Chapter 10
She had caught the stage in Ravenscombe.
They made good time. The road, rutted and puddled, had taken them through spectacular chalk downs and pastures fenced by hedgerows, through humble villages and market towns and along the banks of a peaceful river that one of the other passengers said was the Thames. But heavy clouds foretold an early nightfall, and by the time they reached Hounslow, it had begun to rain.
Juliet watched the passing scenery with a sort of dismal fortitude. The weather reflected her spirits, though her future did not seem as bright as the green fields outside the window, the purple aubrietia that spilled over garden walls, the gay red and yellow tulips, the thousands of tiny daisies and dandelions that carpeted the grassy pastures. England's spring was well underway, but back in Boston, the flowers would only be just starting to bloom, as though unsure whether to emerge after a long and brutal winter.
Boston.
A town turned upside down, torn apart by war and strife. She gazed out the window, dry-eyed and unblinking. Not the best place for a young, unwed mother to bring up a baby and certainly, no longer a safe one. Especially when people thought you were a Loyalist.
And your baby's father was rumored to be one of the enemy.
She let her body rock with the motion of the coach. Best to stay in England, conserve the money the duke had given her, and find work in London as a wet nurse or something.
Rabbits sat up and watched from the verge as the coach hurtled past. Sheep grazed in distant pastures whose horizons vanished into gray mist and low, rushing clouds. A pheasant, calling in alarm, glided over a field of new, minty-green wheat. With a pang, Juliet thought of Andrew and his flying machine, of Nerissa defending him, of Gareth with his seductive, romantic eyes.
And of the duke.
From the moment Juliet had awoken that morning she knew that something must have happened overnight. She had heard the giggles of the chambermaids as they hurried past in the corridor outside. She had felt the tension in the air as she made her way down to breakfast. And she had seen it in His Grace's face when she quietly took her seat at the table.
He had not said a word to anyone as he sipped his black coffee and read his paper. His mood was such that even Nerissa and Andrew, exchanging swift, puzzled glances, had been uncharacteristically silent. Only the brief drumming of the duke's beringed fingers on the tabletop had betrayed some inner agitation that he had not allowed his face to show. He had waited only long enough for Nerissa and Andrew to make their excuses; then he'd stood up, his gaze falling on Juliet. "Come with me to the library," was all he'd said, and she had known then that the news was going to be bad.
She had seen the veiled shadows around his eyes, the weariness in his bleak and forbidding face as he leaned against the mantle and raked a hand through his hair. She had quietly taken a seat in response to his invitation — and then sat there feeling everything crash inside her as he had calmly explained that it was not possible for him to make Charlotte his ward.
He offered no explanations for his decision, nothing. Just said he could not do it.
And Juliet had stared at him numbly, as stunned and empty as a ship suddenly becalmed, holed, beginning to sink. This is it, then. Pretty much what I had expected, I guess. Farewell, hopes. Farewell, Charles, and your wish for your daughter's future. Farewell, de Montfortes, because I cannot stay here now..."
You are welcome to remain at Blackheath for as long as you wish, of course," the duke had murmured in that disaffected, benign way of his that said he really didn't care one way or another what she did. But Juliet couldn't remain. Not now. She had too much pride to throw herself on the charity of a man who did not want her little girl. She could not live in a house with him knowing how he felt, could not raise her daughter where she would grow up knowing she was not wanted by the man who fed and clothed her. Never. Far better to take her little baby far away, where her mother's love would enfold her and protect her from such people as her unfeeling uncle....
She had quickly packed her things. The duke had been waiting for her in the Great Hall, standing alone near the suits of medieval armor. The silence of the ages had echoed around him.
"I will tell my siblings of your decision after you have gone," he'd said simply. "Better not to make a scene, I think."
"But I should like to say good-bye —"
"It is for the best."
His face had been as much an enigma as the man himself. Wordlessly, he had escorted her out to his own private carriage waiting out in the drive to take her into Ravenscombe. There he had courteously handed her up into the vehicle, passed Charlotte to her, and stood there studying her for a long moment while the footmen had lashed her trunk to the top and a groom stood at attention by the horses' heads.
And then he had pulled a fat pouch from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.
"Take this. It will keep you and your daughter safe, even if I cannot."
