Rules of Marriage, page 30
Releasing her, he sat up and ran his hand through his hair. His voice was soft but firm as he ground out his words slowly. “I do not want gratitude from you, Rachel.”
“I’m . . . not sure I can give you what you do want.” She struggled with her own ambivalent feelings.
“You can’t love me? Is that it?” Sounding angry now, he started to pull on his trousers. He stood and looked down at her. “Then what the hell was this all about?”
She reached a hand toward him in a supplicating gesture, but he ignored it. He held her gaze until she was forced to look away from the pain and anger she saw in his eyes.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Please, Jake. Try to understand. It ... it isn’t that I cannot love you. It’s just ... well ... I am not sure I want to be a wife again. Can we ... can we not continue as we are?” She stifled tears that threatened.
Shaking his head in confusion, he sat again on the edge of the bed. “You’d rather be my mistress than my wife? For God’s sake, why?”
She sat up, oblivious to her nakedness as the sheet slid down to her lap. “I’m not sure I can make you understand, but a ... a mistress is more independent—has more control over her life. Don’t you see, Jake? I’ve never, ever been free. In my whole life, I have never been the one to direct its course.”
“You think marrying me would restrict your freedom?”
“It isn’t you, Jake—it’s the idea of being married.”
He was silent for a long while, looking at some nothingness above her head. Finally, he brought his gaze back to meet hers. She found it difficult to read the expression there.
His voice was hard, almost toneless. “Be honest with me, Rachel. Have you met someone else?”
“Have I—? Someone else?” Anger quickly replaced her surprise. “For heaven’s sake, Jake! How could you possibly think—? After ... after this?” She gestured to the crumpled bedding. “You certainly have a fine opinion of me, haven’t you?”
“Yes. So fine that I’ve just ask you to marry me.” The bitterness in his tone belied the beauty of his words. He stood and turned away from her as he continued to get dressed.
“Can we not go on as we are, though?” she pleaded. He was silent as he sat in a nearby chair to pull on his boots. Finally, fully dressed now, he stood and looked down at her. “I was prepared to do just that when I thought you legally tied to one so undeserving of you. I’m not at all sure that will be enough now.”
“Enough for whom?” She was becoming angry at his apparent refusal to understand her position.
“Enough for me,” he snapped. “And for you, too, if you’d only think it through.”
“I have thought it through. I’ve had several weeks in which to do so. I want to be in control of my life—to be independent.”
“Fine. I wish you well of your independence.” He turned toward the door.
“Jake! You’re leaving—just like that? And just because you cannot dictate the terms of our ... our being together?”
He paused on the threshold. His voice, calmer now, was laced with both sadness and bitterness. “I’ll be back, Rachel. I won’t be able to stay away. That is ... if I will be welcomed?”
“Of course,” she said, trying for equal calm. “You are the dearest friend I have ever had.”
He grimaced at this, gave her a little bow, and then he was gone.
Rachel buried her head in her pillow—a pillow that still smelled pleasantly of Jake—and dissolved into tears.
As he left her building, Jake encountered Humphrey and Luisa returning from their walk. They were obviously surprised to see him out on the street so soon. Jake murmured something inane about needing to see the rest of his family.
“You have my direction at my mother’s house?” he asked Humphrey.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I shall expect you tomorrow morning and we can at least see to your wedding.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
As he strode away, Jake heard Luisa say, “They’ve quarreled.”
He walked all the way to his mother’s house. It was in a more fashionable neighborhood than Rachel’s, but not quite so fashionable as that of Lounsbury House. However, Major Lord Jacob Forrester paid little heed to his surroundings. Hurt, confused, and very, very angry, he kept asking himself the same questions over and over. Why was she refusing him? How could she respond so eagerly to his lovemaking and remain indifferent to his proposal? And what was this nonsense about freedom and independence? He was offering her a name any other woman would be glad to have—and a way of life many would envy.
