The Valentine Legacy (27 page)

“James.” How could she even talk? How could she even think of a single word to say? He was nearly beyond what wits God had given him, and here she was saying his name as if it were the easiest thing in the world. He supposed it was his responsibility to make some sort of response. He managed to grunt.

She giggled. “I feel marvelous. What's wrong with you? I've overpleasured you, haven't I? Ah, James, did you see white lights? Do you feel fulfilled as a man? Will you revere me for as long as you live?”

He groaned, tried to push his arms up to get his weight off her, then collapsed again. “I'll think of something. Just give me a while.”

She wrapped her arms around him and said, “I'm tipsy. Not as tipsy as on our wedding day, but tipsy enough to know that when stallions cover mares, they surely can't enjoy it as much as I do. Having you inside my body, ah, well, perhaps if I had another glass of port—perhaps two—I would be able to express myself more properly.”

“You're not being at all proper. Your mother would scold you. Glenda would smack your face. As for my mother, God alone knows what she would do.”

“He speaks,” she said, and laughed as she kissed his ear. “He speaks a lot. Your heart's slowing, James.”

“I'll live. It was close, but I'm fairly sure now that I'll make it.”

He finally managed to push himself up onto his elbows. He looked down at a face he'd known for six years, once a young girl's face, but no longer. She was a woman and his wife.

“The look on your face when you came to your release—it pleased me mightily, Jessie. You still look so bewildered, so anxious that whatever is happening is really going to happen again and again. It did. It always will with us. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“You didn't lie there like a dead dog, James. You surely enjoyed yourself as much as I did. You sweated more and you made more noises.”

He kissed her. “Perhaps just a little. Am I an excellent lover?”

“The best. Am I your best lover?”

She regretted the words the instant they'd escaped unbidden from her mouth. Fool, she was nothing but a fool and now he would have to lie or he'd tell the truth, which would probably be worse. She thought of Connie Maxwell, of the
countless other women he'd known, including his first wife, Alicia. Why hadn't she just kept her mouth shut?

He looked thoughtful. He moved over her, as if settling in. He was still inside her. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts. “That's difficult,” he said finally, leaning down to nibble her earlobe. “You still don't know much yet, but your enthusiasm was deafening. My eardrums are still vibrating. I liked hearing you shriek.”

“I don't remember shrieking precisely.”

“You aren't a good liar, Jessie. Give it up. I love the feel of you. Every day, every night, perhaps after afternoon tea, perhaps just before lunch, and then there's—”

That was an excellent beginning, she thought. “You got me tipsy on purpose, didn't you?”

“You're sobering up too quickly. Yes, I wanted you to melt for me, Jessie, and you did. The fact that I melted right along with you, well, that means that we're very good with each other. I like to hear you giggle and laugh. Lovemaking should be fun. I always want you to enjoy yourself.”

“You put salt in the ham soup.”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to want to die tomorrow?”

“No, you didn't drink that much. I was careful about your intake this time.”

“You're still inside me.”

He quivered, hardening again, coming deeper. She shifted and lifted her hips, bringing him even deeper.

“Jessie, you want me again?”

“I think so, James. Tomorrow, you know, I'm going to make you very sorry that you tricked me.”

“If I'm to be punished on the morrow, then give me tonight,” he said, dipped his head down, and kissed her.

 

He awoke to a shriek. He rose right up in the bed, shaking his head. Another shriek. It was Jessie, having another
nightmare. “Jessie,” he said, and lightly shook her shoulders. It was dawn and he could see her face. She screamed again.

“Jessie, wake up.”

Her eyes remained closed. Her head moved back and forth on the pillow. Then she said quite clearly, “No, go away from me. No, stop it, Mr. Tom! Oh God, no, don't do that.”

By all that was holy, it wasn't Jessie's voice. Well, it was her voice, but it was her voice of long ago, when she'd been very young, when she'd been just a girl who was obviously frightened out of her wits. What was going on here? It was the way her voice had sounded that first time she'd dreamed about this Mr. Tom in James's hearing.

“Jessie!”

