The Spring Bride (26 page)

“Adam George Zachary Aston-Black, you're under arrest.” A thin little man flanked by two burly constables stepped forward. They seized Zachary by the arms. He said not a word, made no attempt to struggle.

Over their heads, his gaze burned into Jane. “Wait,” he mouthed silently.

Jane stood in the street, watching, devastated as they bundled Zachary Black into a carriage and drove him away.

He'd warned her this might happen, but to have it happen now, so soon, just when . . .

Oh, how could she just wait? Did he expect her to open up her heart to him—and then wait for him to be declared innocent or guilty?

Clearly he did.

And what if he were found guilty—and hanged? What was she supposed to do then? Switch her feelings off and go back to marry Lord Cambury? As if nothing had happened?

Impossible.

For Jane the worst had already happened. She'd fought against it from the start, tried to deny it for so long, but now, seeing him taken away in custody, bound for prison, possibly to be hanged for a murder she was certain he did not commit, she had to acknowledge it: For better or for worse, she'd gone and fallen in love with Zachary Black.

*   *   *

G
il was at work when he received a message from Zach's lawyer informing him that Zach had been taken to Newgate Prison. He hurried straight over. He had news of his own—bad news.

Zach was being held in a gloomy little cell with several other gentlemen. Gil, being well aware of the conditions in Newgate, had come prepared, and a hefty bribe soon secured Zach a small but clean apartment of his own containing a bed, a table, chair and several small comforts.

Zach was pacing back and forth like a caged tiger when Gil was finally shown to his new accommodations. “They arrested me in front of her, right in front of her!” he said as soon as Gil arrived. “Blast them, why couldn't they have shown a bit of discretion, waited until she was inside! The expression on her sweet face . . . Damn and blast them!” He paced a bit more. “And how the hell did they know to find me there—they were waiting for me, Gil. Right outside her door. Right at the time I was expected back.”

Gil made soothing noises and pulled out a bottle of brandy. He'd brought two—the second one had gone to Zach's jailer to ensure his cooperation. He produced two tumblers from his pocket and poured the golden liquid.

“Sit down,” he told Zach. “I have news for you.”

Zach stopped pacing but didn't sit. He could see from Gil's expression it wasn't good news. “Cecily?”

Gil looked grim. “No sign of her in Llandudno at all. My man returned today.”

Zach swore.

Gil went on, “He questioned Mary Thomas, and a number of other people, and they were all adamant they'd never seen Cecily. He questioned them in Welsh and English—and yes, it's the right Mary Thomas—she spoke English and admitted to knowing Cecily from school. But she swore she hadn't seen her since.”

Zach sank heavily onto the chair. “I don't understand it. She's clearly lying, but . . .” He glanced at Gil. “At least you can testify you passed on Cecily's letters.”

Gil shook his head. “Won't help—they were just letters addressed to you. I can testify they had her name on them, but I can't prove that she sent them.”

“Any luck tracing the people who saw us on the journey?”

“Not yet. But we haven't given up.”

Zach contemplated his situation. “It's not looking good, is it?”

Gil glanced around and lowered his voice. “Time for you to leave the country. I can get you out of here. The security is quite lax.”

“No. I won't flee. That's as good as admitting I'm guilty, and I'm damned well not. I'll stay and fight it.”

“It's the girl, isn't it?” Gil said after a moment. “She's the reason you're staying to fight this thing.”

The girl. Jane. If Cecily couldn't be found . . . dammit all to hell. Zach examined his situation from every angle. He could see no way out of it. “No, the situation's changed,” he said wryly. “I can't embroil her in this mess. She had her life all planned out, and I'm not going to ruin it all for her, not if there's no future. I'm going to have to cut her loose.”

“Then if you're going to cut her loose, why the hell won't
you leave the country? It doesn't make sense,” Gil said in a low, urgent voice.

Zach shook his head. “I won't run away. When I went down to Wainfleet, I realized that since my father's death everyone there has been left in a kind of limbo—an estate like that needs an owner to run it—an owner who's present. If I'm hiding out in Europe, they're still in limbo. Better that this situation is resolved once and for all—me or my cousin.”

