down by the head of the sofa where Beth lay. Sitting down, he took her left hand in both of his. His clasp was gentle and reassuring. She felt calluses on his palm from riding and fencing. This was no sprig of fashion but a man of action. ‘Perhaps you could think of it, not as revenge on petty coxcombs, but as a favour for Mr and Mrs Aubrey? They have sheltered you, and accepted you as if you were a member of their own family. It is an insult to
Beth could now see precious little. Her vision was blurry, as if she were trying to see through a howling gale. The touch of his skin on hers was flooding her whole body with heat, making her heart swell and race. She was terrified by his proposal, yet at the same time she felt light-headed, as if she might float away. When she tried to speak, no words came out.
‘Miss Beth? Will you not agree? For Mrs Aubrey’s sake?’
She had no choice. ‘I will do what you ask,’ she said, in a rather strangled whisper.
‘Thank you, Beth.’ He raised her hand and kissed it, just as he had kissed Mrs Aubrey’s.
But Mrs Aubrey could not have felt the surge of heat that travelled through Beth’s fingers and up her arm. It was not quite pleasure, and not quite pain, but she almost cried out in shock. She sat quite motionless, trying to recover her wits. He had kissed her hand! And he had called her by her given name! She must be back in one of her unfathomable dreams.
Jonathan, it seemed, had noticed nothing. After a second, he laid her hand back in her lap, replaced the hard chair by the door and resumed his seat by Mrs Aubrey. ‘Excellent. I must look to you to oversee the arrangements, ma’am, for I am promised to King’s Portbury for the next few weeks. But before I leave Fratcombe, you and I shall put our heads together and decide precisely who is to be invited. Oh, I am going to enjoy this!’
Mrs Aubrey was beginning to look a little prim. ‘They shall be punished for their lack of Christian charity, Master Jonathan, but do not forget your own, in the process. Forgiveness is a virtue, you know. You must not enjoy yourself too much. That could be a sin.’
He nodded. ‘I will try to suppress my baser instincts. And with you as my partner in this enterprise, ma’am, I am sure that generosity and forgiveness will prevail.’ Laughter burst out of him like ginger beer from a shaken bottle. ‘They will prevail, I promise you. Eventually.’
‘What will?’ The door had opened without a sound. The rector stood there, looking puzzled. ‘Do I take it that you and my lady wife have been conspiring together, Jonathan?’
Jonathan leapt to his feet to bow politely. ‘Your wife has most generously agreed to act as hostess for an evening party I plan to give at the Manor next month, sir. I hope you do not object?’
The rector’s cheery countenance suddenly became bleak. ‘Of course not. I appreciate that entertaining must be quite awkward for you now. I…we heard about the death of your wife, Jonathan, and we were very sorry. It must have been hard on you, hearing such sad news when you were so far away. Please accept our very sincere condolences.’
Jonathan’s face had turned ashen. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Beth could barely recognise him. The mention of his dead wife had turned him grey and gaunt. It was as though he had aged on the spot, by at least ten years. He must have loved his late wife a great deal if his grief could do that. The fact that he had been in Spain, and unable to leave his post, would have cut him to the quick. No doubt, his countess was long buried by the time the news finally reached him. Poor, poor man.
‘Your wife died of a fever, I collect?’ As he always did, the rector was being kind to the bereaved, giving them an opportunity to talk about the person they had loved and lost.
Jonathan drew himself up very straight and tall. He seemed to have sucked in his cheeks. His nostrils were pinched. ‘I am grateful for your sympathy, sir. If you will forgive me, I prefer not to discuss my late wife’s passing. It is well over a year ago now, you understand.’
The rector coloured. ‘Yes, of course, my boy. Of course.’
The easy companionship in the little parlour had evaporated. Jonathan bowed to Mrs Aubrey and then, very sketchily, to Beth. ‘If you will excuse me now, ladies, I have a great deal of business to attend to before I leave Fratcombe.’ He bowed again to the rector. In a trice, he was gone.
