December 25, 1777
“The man is an ass,” Tony grumbled to himself for the hundredth time, as if in answer to the gnawing questions that kept him from his bed. “A damned fool!”
Amid the rasping silence that filled his house, he looked out through the ice-glazed window into a moonless night, and bolted down his fifth glass of brandy. From somewhere in the darkness surrounding him, the clock on the mantel chimed slowly three times.
“Only a mindless fool would gamble with his life like that…with her happiness! For what? What does he hope to gain when he has everything to lose? Why, if she were my wife, I’d….” He broke off, catching a glimpse of his own sardonic smile in the darkened glass. “But what does it matter in the end? She’s not my wife, and I’m not his guardian.” He refilled his glass, splashing a generous amount over the table. Hoisting the drink to his mouth, he laughed bitterly. “I’m damned if I’m not a bigger fool than he!”
Seeing nothing untoward in the darkness beyond the frosted window panes, he stumbled back to his chair by the barely glowing hearth, where, asleep on the rug, Malcolm and Donalbain dreamed of rabbits or squirrels, or whatever it was dogs dreamed of chasing.
“Damned, mindless fool!” He dropped heavily into the chair, spilling half the contents of the glass into his lap. He was far too tired and far too numb to pay it any mind. If only he could sleep! If only he could put aside those disturbing thoughts and take to his bed, where comfort and rest was the reward for an untroubled soul. If only he shared her conviction that all would be well. But every noise, every minute little murmur of wind, every insignificant thump and creak of settling boards sent his heart lurching, driving him from his chair to the window, where he contemplated the nothingness of the night.
He had said not a word to Peter and Anne of the conversation he had overheard inside the City Tavern between three of Joseph Galloway’s agents and a redcoat officer of significant rank. It was the mention of the name, Marlowe, that caused him to pause on his way into the ballroom. All day, one of the men had said, believing them all to be beyond earshot, they’d been shadowing this Marlowe, “a false traitor to a traitorous cause, who had eluded them for the last time.” They were onto him, the man had said. “Only a matter of time before the blackguard runs out of luck. We know his movements.”
Even though the conversation had rattled his composure, the lovebirds were far too absorbed in each other to have noticed his preoccupation. During the ride home, watching them touch and grope each other, and throughout supper, while they sated themselves more on torrid gazes than on the cold repast, he was all but forgotten. When he awkwardly excused himself from the table, they barely acknowledged. Perhaps it was for the best. For now, at least.
Let them enjoy their time together.
But what of tomorrow and the next day? Did they truly believe they were beyond harm, that some inane little amulet she wore around her neck had been empowered with the means to protect them? He would not be a party to such deception. He needed to find a way to warn them without causing undue alarm. But was it possible? Would she understand? Would she believe him? Or would she think, not altogether unjustly, that his motives were not so magnanimous as they seemed?
How they doted on each other! Their display of affection had been unimaginable, even in lovers whose separation had been lengthy and fraught with concern. Had he not witnessed their shameless kissing and clinging, he would have thought it improbable that two, such as they—joined in wedlock—could be so enraptured as to be mindless of everything else. He made light of it over supper. Perhaps he had said something unpleasant; he could not recall.
Truly, their show of unrestrained passion disconcerted him; he could admit it now. Perhaps it was jealousy that induced sullen thoughts, prompting him to leave the room lest he speak without thinking and unwittingly release the sword dangling over their heads.
They slept now, peacefully in each other’s arms. The thought made him wince. He was alone, the lone soul awake in a house filled with disturbing sounds. Even the dogs slept! How ludicrous that it should be he, the self-appointed protector of the night, standing—or rather, sitting—guard in the dark against the encroachment of sinister forces. His very nature rebelled against such a seemingly selfless affectation of purpose.
“Why in the Devil’s name must I involve myself? What’s in it for me?” He gulped down the remainder of his brandy. “Haven’t I done more than enough already?” The reason defied explanation. The vision of Anne’s grateful smile lulled him to sleep.
