The Spring Bride (18 page)

It was a familiar surname. There had always been Wilkses at Wainfleet. In Zach's boyhood the cook was a Mrs. Wilks, a stout and motherly woman who had a fondness for growing boys and an understanding of how they were always hungry; she'd sneaked him treats time out of memory. But that Mrs. Wilks was old even then, too old to be the mother of this child. She'd be retired by now.

He might yet escape recognition.

“You can't walk on that ankle, lad, so I'm going to carry you home. Where do you live?”

The boy hesitated then, realizing he had no choice, said, “In the big house.”

“Wainfleet?” Zach asked with a sinking feeling. The irony of it didn't escape him.

The child nodded.

“Well, Robin Wilks, I'm going to lift you up now and I'll tell you straight, it's going to hurt like the devil, so I won't hold it against you if you have to yell. You're a brave lad, I know.”

He scooped the boy up as gently as he could, being careful
not to bump the broken arm, which was tucked against the boy's narrow chest, but the little fellow gasped again, and fainted. Just as well, Zach thought as he made his way down through the forest, spare the child any further pain.

Taking the shortcut he'd taken so often as a child, he cut between the stables and the kitchen gardens, crossed the courtyard and headed for the kitchen. Under normal circumstances he would have expected to come across any number of people—gardeners and under-gardeners, grooms, stable boys, whatever, but he met nobody at all. It was very strange.

But just as he reached the kitchen door, it was flung open and a stout, familiar figure stood there, aged considerably, but instantly recognizable: Mrs. Wilks. She took the situation in at a glance. “Oh, Robbie, Robbie, what have you done to yourself now?” She hadn't even looked at Zach.

The boy had regained consciousness, and managed to say, “Don't fuss, Gran, I'm all ri—” but then he fainted again.

“Oh, dearie, dearie me! Come ye in, come ye in—oh, thank you, sir—yes, put him down on the chair there. Wilks, Wilks!” she called, and returned to her grandson. “That arm—”

“Is broken,” Zach told her, “but the ankle is, I think, only sprained. He fell out of a big oak.” She'd barely glanced at him; all her attention was on the boy.

“That'd be right. Never out of trouble that one.” She hurried back to the door, calling, “Wilks!” again—presumably the boy's father, but when finally a man came running, he was white-haired and stooped and even older than she was. He was a groom, Zach recalled. The old man didn't look at Zach either.

She told him, “The boy's gone and broken his arm. Fetch Ernie.”

“Ernie?” Zach had been about to slide quietly out the door and make himself scarce, but the name stopped him.

She didn't answer for a moment, but clucked over the boy, who was looking ominously green, and set a bucket down beside him. “In there, Robbie, if you're going to toss up your breakfast.” He did, and she handed him a cloth to wipe his mouth, shaking her head. “Just like his father, God rest his soul. Never out of trouble.”

She straightened and said to Zach, “Ernie's a natural, lives over by Bramble Creek. He'll set the lad's arm for us.”

A natural?
She meant a simpleton, Zach realized. Country folk often ascribed healing powers to simpletons, but he wasn't going to let a brave little lad like that be mauled by a well-meaning simpleton. “The boy needs a proper doctor.”

The woman shook her head. “No, it'll have to be Ernie. The doctor won't come to us.” She smoothed the boy's hair back.

“Why not?”

“Can't pay him,” she said. “No money.”

“Send for the doctor,” Zach told her. “I'll pay.”

“
You
will?” For the first time she stopped fussing over the boy and looked at Zach. Her eyes narrowed. She came a few paces closer and squinted nearsightedly up at him.

“It's never—oh, my Gawd, it is!” She staggered back and sat down—
plump!
—on a kitchen chair, staring at Zach as if she'd seen a ghost. “Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Wilks—see who's brought our Robbie home! It's Master Adam, back from the dead!”

*   *   *

J
ane left the matter of Lady Dalrymple's letter for a day. She and Abby needed some time to calm down and think things over.

Abby was normally very loving and forgiving and gentle, but in this matter . . .

Jane felt so torn. She didn't want to be disloyal to her sister. Abby had worried and worked and
fought
to keep them fed and safe . . . She was entitled to be angry.

But Jane wanted to hear what the woman had to say and she wanted Abby to come with her—not because Jane felt uncomfortable going by herself, but because she felt, deep down, that Abby needed to be there, to hear for herself.

She decided to try again. She walked around to Abby's house and Abby rang for tea.

“I know she did a terrible thing in leaving us to starve, Abby, but . . . it was a long time ago and we're all right now . . . And . . . she's—it's not as if we have family to spare . . .”

