AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Most days it is like that, but it can rain. It can be cloudy and grey and we have frosts, too, sometimes. You are bound for the north-east coast of America, if I recall. That has cold, snowy winters.’
‘I may yearn after sunshine but I aim to find work where the commercial heart of the country is,’ he explained earnestly. ‘I have a living to earn.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘I am waiting to hear back from a number of businesses to whom I have written. Various trading concerns, you understand. Gray has been very helpful in finding recommendations and having checks carried out for me. I cannot afford to start off on the wrong foot with an unreliable company, there is too much at stake. I mean to make my life out there, not merely go for a few years.’
‘Marry and start a family in a new country?’ She liked his earnest enthusiasm.
‘Indeed.’ His voice was wistful for a moment. ‘It will be years before I can afford to support a wife and children, but that is my ambition.’
He’s a lonely man, Gaby thought. But not one to grab at happiness without thought for his responsibilities.
‘If you are able to investigate the market for port in Boston and the area, then I would be very interested to hear your thoughts on the matter,’ she said slowly, thinking it through as she spoke. ‘If I could export, then I would need an agent. But exporting port long distances by sea has proved tricky in the past. I can make no promises, you understand.
‘No, of course not.’ Pickford slowed down and turned to look at her. ‘If you can tell me more about the things I need to find out, you’ll find me a fast learner.’
‘Come to dinner tonight,’ Gaby offered. ‘My companion, Miss Moseley, will be there, naturally, and we can eat in the hotel dining room and talk.’
‘Thank you, I should like that.’
They began to stroll again, talking of other matters, but Gaby felt herself calm a little at the prospect of something positive to do, some aim that had nothing to do with Gray. What had sent him from London at such speed? She hoped there was nothing wrong... Then she reminded herself that Lord Leybourne was none of her business any longer, that he wanted nothing more to do with her and that she should feel the same about him.
And yet she could not help but worry.
* * *
Gray forced himself to sit still as the chaise jolted northward at ten miles an hour. There was nothing else to do. He couldn’t drive—that was in the hands of the pair of postilions, the new ones who had taken over at the last change at Biggleswade. He could not give in to the urge to abandon the chaise, hire a horse and gallop on because he had no way of knowing whether he could get reliable, fast remounts. Besides, there was no virtue in arriving home saddle-sore and exhausted.
He was an adult. He was responsible, so he had to be sensible and calm and think of something, anything, but the limp body of a small child. He should try to sleep so as to be rested to face whatever he found when he reached Winfell. He had to be strong for his mother and for Joanna and for himself, but when he forced the useless speculation and worry to the back of his mind all he could think about was Gabrielle and her insane plan to secure her precious quinta.
Gray knew he should value her honesty, the fact that she listened to her conscience and had been—finally—open with him. It did not help at all that he could feel nothing but hurt and resentment and a regret that he knew diminished him. Frustrated desire was one thing and, of course, no gentleman would try to persuade a reluctant woman against her will, however much he knew she yearned to give in. But the depth of his reaction warned him that this was more than simple sexual desire. He was falling for Gabrielle. Had fallen.
And she was a woman who was resolved not to wed. Ever. A woman who intended to get herself with child by some stranger, who would risk so much—her feelings, her safety, her reputation.
Gray shifted across the seat as though finding a different viewpoint through the glass in front of him could help. He could get her with child, he could keep her secrets—and... No. Not and. The word was but. But he could never, ever, give up a child of his to be raised a stranger, he knew that as clearly as he knew his own reflection in the mirror.
And how could he think about another child when he might have already lost one of his, his little Jamie. Bright as cut steel, active as a puppy, funny and loving and brave and, if he was conscious, wanting his father. Joanna would certainly be wanting him. He had convinced himself that at their age they needed the feminine influence of their grandmother more than they needed his daily presence. Now guilt for that ate away at him, a gnawing sensation beneath the worry. Was he a bad father? Could he add that to the thoroughly merited charge of being a poor husband?
You only married me because you thought it your duty, Portia had spat at him once, making duty sound like an accusation of the vilest kind of depravity. You ruined my life and then you think it can all be made well again with a wedding ring. Well, my lord, it cannot.
She had written to him when she had discovered that she was pregnant and the letter, much battered and soiled, had reached him in some remote Spanish village, months after she had sent it.
I hope you will be satisfied now. You have done your duty, married the Wronged Woman, planted an heir on her. The world will say what a fine fellow Colonel Graystone is. What a fine earl he will make one day.
At least I will have the raising of your son. Perhaps I can work out where your mother went wrong and rear a boy with a heart.
The chaise began to slow. Eaton Socon, Gray saw as he looked through the window and recognised the familiar shabby exterior of the White Horse. He resisted the temptation to pull out his pocket watch even though the passage of time felt as though he was walking through mud with blistered heels.
Portia never had the opportunity to raise her son. Gray was not at all certain that she had even been aware that she had borne him, or his twin sister. When a man returns from the wars eighteen months after his wife dies in childbed, no one is very eager to describe the harrowing details to him.
The watch was in his hand, although he had no recollection of taking it from the fob pocket. He watched the hand tick round for five minutes, then the chaise lurched into motion again and he tried to make his mind a blank. Strangely the blankness produced the image of a pair of expressive brown eyes, not scornful or imperious or even heavy with sensuality, but warm with sympathy and concern and understanding.
Gabrielle.
* * *
Gaby had confessed her scheme to bear a child to Gray and that had been a disaster. She would have said—been prepared to swear to it—that she would die rather than admit it to anyone else. It was a shock to find herself, only three days after he had left so mysteriously for the north, curled up on the sofa in her new drawing room and telling Henry, as Mr Pickford had rapidly become, all about it.