* * *
In her dream, the light hovered closer and more dazzling than ever before. Its radiance shattered the night with bursts of pulsing rays that swirled around her, surrounding her in tranquility. The light brushed her skin with warmth and feathery softness. She wanted to run, to hurl herself into its very center. But she could not move; for, behind her in a flood of sunlight, Peter waved his hand and called to her, exerting a force that wrapped itself around her heart. But as always, the mysterious light held her in a power too great to resist. She had no choice but to trudge on alone.
Invariably, the light proved to be nothing more than a false promise, an illusion, too distant to touch, too beguiling to be real. Invariably, the light coaxed her forth, then receded farther into the darkness. It challenged her to overtake it, and then winked in fiendish delight at her incompetence as, clumsily, all too earthbound, she watched it flicker and fade away.
It will always be just beyond reach.
A voice cried out in anguish. Just at the moment when the darkness engulfed her, she thought she heard her father calling her name. As consciousness settled over her senses, a new and fearful awareness jarred her with the understanding that it was Peter sobbing in the midst of his own troubled dreams.
She groped for him, whispering his name in a frantic attempt to quiet his fears.
His cries intensified as she wrapped him in her arms. He grappled in a frenzy to free himself from her embrace. His heat startled her. The magnitude of his struggle sent a cold shiver down her spine.
“It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.” But the terror persisted. She tried to comfort him. Stroking his hair, she pressed her cheek to his burning face and cradled him, rocked him.
Only gradually did the horror release him and the tension ebb from his body, leaving him shivering and breathless. Through partly-open eyes, he stared blankly into her face until recognition brought a strange, half-smile to his lips. “Anne,” he sighed, burying his face in her breast. “Take me home. I want to go home.”
She hesitated, then spoke softly, her voice trembling. “Soon. We’ll go home soon.”
“It’s been so long. I want…to sleep….”
“Yes, my darling. Sleep.”
Then he grew quiet, his arm draped loosely across her waist, his face nestled in the warmth of her breast. Peace settled once more over his dreams. As darkness give way to a murky predawn gray, she withered inside. Not even Mercy’s necklace could offer consolation for the despondency that burrowed deep into her heart.
* * *
Filtering through her deep, dreamless rest, the dull clatter of horses’ hooves echoed in the morning stillness. In those first muddled moments, as the fog dissolved from her blunted senses and she shielded her eyes against the morning sun, she listened for the sound that had roused from sleep. All was silent and still. But something was not right. Something nettled the quiet, causing the cold to ripple with uncertainty.
She waited, not daring to breathe, until the realization swept over her that it was her own fear and overwrought imagination that caused the stillness to sound an alarm. All was well. The silence deepened, reinforcing the calm. She exhaled her relief, agitation draining from her taut muscles. Peter’s breath tickled the back of her neck; his arm draped over her waist brought reassurance. Again she closed her eyes and, arranging Peter’s arm more comfortably about her, she settled under the covers and savored the warmth and closeness of his body. As sleep once more crept over her senses, the jangling of a bell stunned her into a bristling readiness.
She bolted upright in the bed. “Dear God, no!”
Footsteps pounded on the floor below. The dogs’ barking shattered the momentary lull. Peter moaned and turned, but slept on, oblivious to the disturbance. In a panic, she raced to the window, the morning chill penetrating her shift and bare feet, her breath coming in white puffs.
A black coach-and-four stood just inside the black iron gate, its team restlessly pawing at the frozen ground, billowing streams of vapor pouring from their nostrils. She flew to the door and listened intently. From below stairs, a stranger responded to the questioning inflection in Tony’s voice. By the sound of the muted exchange, the arrival of the coach might have been of trivial importance.