“Better for whom? Not you, not if they stretch your neck.”

“I'm gambling on my innocence counting for something.” Zach lifted the tumbler of brandy in an ironic toast. “To English justice.” He drained it, shuddered as it burned its way down his throat, felt the heat of the alcohol lodge in his empty belly and said, “Did you bring any notepaper? I need to write a letter.”

*   *   *

J
ane had watched until the carriage taking Zachary Black away had turned a corner and disappeared from sight, then she hurried inside and found Lady Beatrice.

“He's been arrested! They've taken him off to jail!” And she'd burst into tears.

After a good weep in the old lady's arms, she'd felt wrung out, but calmer. While Lady Bea wrote notes, canceling their social engagements for the evening and summoning the family for an emergency dinner, Jane had taken herself upstairs to wash her face, and think about what she was going to do.

Her thoughts were in turmoil, but she was clear about one thing. And she had to do it now, before her courage deserted her. She sat down to pen a note of her own.

“Mr. Gilbert Radcliffe to see you, Miss Jane,” Featherby said several hours later.

Jane flew downstairs to the drawing room, where Mr. Radcliffe was waiting, looking very solemn, almost grim. “Is he all right?” Jane burst out as soon as she saw him. He blinked, and she collected herself, saying in a more composed manner, “Mr. Radcliffe, so good of you to call on me. What news do you have of Mr. Black?”

He held out a folded paper, looking awkward. “I've brought you a note, Miss Chance.”

“From Mr. Black?” She took it, recognizing the bold black writing, and felt suddenly nervous. What reason would Zachary
Black have to write to her? He'd only just been taken. She'd seen him a few short hours ago.

“Well then, I'll be off.” Mr. Radcliffe edged toward the door.

“No, please wait,” she told him as she broke open the wafer that sealed it. “I might need to answer this.”

Mr. Radcliffe looked uncomfortable. “He's not expecting any answer.”

“I would be very grateful if you waited.” Jane rang the bell and asked Featherby to bring Mr. Radcliffe some refreshment. Zachary's friend provided for, she unfolded the letter and started to read.

Dear Miss Chance,

Firstly I must apologize for the embarrassment caused you by my arrest in your presence. It must have been a shocking experience to a lady of delicate sensibilities, and I apologize, most sincerely.

I also wish to apologize for what I believe might have been a misunderstanding between us. Thinking back over our recent conversations it has occurred to me you might have misunderstood my intentions. As I explained, I expect to be declared innocent of the murder of Cecily Aston-Black, Countess of Wainfleet, but after that, my stated intention is to leave England and return to my former pursuits in the service of my country.

When I asked you to delay your wedding to Lord Cambury, it was simply so that I might attend the wedding, knowing that my current legal position might make that difficult. In our brief acquaintance I believe we have become friends, and it was simply as a friend that I would have liked to witness your marriage.

However, I've realized it was very selfish of me to expect such a delay, only for my convenience. Please take no notice of anything I might have said to cause you to think otherwise. Go ahead and marry your Lord Cambury, with my very best wishes. And be happy.

Yours sincerely,

Zachary Black.

Jane read the letter twice, then put it down, noting absently that her hands were shaking. Mr. Radcliffe was watching her, rather as a mouse might watch a cat, warily, and showing every evidence of a creature heartily wishing himself elsewhere.

“Do you know what he said in this letter?” she asked him.

He looked uncomfortable and made a vaguely negative movement. If he didn't know, he had a fair idea.

“He has given me his blessing to marry Lord Cambury.”

“Ah. Very proper of him,” Mr. Radcliffe said in a strangled voice.

“Very proper, my foot!” Jane's voice wobbled; she was on the verge of tears again. She took a deep, steadying breath and continued, “He's being noble again. Yesterday in the park he refused to explain why he was asking me to delay my wedding, refused to tell me what he was feeling, and now, today he is telling me that whatever it was I thought he meant, he didn't.”