Beth flung herself out of bed and just managed to reach the basin in time. It was months since she had suffered one of her sick headaches, but yesterday’s encounter with Jonathan had brought back all her guilty fears. She had been tossing and turning all night. Now she had a pounding head, and sickness, as well.
She felt for her towel, dipped it in the cold water in the ewer, and wiped her face. Then she crawled back to bed, and lay there, panting. No point in trying to light her candle. At this stage in her headache, she would barely be able to see. It would be like standing in a dark, narrow tunnel, with occasional pulses of painfully bright light striking into her eyes like arrows.
She tried to push aside her fears, to blank her mind, but the ideas kept on drumming like a nasty refrain. She had agreed to take the place of honour at a Fratcombe Manor dinner. She would have to suffer all those pointing fingers, all those whispered insults. She deserved them, for she was a nobody, perhaps even a fugitive. But she had agreed. She could not escape.
The nausea gripped her again and she raced for the basin. This time she carried it back to the bed and laid it carefully on the floor. This was going to be very bad. Usually, her headaches lasted only an hour or two, at most. Usually, she managed to conceal her pain from the Aubreys and even from Hetty. But usually there was no sickness. Sickness was impossible to hide.
For a long time, she lay on her back, eyes closed, trying to control her body. She was shivering as if it were winter rather than midsummer. She tried to breathe deeply, to think of innocent, beautiful things, like summer flowers and laughing children. Eventually, the shaking stopped and she dozed a little.
She was in a grand dining room. It must be Christmas, for the room was decked with holly and ivy. One moment she was sitting at table in the place of honour, the next, all the guests were attacking her, pointing fingers, screaming abuse, throwing branches of greenery into her face. She put up her hands to ward them off and was smeared with the waxy film of mistletoe berries. There was no one to defend her, not even the Aubreys. She shrank from her attackers. In her dream, she knew them all. In her dream, she knew that she was to be cast out. She struggled against the hands that were trying to grab her-
‘Miss Beth! Miss Beth, wake up!’
She screamed.
‘Miss Beth, wake up!’ A cold cloth was put to her brow and held firmly.
She groaned and tried to open her eyes. Hetty was hovering anxiously, mopping Beth’s face. It was after dawn. There was light coming through the shutters, blessed light that Beth could see. The tunnel had gone.
‘You have one of your sick headaches,’ Hetty said flatly. ‘I will tell Mrs Aubrey and then I will make your peppermint tea.’
‘Hetty, don’t tell Mrs-’
Hetty straightened and shook her head. ‘I have to, Miss Beth. You can’t possibly teach the children when you are in such a state.’ She nodded towards the basin on the floor. ‘I know you sometimes hide it when it’s only the headache, but you can’t hide this. Mrs Aubrey will want you to stay in bed until the sickness has gone. And you know it’s for the best.’
Beth tried to protest. She began to push herself up, but it was more than she could manage. The nausea threatened to overcome her again. She sank back on to her pillows and willed her stomach to behave.
‘Lie still and breathe deeply,’ Hetty said gently. ‘I’ll be back with the tisane in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ She tried to smile encouragingly and then whipped out of the bedchamber.
Chastened, Beth did as she was told. She had no choice. Until this attack subsided, she was not going to be able to do anything. Except think.
She had promised Jonathan she would do it. For the Aubreys, he had said. But when he was holding her hand, when they were touching, skin to skin, she would have agreed to anything he asked. She was being a fool, all over again. She had berated herself before, for thinking of him as her silver knight. Now she was thinking of him as a man-a living, breathing, desirable man-which was even more idiotic. He could be nothing to her. He was a great nobleman. She was a foundling with no past, not even a name of her own. If the terrors of her dreams were even half true, she had done something wicked in her past life, and her present sufferings were probably a just punishment.