Abby folded her hands across her stomach. “She left us to
die
, Jane. That's not what family does.”

“I know. But I want to know why.”

“Does it matter? Jane, the letter—letters—I wrote, she
would have had to be made of stone to ignore them.” Abby's face crumpled and a tear rolled down her cheek. She pulled out a large masculine handkerchief and wiped it away.

Jane slipped an arm around her sister, feeling guilty. “I owe you everything, Abby darling, and would not for the world distress you . . .”

“But?”

“I want to
know
.” She swallowed. “She's Mama's mother. And the other night she looked genuinely distressed, Abby. She fainted.”

“Because of the shock. Because she never expected to see us—see you. Because you're the image of Mama. Because we weren't supposed to exist.”

There was a long silence. It wasn't like Abby to be hard or bitter. And although Jane could understand her sister's anger, she didn't feel it as strongly. She'd been too young to know what it had really been like for Abby. Her sister had borne the brunt of all their problems. And all before she was even twelve years old.

But Jane yearned for family. And she knew Abby did too, deep down. This was just defensiveness. Abby didn't want old wounds reopened, and unhappy emotions stirred up. Jane could understand that. Abby's life was happily settled now; she had a home, and she had Max, whom she loved to distraction, and who adored her in return.

Abby had everything she'd ever wanted now. Jane didn't.

Jane took her sister's hands in hers. “When we first came here to live with Lady Beatrice, you changed our name from Chantry to Chance—”

Abby frowned. “You know why—it was for our own safety.”

“Yes, but you also said it symbolized a fresh new chance for each of us. We each got that chance, didn't we, Abby? Damaris never believed she could wed and yet now she's married to Freddy and I've never seen her happier. Daisy, a maidservant from a brothel, is on her way to becoming the finest dressmaker in London. And you, who were destined to be a governess for the rest of your life, looking after other people's children and never having the chance of a child of your own—”

Abby burst into tears.

Jane was horrified. Abby never wept, and now Jane had made her cry twice in a matter of minutes. “Oh, love, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I never meant to upset you like this.”

Abby mopped her face with the large handkerchief and gave a rueful laugh between the sobs. “It's not your fault, Jane darling. And I'm not really upset. It's just . . . with all this talk of second chances and family and children . . .” She wiped her eyes, folded the handkerchief and tucked it back into her reticule. “Max says I've become the veriest watering pot since—”

Jane frowned. “Since what?”

For answer, Abby took Jane's hand and laid it on her belly. It took a moment for Jane to understand. “Abby! You mean—”

Abby nodded and gave her a misty smile. “Only Max knows at the moment, but I wanted to tell you first; little sister, you're going to be an aunt.”

It isn't what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.

—JANE AUSTEN,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

“I
'm surprised you recognized me,” Zach said as he finished his meal. The doctor—a stranger to Zach—had been, set Robin's arm and left. The boy was tucked up in bed now, fast asleep after having been dosed with laudanum for the pain.

Mrs. Wilks chuckled. “You have your father's eyes—and your grandfer's, at that, my lord.”

“Aye,” her husband chimed in. “Living spit of old Lord Wainfleet—your grandad, I mean, not your pa.”

Mrs. Wilks had cooked and served an enormous dinner, which she'd wanted to serve in the dining room, but Zach had no intention of dining alone in state. Much to her outward horror but secret pleasure, he'd eaten in the kitchen with her and her husband.

“It's not as if I haven't eaten here a hundred times before,” he reminded her. He'd forgotten it, but coming here reminded him that this room had been something of a refuge for him as a small boy. It still felt that way.

Now he was here, there were things he needed to know.

“What has happened here since my father's death?” Zach asked. “I remember this place as always busy.”

Wilks nodded. “Skeleton staff now,” he said. “But we'll be
all right now you've come home, Master Adam. Thought you were dead, we did.”

“Thought yon cousin of yours was going to be the new master,” Mrs. Wilks said darkly. “Mr. Gerald. He be the reason Wainfleet is in limbo.”

“Limbo?” Zach frowned. “How so?”

“Stopped the money,” Wilks explained. “Wanted to take control the day your father was buried, but the lawyers said no. Had to wait. Look for you.” He sucked on his pipe and contemplated that.

“Got his own lawyers,” Mrs. Wilks prompted. “Got the estate—what did they call it, Dad?”

“Frozen,” Wilks said. “Assets frozen, they called it. Till the rightful owner be proved.” He grinned at Zach and gestured with his pipe. “That's you now, the new Lord Wainfleet.”