Mr. Radcliffe said nothing.

Jane said, “The situation must be very grim, for him to set me free like this.” She hesitated. “I'm right, aren't I? It is looking bad for him?”

Mr. Radcliffe nodded.

“Cecily hasn't been found?”

“No. There's no sign of her in Llandudno, where Zach swears he left her. And Mary Thomas, her old school friend, claims she hasn't seen Cecily since school.”

“I see. So Zachary is expecting to be found guilty and hanged.” Of course he was, that's why he wrote such a noble, precious, idiotic letter. So she wouldn't feel bound to him. Too late for that.

Again, Mr. Radcliffe nodded.

She rose and started to pace the room. “Isn't there anything I can do? That we can do? My brothers-in-law could help.”

Mr. Radcliffe shook his head. “We're doing all we can. I have men all over the kingdom searching for any trace of Cecily, and for any witnesses who saw her with Zach after they left Wainfleet. I've ensured he has a good lawyer for the defense, that his quarters in Newgate are the best that can be obtained and I've arranged for him to be provided with all he needs while in prison. I can't think of anything else anyone can do.”

Jane sank onto a chair. Mr. Radcliffe sounded quite . . . pessimistic. “You
will
fight it?”

Mr. Radcliffe nodded. “With all the means we have at our disposal,” he vowed. “There will be a pre-trial hearing, but if that goes badly—and without Cecily, how can it go otherwise?—it will be a trial by his peers, in the House of Lords.”

“There must be
something
I can do,” she said in despair.

“There is,” he said grimly. And when she looked expectantly at him, he said, “Pray.”

You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

T
he note Jane had written earlier was to Lord Cambury asking him to call on her as soon as was convenient. He arrived shortly after Mr. Radcliffe had left. Jane was still downstairs.

She was on tenterhooks, waiting. It was the right thing to do, she knew it, but still . . .

“That scoundrel won't be bothering you anymore,” Lord Cambury said with satisfaction as he handed his hat to Featherby. “Pity it had to happen when you were present, but it was for the best. See for yourself the fellow's a blackguard.”

Something about the way he said it raised her suspicions. “You knew about his arrest? And where it took place?” It had only happened a few short hours before. How could he know she'd witnessed it? And when he smiled with smug complacency, she understood. “You arranged it!” Of course. That was how they knew Zachary Black would be returning her to her home, and when.

“I protect what's mine.”

At his words something inside her settled. “Please come into the drawing room,” she said. “I have something to say to you.”

“He's a murderer, you know. He even lied to you about his
name—he's not Zachary Black; his name is Adam Aston-Black.”

Jane didn't respond. To Featherby she said, “Lord Cambury and I will be in the drawing room. Please ensure that we are not disturbed.” She felt quite hollow, a little sick. But it had to be done.

“I knew from the start he wasn't the sort of man a lady should associate with. I did it to protect you,” Lord Cambury said as he followed her into the drawing room.

“Please sit down,” Jane told him. Her hands were shaking. She gripped them tightly together.

He sat, looking a little puzzled.

This was it then. She took a deep breath. “I'm very sorry, Lord Cambury, but I cannot marry you.”

*   *   *

“W
hat the devil? Not marry me?” Lord Cambury's eyes bulged in shock. “You cannot mean it.”

“I'm sorry, but I do.” She pulled off the heavy diamond and gave it to him.

“But . . . it's been announced. The minister has commenced the calling of the banns.”

She nodded. “I know. I'm sorry, but it cannot be helped. I cannot marry you.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. “It does not matter. My mind is made up.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then he stood up and stalked over to the mantelpiece. He picked up a china figurine of a shepherdess and examined it carefully. “The years I spent looking for the perfect . . .” He swore, and hurled the little shepherdess into the hearth. It smashed. There was a sudden silence in the room, broken only by the sound of the hollow china head rolling in a circle on the marble hearthstone.

He contemplated the shattered pieces and swung around to face Jane. “Everyone will blame you for this! Everybody knows my high standards and will believe that you're the one who's failed me, that you're flawed and unworthy—and dammit if I don't think you are! You must be, to call it off after all I've offered you! And I won't defend you, you can be sure of that!”