He shook her until she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, but it wasn't him she was seeing, not in that instant. She tried to lurch away from him.

“No, Jessie, it's all right now. You just had a nightmare. It's all right. I'm here. I'm James.”

“Of course you're James. Do you think I'm stupid?”

That was his Jessie, thank God.

“You had the dream again. No, wake up, Jessie. We've got to talk about this. Who was this Mr. Tom? You sounded like a little girl, like he was hurting you. Was he trying to rape you, Jessie?”

“Oh, James,” she whispered, and the next moment she was asleep. He stared down at her, lightly smoothed her eyebrows with his fingertips, and kissed her slack mouth.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow I want to know all about this bastard.”

But the following morning, Bertram kicked Esmerelda, who bit him on his neck, and together they kicked out their stalls. James was out of bed running to the stables, leaving Jessie to struggle into her clothes.

*   *   *

Jessie couldn't believe her ears. “Who is here, Mrs. Catsdoor?”

“It's Baron Hughes, Mrs. James. There's a young lady with him.” This was said in a warning tone that didn't leave Jessie in any doubt she wasn't going to like this.

“I suppose we have no choice. Do show them in, Mrs. Catsdoor. Is Master James about?”

“I'll send Harlow to fetch him. I'll bring tea and some of Mr. Badger's lemon cakes he left me.”

Baron Hughes stood in the drawing-room doorway, looking at her as if he'd like to shoot her where she stood. He gave her a travesty of a bow, saying, “Good day to you, Mrs. Wyndham. I would like you to meet my niece, Laura Frothingill, my younger brother's daughter.”

Laura Frothingill was staring at her, weighing her, at least that's what it made Jessie think, and finding her wanting.

“You're a Colonial,” she said.

“Yes, just like James.”

“James is the product of excellent English blood, not some sort of mongrel of unknown antecedents,” the baron said.

“Are you certain you wish to be in the same room with a mongrel, sir?”

“Don't you try to make sport of me, missie!”

“All right. Won't you come in and tell me why you've taken your valuable time to come to Candlethorpe.”

“I wanted Laura to see what supplanted my Alicia.”

The baron looked for the world like her father's thoroughbred Gallen, who got blood in his eyes whenever another racehorse got within six feet of him.

So she was a what, not a who. So be it.

She smiled and held out her hand to Laura Frothingill, who stared at her hand, which was admittedly tanned, as if she were diseased.

She withdrew her hand and said mildly, “You're very lovely, Miss Frothingill.”

“If only James had met her, she would now be his wife.”

“I doubt that,” Jessie said in that same mild voice, “not if he saw the look on her face right now.”

“What do you mean the look on my face? I am beautiful!”

“Not now, you're not. You look like a vicious mare I once saw who kicked in a fence, broke her own leg, and had to be put down.”

“Be quiet, you damned trollop!”

“It just occurred to me,” Jessie said in that same mild, easy voice, “that this is my house. You are both incredibly rude. I would like both of you to leave.”

“Not until James meets dear Laura.”

“Ah, I see it all now. You want to make him feel sorry that he married me?”

“He will feel sorry, damn you! Then he just might take care of you.”

“Well, let's say you're right, sir. What will he do about it? Divorce me? Perhaps even strangle me?”

The baron literally gnashed his teeth. Laura Frothingill suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “Uncle Lyndon,” she said, tugging on his sleeve, “let us leave now. She's right. There's nothing to be done.”

“Dammit, you can't have him, you miserable slut! I won't let you have him, do you hear me? I'll kill you myself!”

He leaped at her, his hands outstretched. Laura screamed. Jessie jerked away, but she wasn't fast enough. In her own drawing room, she thought, as his hands came around her throat, she was being strangled in her own drawing room. But Jessie wasn't helpless. He was old, but damn he was strong. Laura continued screaming.

Jessie went limp. The terrible pressure around her throat
lessened just a bit. She brought up her hands and slammed them against his ears. He shrieked, pressing his palms against his ears. He stumbled backward, but not before he swung his right fist at Jessie, catching the side of her head and throwing her against the fireplace. Her head struck the edge of the mantelpiece.

