He stood beneath the overhanging branches of a large oak tree in the far corner of the graveyard, protected from the curious gazes of the milling crowd. Leaning against the rough bark, he stood in the shadows and watched the guests arrive. He was only interested in one.
After several moments he shifted slightly and pushed away from the tree, his gaze locked on the open-topped carriage that rumbled to a stop at the gate. His eyes were locked on the red- haired beauty who stepped down from a carriage and smiled at Sir Hugo Dunniclifffe.
Her wild tangle of hair had been coiled into a fashionable style that made her look graceful and elegant. The pale muslin dress had clearly been purchased for the occasion, and fitted her perfectly. His chest puffed out in pride as he watched the elegant way she glided up the path on Sir Dunnicliffe’s arm as though she belonged there. He watched as she smiled up at something Sir Dunnicliffe said, her face alight with such joy that she turned from pretty to beautiful in an instant.
The man longed to be able to walk over to her and for her to smile at him in the same way, but he knew it wasn’t possible. Not now. Over the past few weeks he had done what he had been forced to do in an attempt to stop them from putting her at risk, and it had all nearly gone so horribly wrong. She didn’t know how much he had been involved - and must never know.
He watched with a sense of loss as she disappeared into the church. Even if he could get her to talk to him, he knew what she would say and he couldn’t blame her. He had made such a horrible mess of things, and had left it too late to put matters right. The distance between them couldn’t be bridged. But it didn’t stop him loving her.
With a regretful glance at the church door, he didn’t wait to watch the arrival of the brides, and simply melted into the shadows.
People from far and wide had travelled to watch the spectacle that was about to take place in the small church nestled in the peaceful tranquillity of the Willowbrook estate in rural Oxfordshire. The excited chatter of the large crowd gathered outside grew as a highly polished black carriage, with a large gold crest emblazoned on its side, pulled by four perfectly matching grey horses, rumbled to a stop outside the small wooden gate.
Anticipation settled over the crowd as they silently watched two liveried footmen jump down from the carriage, drop the step and open the door. The crowd waited for their first sight of the brides.
Although the church was too small to accommodate all the servants, friends, relations and acquaintances who wanted to attend the weddings of the year, those who couldn’t fit into the church didn’t mind waiting outside, as long as they got to see the brides and grooms later.
There had been a lot of rumours and gossip since the broadsheets had covered the story announcing the capture and sentencing of Rogan Scraggan Junior and Rogan Scraggan Senior, two of Cornwall’s most notorious and ruthless smugglers. Their capture had been attributed to the extraordinarily brave efforts, and sacrifice, of Jemima and Eliza Trevelisk, whose father, the magistrate, had been brutally slain by the Rogan men. They had kept vital information out of Rogan’s hands long enough to get it to the authorities, who had been able to not only disband the smuggling operation, but capture several French spies hidden in the country, as well as the network of people who had been employed to house them.
The Prince Regent had been so grateful for the part they had played that he had offered them a reward for their efforts, bestowing both women with a title and a small fortune to spend as they wished.
The noise from the crowd fell to a hush as the head of the Cavendish family left the church and moved to wait beside the open door, handing Jemima down the narrow steps as though she were a princess.
She was a vision in her pale blue dress, edged in delicate lace, the flowing silk of her skirts emphasising her slenderness and tiny waist. Her long hair had been arranged in a cascade of curls that highlighted her beautiful amber eyes and long elegant neck.
She smiled hesitantly at Dominic, who stood proud and tall as he held out his elbow.
“Ready?” he asked, trying hard not to fidget. He had known she was beautiful, but the woman before him was simply stunning, and he couldn’t wait to see Peter’s face when he first set eyes on her. He felt so proud that he almost felt he would burst out of his shirt. But he didn’t, merely squared his shoulders as far as they would go, and grinned at anyone and everyone.
They stood and waited as Eliza appeared in the doorway of the carriage, gracefully accepting the hand Sebastian offered. In a pale green silk gown, also edged in delicate lace, she was as stunning as her sister. Her hair had been styled more elaborately and elegantly. The small wild flowers liberally dotted throughout her curls gave a gypsy look that accentuated her gorgeous eyes.
Everyone smiled at the smattering of applause, accompanied by ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the crowd as they jostled for position to get a better look at the stunning brides. Children held out their hands, having never seen such beauty before, trying to touch the pretty ladies as they glided past, only to be held back and scolded by their mothers, who wiped tears from their eyes.
With broad grins, Dominic and Sebastian slowly escorted the ladies down the narrow pathway toward the door of the packed church, escorting their precious charges inside to their waiting grooms.
The church was so small that it didn’t have room for an organ, but that didn’t matter. The congregation fell into a stunned silence as they watched first Eliza, then Jemima, glide effortlessly down the aisle on the arms of two very proud men.