She cracked open the door. In the foyer at the foot of the stairs, Malcolm and Donalbain frisked about in a wild dance of welcome, tapping their paws on the bare boards. The visitor greeted the dogs by name. Though no specifics of the discourse in the foyer carried up the stairs, the lighthearted tone of their voices did nothing to allay her fears. She listened to the ebbing voices as Tony escorted his guest into the parlor.
Throwing on her cloak over her shift, she hurried from the room and down the stairs.
The parlor door hung open wide, revealing two men engaged in a quiet but spirited discussion by the hearth. Pale and rumpled from the effects of a sleepless night, Tony appeared elated by the young man’s arrival, patting him heartily on the shoulder, laughing and smiling while he listened to what the newcomer had to say. Although she could not determine the nature of their conversation, she could tell at once by their rapport that her cousin and the caller were previously acquainted, and that Tony, in his attempt to subdue his enthusiasm, did not appear at all surprised by what the younger man related to him.
Her appearance at the open doorway put an immediate halt to the dialogue when Tony’s brusque shift of attention silenced the other man, whose cheeks colored deeply. With a sheepish grin, Tony stepped toward her. Anne stammered her apologies and backed away, as if she had intruded upon a conspiracy.
“No, no!” Tony caught her arm before she could flee. “Please stay.” His smile gained in assurance when she did not resist him. “We were just discussing you. I thought you were asleep or I’d have sent for you.” He reached for her hand. She recoiled. “Don’t be shy. Come in!” He escorted her to the hearth. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr.…er…Samuelson is it?” His surreptitious peek at the well-dressed young man suggested an attempt at secrecy. “From the law firm of Aderley and Dubrey, is it?”
Mr. Samuelson’s nodded in her direction.
“Mr. Samuelson, my cousin, Lady Anne Marlowe.”
Samuelson made an awkward attempt to take Anne’s hand, but Tony was quick to distract her. “You’re probably wondering what could have induced poor Mr. Samuelson to take leave of his family so early on Christmas Morning. I was wondering the same thing. In fact, I was dubious at first. Can you imagine my astonishment? But then I recalled the little note we left for Mother. So then it all seemed perfectly convincing.
“As it would happen,” Tony went on, talking quickly, “Mr. Samuelson went first to Mother’s house, only to discover that you’d gone hence from there to here. Isn’t that so, Mr. Samuelson? The poor fellow has been on the road since daybreak!”
The young man, opened his mouth as if to speak, but Tony would not allow the poor man to get a word in. “Well, Mr. Samuelson, are you going to tell my cousin what you’ve told me, or must I be the bearer of your tidings?”
In the process of forming his reply, Samuelson stepped clumsily forward, plunging his right hand into the pocket of his greatcoat. “Indeed, my lady, I’ve brought you this letter….” He extended a sealed note to Anne. “I am at your service.”
She faltered before taking the note and focused on the unfamiliar scrawl on the cover. The blot of sealing wax gave no further indication of the nature of the communication. “What is this?” She glanced first at her cousin and then at Mr. Samuelson, who deferred to Tony with a helpless look. “Does it concern my husband?”
“Why don’t you read it?” Tony replied with casual indifference before breaking away to pour a drink for himself and his guest. Samuelson followed Tony to the windows, leaving Anne alone.
With shaking hands, she turned to the fire and tore open the note.
24 December 1777
Dear Lady Anne,
At the behest of One, whose desire it is to remain Nameless, it is my pleasure to inform you that, after a Search comprising much Energy and Expense, your Father, the Most Honourable Marquess of Esterleigh, and his Attendant, one Francis Marlowe, have been located in the vicinity of Germantown….
With a gasp that was part shock and part incredulity, Anne broke off reading and glanced at her cousin and Mr. Samuelson, who appeared to involve themselves in drinking brandy and in conversation regarding the coach just beyond the circular drive. Her legs weakened. She lowered herself slowly into the chair by the hearth. A long moment passed before she could bring herself to continue reading.