James heard three horrible screams, each one louder than the one before. His blood curdled. Then he heard Mrs. Catsdoor yell from the drawing room doorway, “Be quiet, you silly girl! What have you done to my baby mistress?”

What baby mistress? Oh God, Jessie!

J
AMES BURST INTO
the drawing room to see Mrs. Catsdoor slap a young lady he'd never seen before. Then she turned on the baron. What the hell was his father-in-law doing here? Who was that young lady who was shrieking her head off?

“You, sir,” Mrs. Catsdoor was yelling, shaking her fist in front of his face, “you're responsible for this. I never should have admitted either of you to the house. You're wicked, sir, just plain wicked. It's not my mistress's fault that your daughter died, not her fault at all, and yet you blame her and try to hurt her. Oh, dear Jesus, just look at her. Have you killed my little mistress?”

The baron's voice shook with rage and the pain in his ears. “The damned bitch! She struck my head, a crude trick I should have expected since she's not a lady. Why, I'll—”

James saw Jessie lying huddled by the fireplace. He was on his knees beside her in an instant, feeling the growing lump at the back of her head. He laid two fingers flat against the pulse in her neck. Strong and steady, thank the good Lord. He quickly felt her arms, her legs. Nothing broken.

He closed his eyes a moment, gaining control, trying to come to grips with this show of hatred from his former father-in-law, with his unconscious wife lying by the fireplace. He rose slowly. Mrs. Catsdoor, bless her loyal heart,
was standing toe-to-toe to Baron Hughes; all that was between them was the exquisite silver tea tray the baron had given to his daughter for a wedding present, one of many, including Candlethorpe itself.

“Be quiet, whoever you are,” James said to the young lady, who'd just emitted another shriek and was pressing her palm against the cheek where Mrs. Catsdoor had slapped her. His voice was low and mean, and it instantly got her attention. She shut her mouth and stared at him, looking white and scared.

“She tried to kill Uncle Lyndon.”

“She didn't succeed, did she? That's right, just keep your mouth shut. Whoever you are, sit down and don't move.” James walked to the baron. “Mrs. Catsdoor, thank you for dealing very nicely with these people. Have Harlow ride immediately to York to fetch Dr. Raven. Mrs. Wyndham has struck her head. Her heartbeat is steady, thank God, and it doesn't appear that she's broken any bones. But there's a lump burgeoning on her head.”

“James, I didn't intend for her to be hurt,” Baron Hughes said, taking a short step back at the utter fury he saw in his former son-in-law's eyes. Never had he seen James angry before. It shocked him, this anger on the part of his son-in-law, and all over this trollop of a girl who wasn't anybody, less than anybody, a bloody American, for God's sake.

“Of course you meant to hurt her,” James said, pleased he sounded so calm, so in control of himself. “Listen to me, Lyndon, I know you grieve still for Alicia. I do as well. I know you miss Alicia. I miss her as well. Her death was tragic, but there was nothing we could do to prevent it. She's dead, Lyndon, and there's still nothing either of us can do about it. It's been well over three years, sir, and I have remarried the woman of my choice, not yours.”

“I heard the rumors, James. You had to marry her because she seduced you. She counts for nothing. She's a
trollop. I brought Laura for you. Just look at her, James. She's a beauty. She's my brother's daughter. Her name is Laura Frothingill. She has a dowry to boot. She's lovely—just look at her a little bit. She's the poor girl that old harridan slapped, the one you told to be quiet. I've been saving her for you. Just look at her, James. She's a lady. Look at her—please just give a small peek at her. Her hair's a fine light brown, a neat figure she's got. She would grace your home, bring you heirs, provide you with wit and companionship—at least I've been told by her mama that her wit sparkles on occasion. Her shrieking may be perhaps a bit shrill, but a lady does that sometimes.