Jemima felt the sting of tears as she caught sight of Peter standing tall and resplendent in his elegant suit. His gaze was locked onto her as he watched her approach with nothing less than adoration in his eyes. He closed his mouth as she stopped beside him, and he raised her hand and kissed the back of it. The dark pools of his eyes held the wealth of emotion he couldn’t voice, and he had to cough to clear the lump in his throat.
Eliza drew to a halt beside Edward, who hastily wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and stared lovingly down at the woman beside him. He couldn’t believe this day had finally arrived, and the stunning vision beside him was going to be his wife. Love was such a small word to describe the depth of devotion he had in his heart.
“I love you,” he mouthed silently, watching as Eliza smiled mistily back at him.
Eliza smiled at the gusty wail of the tiny baby behind her, and turned to look at Isobel, proudly holding her son in her arms. Hugo Sebastian Edward Cameron Cavendish had been born two weeks ago, during a particularly heavy thunder storm that was being heralded as the storm of the year.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today -”
The words disappeared into the background as Peter stared at his future wife as she stood bathed in the multi coloured sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window at the far end of the church. To him she looked like a golden angel as she stood and listened to the service.
Sensing his eyes upon her, Jemima turned and stared into the eyes of the man who held her heart. All the pain, fear, worry and doubt had been banished and replaced by the bright twinkle of absolute joy clearly evident in the loving gaze he made no attempt to break.
A discreet cough behind them was enough to bring them back to the vicar’s solemn words, and they waited for the moment when they would finally bind their lives together; forever.
Although May had been reasonably warm, in Bodmin, dark storm clouds gathered menacingly. The sea fog had rolled further inland than usual, leaving the air moist and humid.
In a solitary cell in the lower regions of the gaol, Rogan Scraggan stared blankly at the wall. He still wasn’t sure how he had managed to lose control so quickly. His biggest mistake was in trusting his right-hand man to ensure that Jemima Trevelisk was hanged. He had stupidly remained in Cornwall to oversee his gang, and had waited anxiously for news of her fate. He had thought that, once convicted and condemned, the gaol would actually carry out the punishment meted out to her. He had never considered that he would be fooled so easily. He should have killed the bitch himself the moment he had laid eyes on her.
At first he had found it funny when she had run, and in her stupidity she had left a trail a mile wide for his men to follow. It hadn’t taken many resources to follow her to Derby, and set about his plans, although she did keep moving around, which was damned inconvenient. But his men did their job, kept an eye on her, kept breathing down her neck and making her unsettled, while they worked out their ultimate plans.
His thoughts immediately turned to his son, and he wondered if it was over yet.
Since his arrival at the gaol, he had been kept away from the other prisoners, mainly for his own safety. There was a lot of anger toward him from the other prisoners who had either been conscripted into joining Scraggan’s gang, or had relatives who had been victims of his ruthless regime. Not wanting to be cheated of the opportunity to carry out the execution, the gaol had kept him in a cell by himself.
All week he had been in a cell at the rear of the gaol, overlooking the inner courtyard. He had heard the hammering and sawing as the gallows had been constructed and, with nothing else to do, had stood on his small wooden cot and stared out through the bars. Only yesterday he had watched first his right-hand man, then his best and most trusted associates, being led out, one by one, to meet their fate.
He felt sick to his stomach. If he had a knife, he would have cut his own throat there and then and saved himself the ordeal that lay ahead. Each man they had hanged yesterday had lingered. With no relatives or friends allowed to watch the hangings, the men had not had anyone to pull their legs and quicken their fate, leaving them to die a slow and painful death.
No sooner had the hangings taken place than gaolers had arrived and moved him to a cell in the darkest reaches of the hellhole and left him. He had been fed a little, and given a little water. That morning, one of the gaolers had informed him that his son was being hanged at first light at Newgate. The gruel they called breakfast that he had thrown at the bars wasn’t any great loss. He didn’t care about anything now anyway. He had nothing left.
His money was gone, stolen by the Redcoats. All his best and most trusted men had been hanged. Even his precious son had been put to death. His home had been raized to the ground by an army determined to ensure anyone who had escaped their net would have no base to work from. Although he would rather have his teeth pulled out than admit it, he had been reduced to nothing.
The sunlight had not even bothered to make an appearance, having long since given way to the continuous drizzle that hung in the air. Although he knew it was going to happen, he still jumped when the heavy iron bolt on the cell door was drawn back, the sound echoing hollowly around the stone walls. He closed his eyes and then glared sullenly at the two men who entered. His small eyes were almost feral as he stared spitefully at them.