Mrs. Wilks chuckled. “Mr. Gerald's going to be green as a frog when he finds out you're back. Fancied himself lord of the manor, he did, struttin' around, tellin' us all what to do.”

“He still might be if I'm done for murder,” Zach said.

They both looked at him in shock. “Bless my soul, Master Adam,” Mrs. Wilks said. “You never did kill your pretty young stepmother—not a soul here believes that!”

“Not a soul,” echoed her husband.

“Somebody else must have done it,” Mrs. Wilks said comfortably.

“Cecily isn't dead,” Zach told them. “I got her away from here. I left her with one of her old school friends.” They stared at him in surprise, so he added, “She was alive when I left her.”

“No, that can't be right, sir,” Mrs. Wilks said after a moment. “We saw her body, dead as a doornail she was, poor drownded little thing, just days after you left. But we never thought it was you who did it.”

“Never thought it,” her husband echoed.

“You
saw
her?” Zach repeated. “And you're sure it was Cecily?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Wilks assured him. “It was her all right. All dressed up in that lovely gold dress your pa had bought her, she was. Ruined it was. The weeds and the water had got to it bad.”

Zach sat back, stunned by the revelation. It couldn't be
Cecily. He'd left her in Wales. Unless she'd returned . . . But why would she? She'd been in fear of her life.

“When was this exactly?” he asked.

The Wilkses exchanged glances in silent consultation. “Three days after you left Wainfleet,” Mrs. Wilks said. “That's right, isn't it, Dad?”

Wilks withdrew his pipe and nodded. “Aye, pulled her out of the lake three days after, we did.”

“Then it couldn't possibly be Cecily,” Zach said, somewhat relieved. “It took us more than three days to get to her friend's house in Wales, and after that I went to London and back and then I saw her again in Wales—it must have been at least two weeks after I left Wainfleet. And for years after that she wrote me letters; the last one was at Christmas.”

There was a short silence. “But we
saw
her,” Mrs. Wilks said.

Her husband gave her a nudge and said, “But none of us at Wainfleet ever believed it was you who done her in, Master Adam. I mean, me lord.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your loyalty,” Zach said. “It's a mystery, but I'm sure we'll get it sorted out.” He sounded more confident than he felt.

There had to be an explanation for the dead body—one that had nothing to do with him or Cecily. It must have been some other dead woman. Cecily should be in London by now, safe in Gil's hands.

“Now,” he said when they'd finished their dinner, “tell me what's been happening on the estate. And more to the point, what needs to be done. I noticed there hasn't been any plowing or any spring planting.”

The Wilkses exchanged glances. “No point, is there?” Wilks said. “Mr. Gerald said he'd get rid of most of the tenant farmers, knock down the cottages and make it all into one big estate. Reckons there's more money to be made that way.”

Zach frowned. “What about the tenants?” Some of those families, like the Wilkses, had been part of the estate for generations.

Wilks shrugged. “Find work elsewhere, I suppose.”

“In them big-city manufactories,” Mrs. Wilks said darkly. “And livin' in a slum, no doubt. I've heard tell they squash whole families into one room.”

Zach listened as they confided their worries about the future.

There was logic in changing the way the estate was managed—farming methods did need to be modernized, land drained—the whole estate was crying out for revitalization. But he had no intention of tossing loyal, hardworking tenants off land they and their forefathers had farmed for hundreds of years. Their work, their rents had allowed his family to prosper for generations; it was not for Zach to abandon them now.

He realized now that he loved Wainfleet; he'd just buried that knowledge for the last twelve years.

There was work for him here indeed. A purpose—a good one. A future to build, for himself and for the people of the estate.

Afterward he walked through the house, his footsteps echoing. It was as cold and bleak as he remembered, more so for most of the rooms had been shut since his father's death and the furniture shrouded in holland covers.

But his memories had been colored by his father's coldness and brutality.

Like the estate, it too could change; the house could be made into a home. All it needed was the right woman.

He gave the Wilkses what money he had on him—part payment of arrears owed them—then went to pay a call on the former estate manager and start things moving again. No point in anonymity now—the village grapevine would spread the news of his return soon enough, and in any case, the hearing was only a couple of weeks away.

He was not leaving England again; murder change or not, he'd stay and fight for his future—his future at Wainfleet, and his future with Miss Jane Chance.

*   *   *

“W
hat do you mean she's not here?” Zach stared at Gil. He had arrived in London a bare half hour earlier. “I know North Wales is a long way, but surely by now—”

“The lawyer's man returned the evening of the day you left for Wainfleet,” Gil told him. “I spoke to him. He claimed he couldn't find Cecily, or any sign she'd ever been there.”