“But this other one lying there, she doesn't deserve you. Look at her again if you can, James, after looking at beautiful Laura. Just look at all that red hair. It's cheap and vulgar, that red hair, too curly, not soft and long like dear Laura's. And she was swimming naked in the pond. No, no, not Laura, this one here. Only a trollop would have done that, only a trollop would have known to slap her palms against my ears to get me off her.”

James felt deeply saddened. “I suppose there's nothing for it.” He sighed deeply, stepped forward, and sent his fist into the baron's jaw. Baron Hughes collapsed without another sound. Laura began screaming again, then stopped instantly when she saw Mrs. Catsdoor come running into the drawing room, her right hand raised.

Laura whimpered quietly, saying, “Did you kill him, James, for hurting your wife?”

“Don't be a fool, Laura. You don't mind my calling you Laura, do you? ‘Miss Frothingill' seems a bit too ceremonious under these insane circumstances, wouldn't you say?”

“Call me Laura, please. You would have anyway had you married me—at least, most men call their wives by their first names. I'm sorry for being a ninny. It was just such a shock, all this violence. I didn't know any of this was going
to happen, I swear it. My uncle asked me to come visit Candlethorpe with him, and I agreed. Alicia hadn't liked it here, but I was curious to see where you had lived and to meet you, that's all. I didn't know he planned to kill your wife.”

“It's all right. I suspect I won't see you again, Laura.” He nodded to her, then said, “Thank you, Mrs. Catsdoor for all your assistance. Now, I'm going to carry Jessie upstairs and put her to bed.”

“I'll sweep these two out once the noble baron here recovers himself. You, missie, see to your precious uncle. It will give you something to do rather than shrieking the ceiling down.”

What had Laura Frothingill meant, James wondered as he carried Jessie up the wide staircase, when she'd said that Alicia hadn't liked it here? She'd always seemed happy at Candlethorpe, until she'd told him that she was carrying his child, so short a time after they'd married, too short a time . . . He didn't want to think about it.

Jessie was a dead weight in his arms, her head hanging limply over his arm, her hair trailing down another foot. It had been at least ten minutes since she'd struck her head. Why didn't she wake up?

 

James continued to wipe a cool, damp square of linen over her face. It had been nearly twenty-five minutes now, and still she remained unconscious. Something was very wrong. He remembered a jockey in a race at York some two years ago who'd been kicked in the head. His heartbeat had been slow and steady, just like Jessie's, and everyone had been relieved. Only he'd never awakened. James's belly cramped, he was so scared.

Finally, he rose from her bed and stretched, walking over to the windows. There was no sign of Dr. Raven. It would take at least another hour. Darkening clouds were building
up to the east. It would rain before long. He turned back to see Jessie move her left hand. She made it into a fist.

“Jessie?” He thought he'd burst from relief. “Jessie?” he said again, leaning over her.

Her eyes remained closed. Her head moved back and forth on the pillow. Then she said clearly, “My head hurts. None of this is amusing. That man is dreadful.”

“Well, yes, he is.” He leaned over her and yelled in her face, “Jessie!”

He shook her until she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, but he looked vague to her, hovering strangely above her, all his edges blurred, his blond hair circling his head like an angel's, all soft, beams of light gleaming through the strands. Had she died? Was she in heaven? Surely his eyes were as green as the small pond with all the moss growing around it just near the stable at her father's stud. Everyone knew that angels had blue eyes, but this angel had green eyes that mesmerized the one looking into them, making that person incredibly happy, at peace. Yes, this angel's eyes were green, as soft-looking as his hair, the deep green of a limitless stretch of trees in deep summer, as well as that pond. She blinked, trying to see him more clearly. “James? Is that you? No, it isn't you, is it? I died and you're an angel. That's why you're floating above me. You're such a beautiful angel, but I don't want to die and leave James even for you. My head hurts dreadfully.”

“If your head hurts, then you aren't dead,” said a prosaic voice that surely couldn't have belonged to an angel. “Doesn't that make sense?”

“Yes.” She tried to raise her hand to her head, but couldn't manage it. Two tears seeped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “You don't talk like an angel, but still you're here, all beautiful and vague with your blond hair and green eyes, and I don't know what to think.”