While the words on the page were capably formed, she struggled to interpret their meaning. As she contemplated the arrangement of symbols and signs, their substance grew ever more obscure.
…your Father, the Most Honourable Marquess of Esterleigh and his Attendant, one Francis Marlowe, have been located in the vicinity of Germantown, where, due to unfortunate Circumstances, they have been in Residence these three Months past. I have personally verified these Findings and have taken it upon Myself to inform His Lordship of the Efforts undertaken on the part of my Client to bring about your long awaited Reunion.
Having been led to understand the urgency of your Inquiries into this Matter, and due to the delicate State of His Lordship’s health, my Client has enjoined me to act with all possible speed in directing you to seek my Assistance. My Associate, Mr. Samuelson, has been instructed to conduct your Ladyship to my Offices at her earliest convenience, from where we shall depart.
Please forgive any seeming disrespect on the part of your Servant in presuming to exhort Your Ladyship without the necessary Preliminaries and on such short Notice. However, since Time is of the essence, I urge you to overlook my impropriety and avail Yourself of my conveyance. I assure your Ladyship that all your Questions will be answered in a manner you will find most Suitable. It is my desire to serve your ladyship’s Needs and those of my Client to your mutual satisfaction.
Awaiting your Arrival, I am,
Charles Aderley, Attorney-at-Law
Arch Street, Philadelphia
A week ago, a day ago, she would have welcomed the news. Her hopes would have soared at the prospects. Naturally, such information would also have been accompanied by feelings of anxiety, fear, uncertainty, even relief…or all in combination. She had prepared herself for the inevitable jumble of thoughts and emotions. She thought she had envisioned all possibilities. Never had she considered the disappointment and vexation that overwhelmed her with the urge to cry out loud with more bitterness than anything brought on by frustration. She struggled to breathe. A moan tore through her throat.
How can this be?
It was all wrong. After all the obstacles and despair, perhaps the news had been unexpected. Perhaps she never truly believed this moment would come. Or maybe its arrival was merely untimely, catching her off guard. Or maybe she had deceived herself into believing that she would instantly feel the tranquility of redemption as it washed her soul free of demons and guilt.
After all the suffering and sacrifice, she could no longer find the strength to deny herself what very well might be her one last chance at happiness.
To leave Peter now was unthinkable; how could she leave him when his life was in danger? How could she leave when to do so, she risked losing him forever? He needed her. His need…and their love for each other…far outweighed her conscience. Her place was at his side through whatever awaited him. He was the home she craved. And she yearned to be home.
The fire’s light played hot on her face. Damp logs hissed amid crackling flames, and in the whisper-like emanation she heard Hetty Powell’s voice. Twice blest. That be thy bequest. Ye be the last, the chosen one, Anne d’Hervé, the one to set it all a-right again.
Something came between herself and the heat. When she looked up with a start, standing before her with his back to the fire, Tony regarded her with a puzzled expression. “It’s not bad news, is it?”
She shook her head and stood in an attempt to move away, but Mr. Samuelson’s watchful gaze contributed to her uneasiness. She turned in a daze to Tony.
“You look disappointed. May I?” When she did not respond, Tony gently extricated the crumpled letter from her fist.
“So,” he said with a little laugh when he had finished reading and leaned against the mantel; “All is in the journey, is it? I’ve often heard it said that arriving is never as sweet as the anticipation.”
“It isn’t that at all.” She covered her face and bowed her head. “What am I to do?”
“What is it you want?” He leaned toward her and spoke softly and yet his answer took her by surprise. “The choice is obvious enough.”
Again she shook her head.
He leaned closer. His breath fluttered against her ear, his tone sardonic. “You don’t have to go. No one will force you. You can pretend you never received the letter. He’ll never know.”
She looked at him in a sudden terror. Again, his surprising facility to read her mind took her by surprise.