They had no doubt he would have killed them had he been given half the chance, and had been alerted to remain on guard to stop him taking his own life.
Scraggan had no doubt they were enjoying being able to mete out justice to one of Cornwall’s most notorious criminals. Still, he may be down but he certainly wasn’t out just yet and he was determined not to go without a fight.
They unchained him from the wall, dragging him unceremoniously across the floor when he refused to walk. He traded curses and insults with the inmates who shouted through the bars at him, dragging his heels to make it harder for the gaolers to lead him. Nevertheless, he was brought before the waiting ironmonger who quickly hammered the chains apart and released the manacles.
Scraggan glared at the two men standing on either side of the ironmonger while he worked, clearly armed with pistols. He had no doubt they would wound him and hang him anyway and, although angry, Scraggan was no idiot and didn’t see why he should make his last few minutes in the world harder than they needed to be. His face was a blank mask of fury as his hands were wrenched roughly behind his back.
The vicar who hesitantly came forward to issue his last rights and pray with him was told roughly where he could shove his bible.
Preliminaries concluded, Scraggan walked down the long corridor toward the shaft of light leading to the courtyard. He ignored the barrage of insults, spittle and hatred thrown at him as he passed, staring blankly ahead with a hard smile on his face.
Despite his bravado, he swallowed harshly as he saw the waiting gallows. He was dragged down the flight of steps into the waiting courtyard and shoved roughly across the uneven cobbles to the steps. Six steps took him upward to the flat square of wooden planks with the trap door clearly visible in the middle. The loop of rope swung in the breeze. Wearing nothing but his breeches and a thin cotton shirt, Scraggan shivered as he was blasted by the cold wind. In the distance he could hear the ringing of metal and glanced over at the gaol, cursing roundly when he saw the sea of faces staring through the bars to watch his death. If he could have spit that far, he would have given each man an eyeful. Instead, he gritted his teeth and ignored the shouts of encouragement to the hangman, who was waiting for his next victim.
Scraggan had to be shoved into position above the trap door. His last view of the world was of the small open square of earth that lay waiting. The rough material of the hood shoved over his head did little to block out the shouts and laughter, and he began to pray silently as he waited.
On the high walls of Bodmin Gaol that circled the grey courtyard sat a solitary rook, the harbinger of death, watching the proceedings with a beady eye. His loud caw of delight was cut short by a loud crack, that startled the bird off his perch. He dipped and swooped around the yard, cawing loudly in alarm as the body beneath him danced and jerked.
Sensing death, the rook headed in search of warmth and, with a loud squawk of warning, flew high into the sky, happily leaving the death and misery behind.
In Oxfordshire, cheering crowds clapped and threw rice and rose petals at the couples who swept joyously out of the church.
Edward nodded to several acquaintances, and accepted their congratulations with a huge grin of relief. His eyes met and held those of his wife for several moments as he tried to silently convey his delight.
“You know what they are waiting for, don’t you?” he murmured, eyeing his wife’s soft lips with a cheeky grin.
Puzzled, Eliza shook her head and barely had a moment to gasp before she was swept into his arms. There, amid the raucous cheers and laughter of a delighted crowd, she was kissed thoroughly by her new husband.
Peter laughed and gazed lovingly at his wife.
“Come here,” he whispered, drawing her away from the crowds and over to a quieter part of the graveyard.
There, below the heavily laden branches of a sweet-smelling apple blossom tree, he took his wife into his arms, savouring the feel of her against him.
“You look stunning, darling,” he whispered softly.
“Thank you,” Jemima replied with a gentle smile. “I don’t think I have ever thanked you for following me when I left Devon. A lot of men would have run a mile at the first scent of trouble.”
“Mmm, believe me, there have been moments when I had my doubts about the wisdom of pursuing you. But seeing as there was no one else -” he laughed when Jemima whacked him playfully on the shoulder.
“I do love you,” she whispered, all her love, longing and contentment in her gaze as she studied him.
Peter’s chest swelled with pride. “And I love you, my darling Jemima,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Jemima chuckled as a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the tree, showering them with a feather-light cascade of apple blossom.
Revelling in being carefree at last, she tipped her head back and allowed the silken leaves to tickle her cheeks and nose as she relished having her husband’s arms around her.
There, under the falling leaves of the apple blossom tree, Peter answered the calls of the jubilant crowd and claimed his wife’s lips for a very thorough kiss.
“Come on, darling,” he whispered several moments later when he finally released his wife’s lips, “let the celebrations begin.”
“Amen to that,” Jemima whispered.
The End
Other books in this series:
If You Were Mine
Cinders and Ashes
Chasing Eliza
Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe will be released in summer 2013
Further details of all Rebecca’s books can be found on her website:
Rebeccaking-author.co.uk