Jane was shaking but strangely calm. With dignity she said, “You must do what you wish.”

“Damn right I will.” He made a petulant gesture.

“And I must do what I think is right. I'm sorry to hurt you—”

“
Hurt
me? I'm not hurt, I'm relieved, relieved to discover in time that you are flawed and unworthy and quite unsuitable . . .” He continued listing the ways he'd been mistaken in her, the reasons she was so unsatisfactory.

Jane let his rant wash over her, oddly distant from it all. She might have married this man—would have married him. He would've been the father of her children. She shivered, thinking about it, about the impossible standards he would've set them. The demands. The pressure.

And slowly the fears she had held so long, the bonds that had bound her, loosened.

She looked at the pompous little man with his tasteful clothes and his carefully combed hair and felt a swell of compassion.

Underneath all the bluster and pretense he was a sad and lonely man. He'd thought he could buy a beautiful wife, the way he bought his other pieces. And she'd thought his wealth would make her safe from the risk of love. They'd both been so very wrong.

“You can't go on like this,” she told him when he stopped for breath. “If you do, you'll never be happy.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Expecting perfection, collecting what you think is perfection, surrounding yourself with beautiful things. They'll never make you happy.”

“You were ready enough for them to make you happy.”

“I know, and I was wrong. I know now they aren't enough. Not for me, not anymore.”

His eyes almost popped. “Not enough? I offered you my wealth, my house—houses—jewels—”

“Those are just things,” Jane said gently. “And I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I didn't offer you enough either.”

He stared at her, perplexed and irritated. “But you're the most beautiful girl I've seen in years. Every season I looked, and after nearly ten years, along you came—absolute perfection.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, but that's just nonsense.”

“Nonsense?”

“What you're talking about, the thing you call ‘perfection,' is such a transient thing. One day I'll be old and wrinkled, and before that, I expect I'll get fat.”

“Fat?” He looked appalled.

She almost laughed at his expression. “If I take after my maternal grandmother, Lady Dalrymple—and it seems very likely—I will most certainly grow plump, at the very least. But whatever happens, I intend to age like Lady Beatrice.”

He frowned. “But she's old and ugly!”

“That's where we must differ: I think she's beautiful.”

“
Beautiful?
” His tone made it clear he thought her statement ridiculous.

Jane nodded. “She's experienced hardship, abuse, grief and illness, and yet not a trace of bitterness shows on her face. She still has a zest for life, and a heart full of love. Wisdom, love, experience—it's all there, in every wrinkle and line—her character and her beauty just get stronger and more refined with age. And that's how I want to be. I want to have children and grandchildren, a body well used and a life well lived. And wrinkles.”

He stared at her as if she was insane.

“Everyone ages and gets wrinkled, and that is why your definition of perfection is wrong.”

“Wrong? In what way wrong?”

Jane said gently, “It's because you're flawed, because you're worried that deep down inside you, you're not good enough. And so you collect lovely objects, and surround yourself with beauty, and are renowned for the perfection of your taste. And you hope that all this reflected glory and perfection will hide your own flaws.”

“How dare you!”

“I don't mean it unkindly. Don't you see, everything that's human and beautiful
is
flawed. It's the flaws that make each of us unique, that make us human and worthy of love.”

“Love!” He made a scornful sound. “Vulgar, middle-class claptrap!”

“Worth dying for,” Jane said. “And very much worth living for. Do you know, I was ready to sacrifice my own chance of love—and yours—for the sake of having children, for comfort
and security . . . No, I thought I could
avoid
love. I
wanted
to avoid it. I thought it was some kind of uncontrollable force that would hurl me into uncertainty and peril. And jeopardize everything I wanted out of life.”

“It is. It will. It has.”

She smiled. “You might be right. Nothing is certain in life, I know that. But I thought happiness could be bought and could be acquired like”—she glanced at the broken little shepherdess—“acquired like that lovely little statuette. But it can't. Love must be snatched in fleeting moments, treasured, nourished like a fugitive flame in the wind. It's risky and uncertain.”