“What?” Zach was stunned. “He did go to Llandudno, didn't he? Not some other village?”

“That's what he said. Claimed he went to the address you gave, but said that not only was Cecily not there, but that the woman who answered the door—a Mrs. Thomas, right?” Zach nodded, and Gil continued, “Said she'd never heard of Cecily.”

“Rubbish, she went to school with her.”

“She told him she'd lived there all her life, and that no English lady had ever been to the village.” He added, “The woman spoke only Welsh. No English at all.”

“Nonsense! I met her. I stayed with her, twelve years ago. She speaks perfect English.” He ran his fingers through his hair, baffled by the report. “Whoever this fellow talked to, she can't have been Mary Thomas. Or if she was, it must have been a different Mary Thomas. It's a common enough name in Wales.”

Gil shrugged. “I'm only saying what he told me. He said he had to use an interpreter to be understood anywhere in the village.”

Zach shook his head, unable to fathom it. “I don't understand. Llandudno is small—maybe a thousand people in total. How could anyone not notice Cecily in a village that size?”

“He claimed he also checked every house in the same street, as well as others in the village. The story was the same; no English lady had ever come to Llandudno.”

“Rubbish!” Zach thumped the table in frustration. “He's either incompetent or lying. I left Cecily there, dammit—and when I went back two weeks later with the money I got from selling her jewels, she was still there, settling in with Mary Thomas, as happy as a grig.
And
she wrote to me from there—dozens of letters—dammit, you forwarded them on to me.”

“I know.”

Zach rose and started to pace. “I should never have trusted that blasted lawyer in the first place. I'll go to Wales myself and find her!”

“No need, I've already sent one of my men,” Gil said calmly. “He left three days ago, so he should have news for us soon. He's a good man and a native Welsh speaker. I also told him to find witnesses who could swear Cecily was alive after the body was discovered. If Cecily has left Wales—and that seems likely—we'll need to prove that it wasn't her body.”

“Thank you.” Zach sat down again, somewhat relieved. “Her friend, Mary Thomas—the one who
can
speak English—could testify that I took her there, alive and well. And what about the
innkeepers where we stayed at along the way? Even the postilions. Surely someone would recall a nervous young woman with a badly bruised face, escorted by a sixteen-year-old boy, even if it was twelve years ago. And send someone to Wainfleet—we need to find out who that body really was.”

Gil nodded and pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Give me the details and I'll send men to make inquiries. It'll cost you, but you won't mind that.”

Zach gave him the information, and sipped his cognac as Gil wrote everything down. Perhaps the situation wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought.

Gil tucked his notebook away and regarded Zach thoughtfully. “It might be wise to make contingency plans in case you need to leave the country. Do you want me to make the arrangements?”

Zach snorted. “I'm damned if I'll slink away and let my greedy little tick of a cousin take over my inheritance. Do you know, he's got the estate tangled up in legal tape and nobody can do anything—none of the servants has been paid since my father died. The whole place is stagnating. And he plans to butcher it.”

“So you'll stay and risk going to trial for murder?”

“I'll stay.” Zach gave him an ironic half smile. “I've risked death for my country a dozen times and more; it's worth it to risk my neck for the sake of my own future, don't you think?”

“And once this is all over—and assuming all goes well and you're a free man again—and you've settled things at Wainfleet, are you planning to return to your old life abroad?”

Zach gave him a cool look. “Don't be disingenuous, Gil, it doesn't suit you. You know perfectly well what I'm planning.”

“The girl?”

Zach nodded. “If she will have me.”

“Delighted to hear it, though professionally, I shall feign disappointment.”

Zach rose and added coal to the fire, stirring the glowing coals thoughtfully with the poker. Gazing into fires always helped him to think.

It was a dammed odd thing, the lawyer's fellow not finding any sign of Cecily. No doubt the man was a fool and went to the wrong village. Welsh village names could look incomprehensible to the uninitiated.

Zach's every instinct was to go to Wales and find Cecily himself, but there was no time. Gil had said he'd sent a good man and Zach trusted Gil. Not long to the hearing.

Long enough to make himself known to Miss Jane Chance, not as a gypsy, but as his true self? A man who could offer her the kind of future she wanted? He might not be as rich as Cambury, but at least he had a house and a title, and he would spend his life ensuring she was never cold or hungry or frightened again.

It wouldn't be a damned cold-blooded arrangement either.

Long enough to get her to be willing to . . . what? Break her betrothal to Cambury? No, much as he wanted it, he couldn't ask her to do that, not while he was still mired in this mess.