His mother’s butler answered his knock. “We’ve been expecting you, my lord. Her ladyship is in the drawing room.”
Jake took the stairs two at a time. He was determined to put the recent scene with Rachel aside for the time being.
His mother rose from a small writing table and swept him into her arms. Her voice caught as she said, “Jake, darling, I am so glad to have you home at last!”
“It’s good to be here.” He hugged her tightly and whirled her around. “How’s my favorite mother?”
“Your favorite mother? I used to be your favorite girl. Oh, Jake—have you at last found someone to love?”
Oh, Lord, he thought. Trust his far-too-observant mother to cut right to the core immediately. “Perhaps,” he said cautiously.
“But . . . how could you have done so? You’ve been home a few hours at best. Ah! Someone you met in the Peninsula? Is she English? Will I like her?”
He laughed and drew her to sit with him on a settee. “Yes. Someone I met in the Peninsula. She saved my life and I know I wrote you of her at the time. Yes, she is English. I don’t know, but I hope you will like her. Do you? You have met her.”
“I have?” She was obviously surprised.
“Rachel Brady. Aylesworth’s niece.”
“Mrs. Brady? The widow. Yes, I did meet her. Quiet, but amiable. Well, if she saved your life, my son, I do, indeed, like her prodigiously.”
He hugged her again at this, but said nothing.
“Jake? There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
He still said nothing, trying to think how much to tell her.
“Jake?” she prompted. “Is Mrs. Brady related to this Edwin Brady—or should I say Mullens?—that Robert has been investigating?”
“He told you?”
“He asked me if I knew of a maid named Brady. Of course I knew. A thing like that cannot remain a secret long in a closed community like that around Lounsbury Manor.”
“You knew the whole of it? And it didn’t bother you?”
“Of course it bothered me, my dear. But I was so young and as it happened before my marriage was contracted, I was able to put it aside.” She paused. “It was later ... other ... uh ... situations ... that I found difficult to accept.” She ended on a despairing note, then she brightened. “Now—tell me about your Rachel.”
And he did. He told her the whole of it—Rachel’s nursing him back to health, her abuse from her “husband,” the sale, Morton’s attack, her taking a bullet meant for Jake, and his falling in love with her. Finally, he revealed Rachel’s refusal to marry him.
Through it all, the Dowager Marchioness of Lounsbury murmured sympathetically now and then, asked several questions, and finally said, “She sounds a remarkable young woman, and I cannot but be grateful to her.”
“But she has this maggot in her brain about her freedom and independence—and, frankly, Mother, I simply do not know how to fight this!”
She patted his hand. “Then don’t. Don’t fight it. Give her time, Jacob. Give her time—and don’t crowd her. Time is on your side, for I suspect your Rachel cares for you very deeply.”
“Ha! She has a strange way of showing it.”
“She put herself between you and a bullet that might have killed you,” his mother reminded him.
“Yes, she did, didn’t she?”
“I think I understand her desire to be in charge of her own ... well ... her self, if you will.”
“Well, I certainly do not!” he said vehemently.
“Of course not. You’re a man. You’ve never not had control of your life. When your father died, I mourned him, of course. I loved him despite his ... his peccadilloes. But then I felt guilty because I was actually enjoying my freedom. I had never been free to make my own independent choices. My parents had always told me what to do, when to do it, how to behave. Then I married and Lounsbury had some very rigid ideas on the role his wife should fulfill.”
“Rachel’s husband—that is, Brady—beat her, I think.”
“And she was powerless against such abuse. But there are many kinds of abuse, son. She probably bears scars of a different sort, too.”
He gave his mother a penetrating look of understanding. “I’m sorry, Mother. I never knew . . .”
Again she patted his hand. “You were not meant to. Besides, you were away at school all those years and then off to India at such an early age ... but back to my point. Your Rachel needs time—time to relish her independence, and time to realize just what a treasure she has in you.”
“Hmm.” Jake was not convinced, but what choice had he?