He greeted her look with a casual smile. “After all, you made up your mind you’d never find him. Everything’s changed, isn’t it, now that you and your husband are together again? So long as you have each other, all is well, isn’t that right?” He folded the note and pressed it into her hand, adding with a laugh, “Just think of the poor wretch who expended all that energy and expense in the hope of collecting the reward! I’d give anything to see the look on his face when he learns it’s been for nothing!”
Behind his jaunty manner, she sensed a hint of derision. An element of disdain glimmered in his eye, pricking a nerve that sent a fire through her blood.
But his frivolous suggestion had touched her deeply. She had a choice! Other options existed. They had always existed. Disturbing as it was to admit, she had the power to choose. She might have chosen differently. Right at the start, when she first arrived at Esterleigh…if only she had been open with her father from the beginning…but, no, that was not possible. She was an angry child then, who didn’t understand. Her mother was dead, and the hurt gouged a hole deep inside her. She had no other choice but do as her instincts compelled. Without considering the consequences, she openly and stubbornly defied him.
If…. If she had gone to her father for answers instead of allowing herself to fall into Arthur’s trap, none of them would be at the crossroads now, where her actions had placed them. If she had trusted her father enough to open her heart to him about Peter…. How different their lives might have been! If she had not been so submissive; had she admitted the truth of her situation and her identity to Major McKenna, had she not run from Ellerdine when there was a chance early on…. If she had chosen Peter over her quest for redemption, she would not now be faced with the most difficult choice of all.
“How simple life would be,” she said to the sizzling flames, “if there were no choices to be made, if we were driven by forces beyond our understanding.” She smoothed open the letter and contemplated whether or not to drop it into the fire.
Tony observed her closely. “In most situations, there is really but one choice. It is often the most difficult…and the most painful….”
“If one is constrained by conscience.” She turned to him.
He met her admonishing glare with a complaisant grin. “If one is constrained by a guilty conscience.” He laughed softly. “I see you’ve taken to heart what I said.”
She forced a sardonic smile. “Knowing that you speak from experience, I would do well not to take anything you say to heart…let alone act on it.”
His smile matched hers. “I never really supposed you would. You are far too…virtuous.”
“I am hardly that!”
“Perhaps not, but I find it comforting to think that you are.” As they exchanged searching looks, Tony grew somber. “I find comfort in the belief that there is some good in this world, that honor exists, that there are those who place principles above personal gain.”
Astonished, she stared at him, her smile fading under the effect of his words. “If you think that I am in any way—”
“I don’t think. I need to believe it!” He clutched her hands and pressed them tightly in his. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t understand what—”
“I don’t ask you to understand. I don’t understand myself!” He laughed. “Good Lord, if I had the slightest inkling, I doubt I’d be making such a fool of myself.” And he added quickly, “Perhaps I have no choice. Perhaps it’s my way of atoning for a life that’s been less than honorable. I don’t know! Just say you trust me.”
“What must I do?”
“Go to your father.”
“No, it’s too late, I—” She tugged to free her hands, but he held fast.
“If you don’t go, you’ll rue the day.”
“How can I go when Peter is—”
“I will look after your husband. I will bring him to you when he’s well.”
Anne heaved a sigh and briefly considered his counsel. “You’ll bring him to me?”
“I’ve said.” He let her hand slip from his.
“I will need a little time,” she said reluctantly. “…just a little. I must speak with Peter and gather my things. Tell Mr. Samuelson for me.” She started to go, but he recaptured her hand.
Fear and doubt glinted in his eyes. “Say that you give me your trust, Anne. Please.”
She paused, taking in his earnest expression. “What greater trust can I give? I am putting my life in your safe keeping.”
* * *
Propped on the pillows, his face pale as the bed linen, Peter smiled as he helped her do up the fastenings on her stays. “You’re growing plump, Mrs. Marlowe!” he teased, pretending to strain his efforts.