“Then I have an advantage. No, don't move, Jessie. I
know it hurts, sweetheart. Just try to lie still. Can you see more clearly now?”

“It's getting better. You're not an angel, but you called me ‘sweetheart.' I never heard that an angel was allowed to become so intimate. ‘Sweetheart.' I like that. No one's ever called me ‘sweetheart' before.”

He laid the damp cloth over her forehead, even as his belly cramped. No one had ever called her ‘sweetheart'? Surely that didn't make sense. She was a sweetheart, kind and innocent and loving . . . “No, I'm not an angel. If you doubt me, just ask my mother. Right now, you definitely are a sweetheart. I daresay if you remain as you are, you will be a sweetheart as long as you live. Does that help?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and closed her eyes again.

James knew enough not to let her doze off. “Jessie, come, sweetheart, wake up. I don't want you to muck up your brains. Wake up.”

He spooned tea between her lips to keep her awake. After half a cup, she became violently ill. He held her head while she vomited.

“Rinse out your mouth. That's right. Better?”

She managed to nod, but the pain was stark and raw now, like a hammer bludgeoning at the base of her skull.

“Did I hurt that horrid baron?”

“You did indeed. He still hadn't learned his lesson, so I had to tap his jaw. I laid him out flat on the beautiful Axminster carpet, this one a wedding gift from the Hawksburys. I hope Mrs. Catsdoor had Sigmund see them both off our property.”

“He's a very unhappy man.”

“That may be the case. However, it gives him no right to try to murder you.”

“He was strangling me. I used a trick Oslow taught me years ago. I went limp, then slapped my palms really hard against his ears.”

“You hurt him. I thought he would weep. That was well done of you, Jessie. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner.” He'd tell her later that the baron had called her vulgar because she'd managed to save herself.

“Does he have a wife?”

“Yes, he does, but she wasn't very close to her daughter. I saw her last spring in Tutleigh, buying some ribbon at the milliner shop. She appeared glad to see me. I always thought she was a nice woman. I'm certain she knew nothing of this exploit of his.” He was chattering nonsense but he knew he had to keep her attention, keep her awake. “I think the ribbon she finally selected was green, nearly the color of my eyes, she said when she first saw it.”

“You do have beautiful eyes, James. The Duchess told me how all the important Wyndhams had blue eyes except for you. She did allow that your green eyes added diversion and interest.”

“I've always longed to be a diversion. If you'll allow me, I'll try to divert you for the rest of our lives.”

That sounded suspiciously permanent, and Jessie wouldn't think about what he'd said just now since her brains were a bit scrambled. “When Mrs. Catsdoor showed them in, I knew I wasn't in for a pleasant social call. I'm sorry, James.”

“What? Oh, come, Jessie, you didn't do anything wrong. Now, do you think you can stay awake? Not quite sure yet. All right, I'll tell you a story, one that Oslow told me.”

“I've probably already heard it.”

“Then you'll hear it again. Keep your eyes fastened on my angel's face. I'll even try to twinkle my green eyes for you. Watch me hover. Now, it seems that the first thoroughbred to leave England for America was Bulle Rock. Did you know that?”

“Do you think I'm ignorant? Of course I know that.”

“Ah ha, but do you know who Bulle Rock's sire was?”

“Oh dear, my head hurts awfully bad, James, so bad it's blocked out all my learning.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I know your head hurts, but you're using that as an excuse. You can't fool me. Bulle Rock's sire was none other than the Darley Arabian, foaled in 1700, one of the three founders.”

“I don't believe you. You're making that up.”

“No. You see how quickly I fooled you? No, don't shut your eyes, Jessie. Let me think. Ah, did you know that Charles the First—before he lost his head—gave Newmarket its first Gold Cup in 1634? Jessie, dammit, wake up.”

“Gold cups are nice. I have more than you do, James. At least, my papa does.”

“Not many more, and I don't think they're all gold. In fact, none of them are—at least none of mine are.”

“Mother made him melt the one gold one down a few years ago when our fortunes took a downswing.”