His mother rose to tug on the bellpull. “Now, before I send you off to dress for dinner, tell me—who is that child who arrived on my doorstep with your man Henry this morning?”
Jake slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Juan! I forgot all about him. He’s all right, I hope?”
She laughed. “I think he and his dog—from which he seems positively inseparable—have created havoc in the servants’ quarters, but Henry seems to have control of the situation.”
“Good.” He told her a very brief version of Juan’s story. “Ultimately, I shall take him to the abbey with me, but for now...”
“For now, he is fine where he is, poor child.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
To Rachel’s surprise and disappointment, Jake did not call on her the next day. Humphrey did call on Luisa and the two of them busied themselves with their wedding plans. When Rachel would have excused herself to leave them to their planning, they begged her to stay.
“The major, he’s off to Doctor’s Commons for a special license even as we speak,” Humphrey announced.
This information eased Rachel’s pain at Jake’s absence only slightly.
“Oh, Rachel,” Luisa begged, “you will stand up with me, will you not?”
“Of course, my dear. I shall be honored to do so.”
Luisa bubbled on. “Major Forrester will be Will’s witness and Will says Captain Hastings will be there, too.”
“Aye. And the Binghams,” Humphrey said. “They’re staying in town just to see me tie the knot.”
Two days later, the wedding took place in a private drawing room in the same hotel, Grillon’s, that Luisa and Rachel had stayed in earlier. Because a special license had been procured, Luisa and her sergeant exchanged vows late in the afternoon rather than in the morning hours. The hotel laid out a fine supper, and three musicians had been hired to provide music.
Rachel had wondered only briefly who was paying for such a lavish affair for an enlisted man and his bride. Of course it was Jake.
“You know,” Luisa confided, “my Will objected. But the major, he insist. He say Will ‘saved his bacon’ in India and this was the least he could do. What means ‘save his bacon’?”
Rachel laughed and explained the phrase. She was determined to be happy for Luisa and her Will. Hastings and the Binghams did attend, along with Ferguson and MacLachlan. Rachel was reminded of their Christmas dinner—and saddened by those missing. When the bridal couple toasted “absent friends,” she thought of the Paxtons and Travers and Corporal Collins and felt tears spring to her eyes. She looked at Jake, and he smiled his understanding.
His smile melted her nervousness. She spent the rest of the party happily talking with other guests, including Juan and Henry. Juan fairly preened in his new clothing. That he was very glad to see Rachel again was apparent in the way he hovered near her and seemed to lean into her touch if she patted his shoulder or touched his arm. Henry, too, greeted her warmly.
The usually brusque, reserved MacLachlan surprised her by giving her a hug. “I’ve missed you, lass. I understand you’ve not given up your hospital work.”
“That is true,” she said, “but how did you know?”
“I’ll be there myself in a couple of weeks. Soon as I can get up north to the lowlands and bring my wife back. Ferguson’s already on staff here.”
Rachel had known that Mac was married, but she had not before really thought of him as anything but a surgeon. “I hope I will meet the woman who can handle you, Mac!”
“Oh, you will. You will, indeed. I’ve written her all about you, and she’s anxious to meet the only woman who’s ever been a serious rival!” He laughed his booming laugh.
Luisa and Will would spend their wedding night in a room above stairs and would depart early the next morning for Wiltshire, where Will would take up duties as an assistant to Jake’s steward. When the bride and groom left the party, it broke up, and Rachel gladly accepted Jake’s offer to see her home.
Henry and Juan were in the carriage already when Jake handed her in. She fully expected him to send them on when they arrived at her place, but he did not do so. Instead, he walked her to her door and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek before Ellison opened the door to admit her.
“Good night, Rachel. I’ll see you soon.”
She did see him occasionally over the next few weeks. They often attended the same social affairs, though rarely together. He was cordial and friendly, but without the teasing familiarity that had been so much a part of their friendship. He even paid her an occasional morning call, but never stayed longer than propriety dictated, nor discussed any but mundane matters. There were no passionate kisses, nor any lovemaking.