Money. A lot of money. Her pride demanded she hand it back. Her practical nature, that he had so praised, bade her to accept and be grateful for it.
She had taken it. Thanked him for it. And seen, in his inscrutable black gaze, the brief gleam of something she could not identify before the door was shut, he bowing deeply, and the coach rolled down Blackheath's long drive of crushed stone, taking her away forever.
She had not looked back.
Now, as the stagecoach thundered down the road, the gray Thames occasionally peeping from behind the newly clothed stands of English oak, hawthorn, sycamore and chestnut, Juliet told herself she had no reason to grieve. After all, she hadn't really expected that one so high and mighty as the Duke of Blackheath would deign to acknowledge his own bastard child, let alone his brother's. She had known all along that he wouldn't help her, hadn't she?
But what about Lord Gareth? Why did he fail us, as well? I thought he was my friend.
She blinked back stinging tears of betrayal.
When the stage stopped at a coaching inn in Hounslow, she took a room for the night, deciding to continue on to London in the morning. Carrying Charlotte and her trunk, she stood at the counter and waited for the innkeeper to fetch a room key. The door stood open behind her. Rain fell steadily, plopping into puddles and making her feel all the more homesick and alone. Mixed scents of damp vegetation, horse manure, and hyacinth came in on the breeze, mingling with the stale aroma of beer and smoke, a scent that the rain seemed to bring out of the old stone walls of the coaching inn all the more.
She carried Charlotte up to their room, fighting despair and vowing to make the best of things. Beyond her window and the slate roof that shone with rain, she could see the trees waving in the breeze, dark against a dark sky. English rain, English cobbles, English trees, English wind. How out of place she felt. How far away from home. Oh, what she wouldn't give to have Charles here by her side....
Or even Lord Gareth, for that matter.
Pain sliced through her. Best not to think of the de Montfortes. Best to look forward, not backward. She washed the baby's napkins and hung them up to dry beside the fire, trying to take her mind off things and telling herself she wasn't as lonely as she suddenly felt. She put the duke's pouch of money beneath the pillow, fed Charlotte, then picked at the supper the landlord kindly sent up to her. But she kept seeing Gareth's charming smile, those romantic blue eyes. Kept seeing him lying in his bed, playing with Charlotte, laughing down at her as they raced home the day of that spring thunderstorm. A lump rose in her throat. She pretended that he meant nothing to her, absolutely nothing. She pretended that it really hadn't hurt that he had not come out to stop her from leaving — as she had thought that he would. And outside the rain still fell, that tarnal, infernal rain, streaming down the window's cracked glass and trickling down the slates, pulling at the awful lonesomeness until it became unbearable.
She felt suddenly alone in a world that was much, much bigger than herself.
A half-hour later, her dark hair hung in a plait down he
r back, her petticoats, gown, and cloak were draped over a chair, and she, clad only in her chemise, was sliding beneath the cold bedsheets, Charlotte beside her.
Outside, the rain fell softly, and somewhere in the distance sheep bleated, a lonely sound in the vast English night. She felt every one of the three thousand miles that separated her from Boston, from home. Her eyes burnd with sudden tears.
I failed you, Charles. I failed you, and your brothers failed us. I'm sorry. God help me, I'm sorry... I tried my best.
The back of her throat ached. Her nose burned. Beyond the window, the rain came down and down and down.
I will not cry.
Tears wouldn't win her a duke's sympathy. Tears wouldn't gain her a home, a family, or a future for her baby. Tears wouldn't change her situation one bit. She set her jaw and determined to cry no more, to get on with her life and make the best of things. As her mama used to say, the only thing tears ever brought a person were wrinkles before their time. She would not give in to them.
But a single one slipped down her cheek and melted into the pillow.
Then another.
Suddenly there was movement on the pillow beside her — Charlotte, reaching for her in the darkness, her little hand grasping. Swallowing hard, Juliet pushed her forefinger into the baby's palm, feeling the tiny fingers close around hers with surprising strength.
She choked back the sobs, reached deep inside herself and found strength. They were in this together, the two of them. She had failed Charles, but she would not fail her baby.
On that thought, Juliet closed her eyes, and eventually, lulled by the rain falling steadily beyond the windows, found sleep.