She thought of Zachary Black, locked away in a dank and gloomy prison, facing hanging for a crime he didn't do. His future couldn't be more uncertain, but her own feelings—her love—were strong and sure, burning for him like a flame in the darkness. And because of that, she was prepared to face the risk, had no choice but to love him and face what the future would bring.

The thought brought a strange exhilaration with it.

“I used to think my parents were wrong for eloping together and leaving two very good sensible matches behind. I thought their unhappiness—and my sister's and my childhood difficulties—were the punishment for breaking the rules, for being improvident, for thinking only love mattered. And money does matter, and so does financial security and keeping your family safe, but without love, it's . . . it's as empty as . . .” She gestured at the little broken shepherdess. “As that. Pretty to look at, perfect from the outside, but when tested, ultimately hollow. Empty.”

He frowned, and Jane added, almost to herself, “Even in the direst of circumstances, Mama used to call Papa her prince. And she was always his princess, and . . . I want to be somebody's princess too.”

“Who? What prince, dammit? English? Foreign? Is it a tiara you want?”

She gave a shaky laugh. “Zachary Black is my prince. I know so little about him—none of the things I used to think were so essential to my happiness. You offered me everything I thought I wanted, but I doubt we could ever have been happy together, could we? And today, as I saw Zachary Black taken away by
those horrid constables, I knew that I loved him. And that I was more like Mama than I wanted to be. I've been struggling against loving him for such a long time. He's an impossible man.”

“He is! And he doesn't deserve you—he's a murderer!”

“No, he's innocent. As for ‘deserving,' while it's true that love must be earned, at the same time, it must be freely given.”

“That makes no sense at all.”

“It doesn't have to make sense—it just is.” She almost laughed at his expression. She was feeling quite giddy with relief. It was crazy—she'd just rejected the most advantageous offer any girl could want, and the love of her life was in jail, facing a capital charge—and yet, somehow, she felt relief. “You're right—I'm afraid it's midsummer madness with me.”

“But it's
not
midsummer! It's barely even
spring
!” he said, exasperated.

“I know. And that's another reason why we would not suit—seasonal confusion.” He looked baffled and she moved to sit down beside him. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Lord Cambury, and I hope you'll forgive me eventually.” She took his hands in hers. “But even more, I hope you will stop looking for physical perfection in a bride, and stop surrounding yourself with cold, beautiful things. You're a good man, kind and decent, and fond of animals, but . . . you're mistaken about so many things. Stop being afraid of whatever it is about yourself you're trying to hide. You need to
love
someone, not collect
things.
”

He blinked at the blasphemy. “But I searched for you for
years.
”

“No, you searched for an imaginary ideal, not me. It's not me you wanted, only my face. But to know a person, to love them, you have to look beneath the surface. And love them, perfect or not. Take a risk, Edwin, and learn to love imperfection. Learn to love—let yourself
fall
in love. It's terrifying . . . and wonderful.”

“They're going to hang him, you know.”

“Not if I can help it. Take care of yourself, Edwin. Good-bye.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek—the first time she'd ever kissed him—and hurried from the room, leaving him standing and staring after her, a peculiar expression on his face.

*   *   *

D
inner was an informal affair: just Jane's sisters, Max and Freddy and Lady Beatrice. Jane barely ate a thing. She started with the news that she'd just severed her engagement to Lord Cambury.

As Lady Beatrice pointed out, it was going to cause a lot of nasty gossip—and none of it would be complimentary to Jane, so they'd better prepare for it.

“But why?” Abby asked, after the initial babble of surprise had died down. “I thought he was what you wanted.”

Jane grimaced. “I thought so too, but . . .”

“It's the gypsy, ain't it? Daisy said.

Jane nodded ruefully.

“What gypsy?” Abby demanded, having only known Zachary Black as an annoying man who'd pursued Jane in the park and then turned up at the literary society and embarrassed them all by speaking Italian. And Venetian.