With Luisa’s marriage, the Duke and Duchess of Aylesworth had renewed their invitation for Rachel to stay at their house. When she demurred at this, they sent Libby’s cousin Dorothea to stay with her, for it would not do—not at all—for a young woman to live alone, widow or no. Herself a widow, Dorothea was a rather colorless, complaisant woman. Rachel did not find her a particularly warm personality, but Dorothea was cordial and polite, so Rachel had no strong objections to her as a companion. She did miss Luisa, though.
Confused and hurt by what she saw as Jake’s being standoffish, she assumed he was still angry about her refusal to marry. Now that she saw him so often, she missed their easy camaraderie even more than she had when she had first returned to England and he remained in the Peninsula. And, Lord! how she missed his kisses and his lovemaking!
If he chanced to dance with another woman at some social affair, Rachel found herself fiercely resentful of his partner. On the rare occasions when he sought her partnership, she steeled herself against clinging to him. Always the familiar smell of sandalwood and his mere touch would send her senses reeling. Each time, she swore that next time she would be able to school herself against such a reaction. She never quite managed to do so.
Her pride forbade her admitting to any but herself that she was lonely, despite an active social life and her work at the hospital. The loneliness was only partly balanced by her sense of independence. She did not want anyone else telling her what to do, but it would be nice to have someone with whom she could discuss the options. It would be nice if that someone were Jake—again.
England was beside herself in celebrating victory over the despised Napoleon Bonaparte. The pace of celebration had picked up during the last two weeks of May. In June, the island kingdom saw the arrival of the Prussian King Frederick William and the Russian Czar Alexander. In addition, the Prussian general, von Blücher, made many public appearances and was a great favorite with England’s common people.
“For his prodigious drinking,” Dorothea said, “as much as his role in defeating Bonaparte!”
There was also the ongoing tragical farce—or was it a farcical tragedy?—of the Prince Regent’s marital problems—all played out in a very public forum. Even in the Peninsula, the Regent’s subjects had heard of the royal fiasco—the Prince of Wales and his extramarital affairs overshadowed occasionally by his flamboyant estranged Princess and hers. One afternoon in late June, Rachel called upon the Duchess of Aylesworth to find the hostess’s drawing room abuzz with the latest escapade.
A middle-aged matron known to be an inveterate gossip was holding forth. “I tell you, my dears, it was a sight to behold! There was our Prince on one side of the theater—resplendent in his royal box with his royal guests, accepting the accolades of his public, waving grandly to those below.”
Another chimed in. “And then she arrived in the box opposite—for she is never invited to join him, you know.”
“She?” someone asked innocently.
“Caroline, of course. Caroline of Brunswick. Future Queen of England.”
“Unless Prinny can find a way to be rid of her.”
Well, Rachel thought, the Princess was probably in no danger of being sold. Then her attention was pulled back to the story at hand.
“When she entered her box—directly across from his, mind you—the theater audience went mad—simply mad— showing their support for her and, incidentally, turning their backs on him.”
“That must have been quite a blow to Prinny’s pride.”
“Oh, it was. To be sure, it was! And then—oh, it was too much—just too much—the Prussian king and Russian czar bowed to her! Prinny could not but do the same!”
“I wish I could have seen his expression.” This comment put Rachel in mind of vultures picking over a carcass.
“I felt so embarrassed for him,” said the first speaker, whose tone lacked any semblance of sincerity.
Soon the duchess pointedly changed the subject, but the Prince’s private woes continued to fascinate his public throughout the summer. The social season was prolonged this year to allow for a succession of extravagant celebrations. For the first time in a period spanning more than two decades, the nation was not at war with France. The glorious victory over Napoleon was only slightly tarnished by the fiasco in the former colonies. The fighting continued there, and many seasoned veterans of the war against Napoleon were being deployed to what was now known as the United States.
