’d do it.’
Angus hunkered down to take her in his arms and as she was squeezed gently but firmly she felt a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. Not the movement of the baby and something that was quite definitely more than just gratitude for his concern.
‘You belong to me now, not your father,’ he soothed. With her ear pressed against his bare chest once again, Emily could hear the strong staccato beat of his heart. The strength of his arms around her was strangely comforting, for indeed the domineering spectre of Bartholomew Micklen did seem diluted.
Gently he lay her back down on the pillow and for a long moment she stared at him as if he were not the husband forced upon her whom she despised.
Still, it was important Angus understand. She clasped her hands and pleaded, ‘Don’t petition my father for forgiveness. It will only give him another focus for his dissatisfaction with me.’ She turned her head away.
‘Then I want to be the means by which you are reconciled. I can do that, Emily.’
She sucked in a quavering breath. ‘I don’t know why you’re so concerned that I mend ties with my father. It’s not as if I came with a dowry dependant upon his goodwill.’ Almost viciously she added, ‘And it’s not as if you married for love.’
In the lengthening silence she regretted her words, but it was too late. Miserably she stared at the wall.
Angus stroked her hands which plucked at the bedcovers. Then, leaning over her, he kissed her brow, his murmured words filling her with immediate warmth only to be swept away by fear of her own failings. ‘My dear Emily, I married where I hoped I might find it.’