His attempts to make light of the situation only heightened her uneasiness. When she made no reply but silently moved from the edge of the bed to slip into her gown of violet-colored wool, she sensed even more strongly the evasion underlying his willingness to cooperate. She watched him in the mirror above the washstand—how he regarded her with a trace of wistfulness when he thought her attention to be elsewhere, how his own uncertainty seemed to dominate the silence, how he grappled with himself to speak the words he felt she needed to hear.
He had done all in his ability to allay her concerns about leaving. His smile appeared genuine. He was overjoyed, he said, at the news contained in the letter. He shared her relief that the search at last had come to an end. She was about to find what she sought and face the one man standing between them and their happiness. And her sanity.
His words of support should have served to placate her doubts. His thoughtfulness and congeniality should have made it easier for her to go. In spite of his attempts to reassure her, she could not help wondering at his motives.
He was ill; it was plain to see. Perhaps the fever that had plagued his sleep now took responsibility for his compliance, and even for his disturbing behavior in the coach. But the fever was only of small concern. He seemed almost glad of her going, as if he truly wanted her to leave and had agonized long and hard over schemes and plans to achieve that end. How fortuitous, it seemed, that he should accept her departure without so much as a grimace, without once expressing his former objections. His behavior, if not odd, caused her to fear for his safety. She feared what he had said the night before about his ‘lapse in judgment’ and that he yet harbored the foolish notion that his own mission remained unfinished.
Still, she could not bring herself to question him for fear of discovering his true intentions.
Perhaps it was nothing at all, she told herself as she dragged the brush through her hair and gathered it in a ribbon. It was all in her imagination—and rightly so. She was tense, anxious. The effects of Aderley’s letter had yet to impress upon her the full force of its disclosure. It was only natural that she should misinterpret Peter’s consent. It was only natural that she should harbor her own misgivings. She turned from the mirror, anxiously picking hair from the bristles.
“How do I look?” she asked, attempting to mask her disquiet.
Peter smiled sadly. “You look beautiful.”
“Do you think he’ll recognize me?”
“Foolish question! You’ve not changed a bit…except….” He laced his fingers together behind his head and studied her from top to toe. “Except that you’re even more lovely now…and….” His smile broadened; his eyes twinkled playfully. “When did you become so irresistibly buxom?”
She could not stop herself from smiling as she replaced the brush on the table. “You’re delirious. It must be the fever.”
“Come here.”
She sat eagerly at the side of the bed. Her smile faded quickly when he grazed her cheek with the back of his hand. She closed her eyes, reveling in his touch. “God knows I don’t want to leave you!” she whispered.
His hand slid slowly down to her shoulder and he drew her close. “You must go, Anne,” he said. “You owe it to yourself. You owe it to me. Haven’t you said it often enough? Our life together depends on it. You’ve battled to get this far, you mustn’t give up now.”
She nestled into him, her face in the hollow of his neck.
“Besides,” he continued, stroking her hair. “I’m appointing you my emissary. You have been designated! Tell your father I forgive him. Tell my father I love him. I depend on you.”
“I love you, Peter!”
He wrapped her in his arms. “There’s nothing for me without you. You know that, don’t you?”
His heat made her ache with longing. “Promise,” she said. “Promise you’ll stay here until you’re well.”
“I promise.”
“You’re not to do anything foolish.”
“I’m done doing foolish things!”
“You must swear it to me, Peter. I’ll not leave until you do. Swear…on whatever it is you hold most dear.”
“I swear on your life, then.”
“I must go…before I change my mind.”
“Oh, my sweet!” He tipped up her face. “I doubt I can wait! Already I miss you. Already I want you.”
Gently she extricated herself from his arms. “When you come for me, we’ll go home.”
He gazed at her with a look of such intensity that it took her aback. “Whatever happens, we’ll be together. I can’t live without you.”
All doubt flew from her mind. She believed him. With every ounce of her being, she knew he would keep his promise.