Island of the Swans (90 page)

Alex roused himself from his state of torpor.

“And you
believe
a woman who would say
anything
to further her bastard’s prospects in such a dishonorable way?” Alex said, his face contorted with bitterness.

“My Lord Cornwallis can certainly ascertain whether or not I speak the truth!” she retorted caustically.

Cornwallis cast a look of mild disdain in Alex’s direction.

“Now that I think on it, the lass looks a great deal like her father…”

“There are probably a number of redheaded soldiers who have slept with my wife,” Alex said coldly.

Jane heard her own sharp intake of breath. She shot Alex a poisonous glare.

“I can well understand my estranged husband’s bitterness, my lord, but I have a proposal to make,” Jane said with icy determination. “Why don’t you write to Thomas Fraser directly, and explain these unusual circumstances. Ask for an honest reply as to whether he believes he sired Louisa. I do not doubt, sir, that you would believe whatever answer he may give, since, in the past, I gather you trusted him with some of the most important secrets of the American campaign.’

“That I did, Your Grace,” Cornwallis agreed. “A capital suggestion. I shall write immediately. Antrim Hall, you say?”

“In the colony of Maryland,” Jane replied promptly. Then she frowned. “But what of those gathered here tonight?” she said, dreading the necessity of telling Louisa there could be no formal recognition of her betrothal. How could she possibly avoid her questions as to the reason for this postponement? “Must we wait until we hear from Captain Fraser?”

Lord Cornwallis, deep in thought, stared at Jane for a moment. Then he smiled.

“If you are willing to break off the engagement publicly, in the event Thomas Fraser refuses to confirm to me his parentage of Louisa, then, I am delighted to go forward with this evening’s events, as planned. It will be your scandal to face, though, Your Grace,” he warned his son’s potential mother-in-law.

“I would be most happy to accept the conditions you impose, m’lord,” replied the duchess with alacrity.

“As far as the actual marriage, however,” he added sternly. “That must await the reply from Captain Fraser.”

“Naturally, m’lord,” Jane murmured demurely.

Alex stared at them both, his face mirroring a jumble of emotions—among them anger, remorse, and humiliation.

Lord Cornwallis extended his arm to Jane.

“Would you do me the honor, Your Grace?” he said, gripping her arm through the thin material of her mauve gown. “I think it’s time we made an important announcement.”

Thomas looked forward to the autumn months in Maryland when the stifling heat of summer tapered off and the nights, at last, were cool again.

He glanced down at the enormous ledger book laid open on the desk in the morning room. He stared at the entries made by Arabella during the years after the war, and sighed as he noted the next section of the book when his own bold hand recorded the ups and downs of Antrim Hall’s fortunes in the five years since Bella had died. The plantation had turned a profit for three years now, though no thanks to his partner and brother-in-law, Beven O’Brien.

The sound of breaking glass interrupted his concentration and he heard the wails of his five-and-a-half-year-old young son, Maxwell.

“Damn your hide!” a voice exploded.

Thomas heard Max begin to shriek. He leapt up from his desk and dashed down the hallway and into the sitting room.

Beven froze as Thomas thundered into the room. O’Brien’s hand was suspended above little Maxwell’s bottom. A bottle of whiskey lay in pieces in front of the fireplace, its amber contents slowly seeping into the carpet. Another, almost empty, stood on a table next to Arabella’s brother.

“Take your hands off him, you swine!” Thomas shouted threateningly. “Don’t you dare to strike him, or I’ll kill you, scum!”

Max, free now of Beven’s grasp, ran sobbing toward his father.

“He-he asked me to bring it to him o-off th-the s-shelf,” Maxwell stuttered fearfully. “I’m sorry, F-Father… ’twas fearful heavy…”

“’Tis all right, lad. ’Tis not a job for small lads such as you. Drinking like this is just for fools! Out with you, laddie. Go see Mehitabel, now… I’m sure she’ll give you a wee treat for your troubles.”

When Max had disappeared through the door, Thomas turned to face Beven who sat slumped in a wing-backed chair.

“You are not to touch the lad ever again, do you hear me?” Thomas growled. “Never again.”

“I’ll not be bullied by you, Fraser, so mind what you say,” Beven said sullenly, but made no menacing move.

“
You’re
the bully!” Thomas said, trying to control his temper. In a cooler voice he said, “I’m just asking you to remember Max is only a wee lad. If you need more whiskey, which I doubt, you can get it yourself!”

His anger rekindled as he stared down at his disheveled partner who hadn’t done a lick of work around Antrim Hall in months.

“Look, Beven,” Thomas said, sighing in frustration. “Why do you drink away your days? There’s so much work to be done. You’re sharing half the profits. Why can’t you do at least some of the work around here?”

“Because a gentleman doesn’t concern himself with plowing fields and cutting wheat,” Beven said with a shrug. “He gets hirelings to do it for him. That’s what I’ve done. I’ve got my sister’s stallion to pull my cart!” He laughed viciously. “Rather clever of me, wouldn’t you say?”

