Regency Society. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
heard the whispers as they left.
‘Can he see anything?’
‘My God, is Wellingham blind?’
Taris would have heard the conjecture too, but he had not made any mention of it, his careful masking of poor sight for years banished in those moments of terror.
For her! Everything he had held so close abandoned because of his fear for her.
Bea’s heart ached with the sheer breadth and depth of his gift.
Taris and Asher returned almost two hours later with the story of Radcliff’s capture. The clerk had been surprised by their arrival and had instantly surrendered, his lack of any resistance making the task of apprehending him relatively speedy. After leaving him safely in the hands of the local constabulary there was no more to be done.
‘James Radcliff confessed to everything from the taking of the Bassingstoke money to paying someone to keep you out of the way, Beatrice, whilst he searched the confines of your home.’ Taris sat next to her and had taken her hand in his as he related the story. ‘He also said that his intentions were never to kill you, though given the lengths he went to retrieve the ledgers I find that hard to believe.’
‘It was all about getting back the books?’
‘With them destroyed Radcliff believed he could walk free. He thought they were with you in the carriage and was following behind you until the snowstorm forced him to take refuge at a tavern. He then believed you had taken them to London.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘Robert Nelson said they had been sent to you after the death of your husband. At a guess I would say they were packed up with the rest of your belongings and now lie beneath the snow in the spot where the carriage rolled after Radcliff tampered with the axle.’
‘But why would he take the money in the first place? Surely he realised the amounts would be written and recorded?’
‘Grandeur, I think. Nelson alluded to the fact he was the second son of a mayor somewhere to the north. A son who thought he was entitled to more.’
‘So the amount stolen is in the books?’
Taris nodded. ‘These things have a way of coming out, no matter how carefully they are managed. He will stand trial for tampering with a public conveyance and for the embezzlement of funds that did not belong to him. Gaol will be his home for a good many years, and I will follow his progress to make certain that he never comes near us again.’
‘The man must have been mad to think he could come to take you from us.’ Emerald stood beside her, the tone in her voice leaving no doubt as to what she thought of Radcliff’s motives.
Asher laughed. ‘We cannot keep Beatrice here, Em. She belongs to my brother.’
‘Yes, she does.’ Taris’s voice was firm and for the very first time in her whole life Beatrice knew the true meaning of place.
An hour later Bea lay tucked up beside Taris, the light of only a small slice of moon making her think again of Maldon and the snowstorm.
How far had they come? How far were they yet to go? A soft flutter in her stomach made her take in air and gasp.
‘I felt it. I felt our baby move. Like a butterfly.’ She took his hand and laid it across her stomach, staying very still and when the child jumped again he pulled back in surprise and delight. No sight needed. Just touch and feel. A first for them both. Entire, complete and elemental. The beginning of a journey that would take them places neither had even dreamed of.
‘If I had lost you tonight…’ Taris could not finish and swallowed heavily before beginning again. ‘If I lost you, I don’t think that I could live.’
Tears welled in her eyes.
‘Others may now know of your secret. I heard people talking as we left the Davis function…’
He stopped the words by laying a finger upon her lips. ‘I love you, Beatrice-Maude Bassing-stoke.’
His voice was rusty, as if the words were ones he had not thought to say. ‘I love you so damn much that it hurts.’ His hand fell across his heart, opened like a fan. ‘Here.’
She saw him take in a breath, finding time and fighting an emotion that was too new and too foreign, secrets and privacy overwhelmed by the honest confession of love. His love for her!
Laying her palm across his, she held on to the warmth and brought his fingers to her lips, kissing each one by one by one, smiling as he turned towards her.
Then she forgot to think at all.
Epilogue
Doctor MacLaren delivered two healthy sons in September, the second baby arriving twelve minutes after the first.
When the ministrations of the birth were finally completed and they had a moment alone together, Beatrice watched her husband run his fingers across them, gently, as they lay in the bassinet by her bed. She watched how he checked the number of fingers and toes and the fragile lines of their bodies. Still, there were things that he could not know by touch and she tried to give them to him.
‘Their hair is black like yours, Taris, and the colour of their eyes is…undecipherable.’
He laughed and the gold ring she had placed on his marriage finger four months earlier glinted.
‘They are very small and very perfect. Almost as perfect as my wife,’ he added and looked up.
In the light you could see the opaqueness in his eyes had worsened and Bea knew that the darkness he had always feared would soon come.
Yet it did not matter! Surrounded by love and released from pretence, her husband had finally accepted the fact that the worth of a man was not something measured simply by his ability to see.
No, it was measured in love and strength and honour and decency.
And family, she added as the door to their bedroom opened and the rest of the Wellingham family streamed in.
This book is dedicated to
Frances Housden and Barbara Clendon
for their help with my writing.
Château Giraudon, Montmarte, Paris—early November 1825
Lady Eleanor Jane Bracewell-Lowen could not quite focus on the form of the man who carried her, could not through the dizzy grey fog of lethargy see the expressions on his face or hear the cadence of his words. With a growing dread she tried to shift her weight so that he might let her down, let her escape, but even that was impossible. Nothing on her body worked and the tight mesh of the heavy wig she wore brought a strange dislocation.
She was naked! She knew that, for she had felt his hands on the curve of her breasts and in the warmth beneath her legs. Rough. Lewd. She could not even turn away in protection. Nay, sheer apathy held her caught against breath that smelt of hard liquor and bad teeth.
‘You’re too beautiful for une pute. When you finish here we’ll treat you well below.’
Une pute? A whore? Two words that did make sense. Eleanor closed her eyes against the horror of truth, this small movement all she could muster as shock made the hairs on her arms stand out straight against the chill of the night.
‘I … am …