Juliet noted footsteps coming closer. She whirled to leave but heard more footsteps behind her. Not wanting to face anyone, servants or Aunt Margaret, she hastened for the long, empty passageway. The conversation between Aunt Margaret and Frances continued, but she did not comprehend the words. Lifting her skirts, she made for its far end. Reaching a door that was fortunately unlocked, she slipped inside and carefully closed it behind her. Then she stood for a long time, ear pressed against the ancient wood, listening. The sounds of footsteps and conversation died away. Silence fell. Juliet rested her forehead against the door, shutting her eyes.
“I should be happy,” she whispered. “Aunt Margaret is conspiring to match Horatio to Frances. I’m sure they will bevery happy together. I will be left alone. That is what I want. That is all I want. To be left alone.”
She choked back tears. It wasnotall she wanted.Allshe wanted was the extraordinary man that she had met by accident and was now drawn to.Inexorablydrawn to. She could not dispel from her memory the idea of the life she could have with him. A man who would not think her odd because she liked to help injured animals. He would probably not think it odd if she wished to study to become a veterinarian either. A handsome man who set her nerves tingling.
And he would have his own needs met by Frances. She would set his nerves tingling. She would kiss and touch him. Juliet felt a surge of jealousy. She spun around, hands clenched into fists at her side.
“It cannot be! It cannot be! I will die! I cannot have him!” she said over and over, trying to burn the words into her mind.
Then she saw the room in which she stood.
It was small and of an odd shape, with multiple sides at odd angles. Tall windows let in dim light. A single chair and table stood before a cold fireplace. Books littered the floor around the escritoire and chair and a portable bureau sat on the table. A cup sat next to the bureau, a teapot next to that.
Juliet approached the bureau, seeing the dregs of tea in the cup. The teapot was still warm. Her eyes went to a letter which lay upon the bureau, open. A sheet of paper sat next to it, with a quilland ink pot beside that. The words ‘My Dear Jane’had been written down, followed by a single drop of ink. As though the wet quill had hovered above the page, dripping ink, while the writer contemplated his next words.
That it was Horatio who had written the words was beyond doubt. She knew Aunt Margaret and Frances’ handwriting, and this was…different.
Her eyes went to the letter beside the one that Horatio had begun. It was addressed to him and signedMrs. Jane Bonel. She looked away.
“It is not my business. I must not pry,” she murmured aloud.
But her eyes were drawn to that letter. A letter written by a woman whom Horatio addressed as ‘My Dear Jane.’ With trembling fingers, she picked up the paper, unable to resist.
‘My dear Horatio,
I hope that I still have the right to call you that. It was how we addressed each other while we were betrothed.
As you may see from my signature, I am no longer Jane Ainsworth, but now bear the name Bonel. That was my husband. A kind and generous man of Carlisle, sadly passed and greatly missed. I have had a happy marriage with him and now find myself alone and thinking of what might have been.
I judged you on the word of a child. I should have trusted in the man I believed I loved. No, I must be honest. I did love, with all my heart. I was swept away by the circumstances. By the willingness of all present to believe the worst. I did not have the strength of character to stand up to them. Particularly my brother, Matthew. He had recently inherited after our father’s passing, as you know. And, as you also know, he has hated you since your school days together. He has never revealed to me the source of the enmity but its presence is undeniable. He forbade my marriage to you.
I did not tell you this at the time because I did not want to risk either of you calling out the other. He is my brother after all. What I now know is that when I defied his wishes and refused to break off our engagement, he formulated a wicked plan to incriminate you and drive us apart. He has not admitted it in so many words, but over the years, I have pieced it together. Lady Kimberley, whom you were accused of assaulting, was persuaded to lie. I believe the young girl who corroborated her story was part of the conspiracy. In fact, I know that a reward was given by my brother to the Godwin family, so she must have been acting in concert with Lady Meredith.
The duel was supposed to result in your death. I don’t think Matthew expected Lord Marlingford to lose. It is terrible for a sister to admit, but I believe the truth must come out. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. If you are ever in the north, I remain a resident of Carlisle and would receive you most gratefully.
Your once dearest, Jane Bonel’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thunder clouds were gathering on the horizon. A dark sky looming over the dark woods that surrounded Ravenscourt Castle.
Horatio, now appropriately dressed, walked the stone bridge that crossed the moat, watching the water where fish broke the surface to gulp down insects. Swallows darted from nooks among the eaves of the castle’s many roofs, looping and dancing through the air. There was a tension all around him, one he recognized as the harbinger of a storm.
Names cascaded through his mind.Jane Bonel. No longerJane Ainsworth. Married and widowed. Living in Carlisle of all places. LordMatthew Ainsworth, conspiring to engulf Horatio in scandal and drive a wedge between him and Jane. He knew that Matthew did not like Horatio courting his sister. The two had not been friends at school, though Horatio did not regard Matthew as an enemy. He wondered where the enmity had come from. Such enmity too.
And Juliet a part of it? That was the part that stung the most, Horatio realized. The part that he did not want to believe above all. To learn that Juliet suffered delusions was alarming. That everything she had told him might be a lie. Did he believe what Lady Margaret had told him? Again, he did not want to. His heart told him that it was not true. That the marriage of convenience might blossom into something more if allowed to.
“If I am free of all these plotters and schemers, for just a little while,” he muttered to himself.
He had not spoken to Juliet for five days now. Had not written his reply to Jane’s letter either. He had intended to write that he would come to Carlisle to see her. Then, that he would not, that too much had happened for a rekindling of their friendship, let alone anything more. Then he was going to burn her letter and pretend it had never arrived, that Jane did not exist. Nothing good could come of trying to recreate the past. She would be a different person. He certainly was. Why risk the pain and heartbreak when they met and discovered that the feelings they had once shared were no more?
He couldn’t decide.
Couldn’t decide if he needed to marry Frances in order to manage the scandal. Or Juliet. Or reject both and find a new strategy.
Both Lady Margaret and her daughter remained guests at Ravenscourt, clinging to his hospitality like whelks to a rock. Several times a day he made the decision to ask them to sendJuliet away. To forget the uncertainty that surrounded her and make his own life simple again. But each time, he stopped himself. Once, freezing on the threshold of Lady Margaret’s rooms, hand raised to knock at the door.
“Why can I not just send her away?” he wondered aloud, swiping at the branch that stood in his path.