Thomas grabbed his brother-in-law by his linen cravat and yanked him out of his chair.

“You’ll not be talking to me that way, laddie,” he rasped, “not if you value your stinking life!”

Thomas released his grip, pushing Beven roughly back into his chair. His brother-in-law glared at him malevolently.

“You’ll not get far that way, my good man,” Beven said disdainfully. “I own this place. If you murder me for it, you’ll never get to taste its fruits, now will you?”

“Look,” Thomas said, exasperated beyond anything he had endured since Arabella’s death had thrown the two men into this miserable partnership. “There’ll be no murder here. I have a vital interest in this place. And you’re right—it supports me and my son
—your
nephew.” Beven merely snorted and took a last gulp from his bottle. “So why can’t we work together and cease this nonsense?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to do the work, Fraser. I own the place.”

“And if you die without a son, Maxwell will inherit.”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it, Captain Fraser?”

Two days after their argument, a watermarked letter arrived at Antrim Hall addressed to Thomas and stamped with an impressive red wax crest belonging to the Marquess of Cornwallis. Thomas’s hands trembled as he laid its opened contents on his desk. He stared out the window as the gold and red and tobacco-colored leaves of autumn drifted on the ground close to where Arabella’s grave stood on the rise overlooking the summerhouse.

The news from his former Commander was too overwhelming to absorb all at once.

Louisa… Jenny…

His fevered brain could only repeat their names.

Thirty-Three

A
PRIL
1797

T
HE GUEST LIST IS JUST AS
I
WANT IT,
A
LEX,”
J
ANE SAID WEARILY
, replacing her quill pen in its holder and looking up from her desk in the library. “I’m not changing a thing. After all, Charles and Louisa have been engaged for a year, and all London is clamoring to be invited, including the Prince of Wales.”

Both Jane and Alex were loath to discuss the fact that Lord Cornwallis had apparently received a satisfactory reply from Thomas Fraser and the general had given his belated blessing to the forthcoming nuptials. Clearly, it was more important that the great soldier’s moonstruck son marry a woman of healthy bloodstock than that she be strictly of legitimate birth. To a man such as Lord Charles Cornwallis, making a suitable match was not unlike breeding good horses.

But, as usual, Alex was now protesting the cost of hosting such an elaborate celebration. Only this time, his objections had taken on a particularly bitter tone.

“So I’m to pay three thousand pounds to dower off Fraser’s bastard?” he growled to his wife who faced him across her desk in the library.

Jane clenched her fists against the smooth leather surface of the desk top and attempted to keep control of her temper.

“Quiet! And I’ll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head!” she whispered fiercely, loath to be overheard by the staff outside the door. “Besides, you’re a fine one to complain of bastards, sir,” she continued in a low voice. “What’s this I hear of another babe by yet
another
sixteen-year-old you’ve debauched? You’ve really gone too far this time, Alex. Isobel Williamson’s father was in one of your
regiments
! And now I’m told Jean Christie is also with child again. And to top it off,” she added, her eyes flashing with anger and humiliation at what was common knowledge in the Highlands, “there’s the baby Annie in the nursery at Gordon Castle. Seems no one is quite sure who
her
mother is, though no one doubts ’tis
your
spawn. Can’t you learn to keep it in your breeches for your own honor’s sake?”

Stonily, Alex looked past her at the Reynolds portrait of Jane, which hung in its new place of honor above the fireplace in the duchess’s leased domicile on Picadilly.

Alex had no ready explanation for the chaotic state of his existence. Nothing in his life made much sense anymore. There seemed to be no orderly pattern, no solidity in the center of his daily routine. For a while, he had retreated from the relationship with Jean Christie, and in the interval, he found himself bedding whatever comely servant in a skirt passed him in the passageway at Gordon Castle.

Now, he and Jean were together again; yet the same hollow feeling persisted. The woman’s youthful allure and fecundity were soothing balm to his wounded ego, but the lass had little wit, and, at times, there seemed nothing much in life that interested her—but him. The only comfort was that his life, of late, had assumed some of Jean’s placid calmness. Still, Jane had a point. All but two of the six little brass beds in the nursery at Gordon Castle would soon be filled with his bastards. ’Twould not advance his reputation in the straitlaced court of George III for such facts to be common knowledge in London. Worse yet, he might be snubbed at his club.

“So?” Jane broke into his reverie.

“What?” he answered, confused.

“So, the guest list is final, and the Bishops of Litchfield and Coventry will perform the service—agreed?”

“Aye… aye,” Alex mumbled absently.

Good sense dictated that he and Jane proceed as if these were the normal nuptials of a much beloved daughter. To do otherwise would expose Alex himself to a spate of spiteful ridicule among his peers.

He studied the unlined face of his handsome wife. Her rose complexion was framed by a head of luxuriant chestnut hair lowered over the sheaf of papers on her desk. He was mindful, too, of her full, voluptuous breasts that rose above the scooped neckline of her yellow morning gown gathered just under her bosom. Sitting opposite him, she looked up from her papers, her chin tilted in characteristic defiance, as if waiting for another of his caustic comments.