As the September dawn crept into the castle's master suite, Blythe could begin to distinguish her lover's silhouette in the gloom. How would Lucas Teague, the lord and master of Barton Hall, react to such a theory if she disclosed the ideas regarding ancestral memory his cousin Valerie had put forth that day at the village fête?
"Loco." That's what he'd say, in his cultured English accent.
But what if there were some kind of link between Blythe Barton, who cuckolded her husband with his brother, Ennis, in the eighteenth century, and Blythe Stowe, who had been betrayed by her husband and sister in the twentyfirst? If only, she wished silently, her partial understanding of the circumstances surrounding the complicated story of the Barton-Trevelyan-Teagues could translate into simple forgiveness in her own situation.
The haunting vision of her husband's naked back and buttocks smothering her sister's slender body flashed through Blythe's thoughts—and with it, a familiar and exhausting yearning for punishment and revenge.
There were some things—like beating a horse's neck to a bloody pulp, or boinking your sister's husband—that were simply unpardonable.
Blythe sat up abruptly, overwhelmed by a feeling of suffocation. The closeness of the atmosphere inside the confines of the bed curtains had suddenly become intolerable. Even in the afterglow of Luke's extraordinary lovemaking, she was forced to acknowledge the truth: that her weary heart could not yet forgive. And in her head there remained, undeniably, fantasies of retribution.
"The trouble with storing up resentment and wishin' ill on other folks is that it's like drinkin' poison," a familiar voice echoed in her memory. "You think it's gonna kill the person who hurt you. Usually it ends up killin'
you
."
Blythe simply had to stop drinking poison, she told herself. If there was a link between the Bartons, past and present, she had to discover what it might be. If she actually dared to look back at her family's history, perhaps she could avoid some of the kinds of mistakes her ancestors had made.
As Blythe's troubled gaze lingered on Luke's sleeping form, she wondered what their future was likely to be. Was her ultimate happiness to be found here at Barton Hall? Or were the repercussions of events that had transpired so long ago within these walls—within the curtains of this very bed, perhaps—still influencing the present?
Blythe carefully eased her frame toward the edge of the mattress and thrust her head between the velvet drapes. She took a deep breath of the colder air circulating in Luke's bedroom. Furtively, she quickly donned her beige slacks and silk blouse and tiptoed away from the Bawdy Bed of Barton.
When she reached the library, the early-morning light filtering through the casement windows made it possible for her to make her way to the genealogy chart without turning on the desk lamp. She could almost hear Valerie Kent's instructions to inhale and allow her mind to empty itself of extraneous thoughts. Meanwhile, she gazed intently at a single name, disregarding all others.
Then she extended her arm above her head, pressed her fingertips lightly against the glass-fronted family tree, and whispered, "Blythe Barton Trevelyan."
For one anxious moment she felt the now familiar sensation of a tremendous force rearranging her body's molecules. Suddenly she wondered—in the words of her cynical lawyer—whether she wasn't already in way too deep.
CHAPTER 10
OCTOBER 9, 1789
T
he sound of pebbles ricocheted off Blythe's window, but the seventeen-year-old was already awake, waiting. Fully clothed in a burgundy-colored wool traveling costume, she cast aside the bedcovers and ran, barefooted, to the window in her bedchamber that faced the rear garden. As her heart thudded wildly with excitement, she threw up the sash and leaned out into the cool dawn's light.
"You came!" she whispered hoarsely.
"Blythe—" Ennis began, looking up at her, handsome as a king's cavalier, dressed in a thick woolen cloak to ward off the chill air.
"Shh! I'll only be a moment," she hissed. "I'll just don my shoes and go through the secret door in the library."
Blythe ducked back inside, and with hands that shook with both fear and anticipation she slipped on her shoes and grabbed the handle of her portmanteau. Her arms ached from the weight of her baggage now laden with as much Barton silverware as could be quietly gathered the previous night when the servants were asleep.
Her wedding dress hung in the wardrobe, its billowing silk folds pressed in readiness for a bride who had no intention of
ever wearing it.
By the time Blythe padded down the staircase and entered the library lugging her heavy burden, her back ached as well.
She must be careful not to strain herself, she thought suddenly—just in case she was, in fact, carrying Ennis's child.
She immediately set down her traveling bag and began to slide her fingers along the bookcase, searching for the secret catch.
For an instant she recalled the day, only six weeks earlier, when Garrett Teague had magically materialized from inside the hidey-hole to warn her that Collis Trevelyan was about to finalize the match between his eldest son and his ward to feather his own nest.
On that same day it had been Garrett who had kept Blythe from flinging herself off the cliff in desperation over her plight. What a dear, good friend he was, Blythe thought, feeling suddenly guilty that she had made no attempt even to send him a note of farewell. He had coddled her and soothed her that dreadful day, earnestly vowing that her fate was more promising than she thought and offering to spirit her away to America. How right he had been! Blythe thought triumphantly as her fingers found the hidden catch and the panel of bookshelves lurched inward. Ennis had been more than willing to sketch her in the nude and then seduce her in the wooded copse near Hemmick Beach, and now he was proving, to her unending gratitude, that he had far more honor in his soul than his bombastic sire ever gave him credit for.
When, a week earlier, her bloody courses miraculously failed to appear—just as she had prayed—she thought that the one flaw in her plan might, indeed, be her intended groom's unwillingness to marry her.
"Jesu, Blythe!" Ennis had exclaimed when she announced the news that she was with child. "How can you be certain so soon?"
"Because I am," she replied calmly. "Because I have only been with you, as you well know, and I have never before failed to have my courses appear—"
"Yes, yes," Ennis interrupted, with an ungallant grimace. "I realize that if you are… well… with child, I am, certainly, the cause of your distress."
"'Tis not my distress," she had cried, flinging her arms about his shoulders, "'tis my salvation… and my fondest wish that we should have this babe and wed in the bargain. You shall be a rich man," she said, affecting nonchalance, but watching him closely. "I want you to be able to paint… to create the works you wish to. We can still go to Italy! Together!"
Ennis's expression had been unreadable, and he had heaved a small sigh.
"I wish the solution were that simple," he had said. "My father will slit my throat if I elope with you to Italy, not to mention what my brother would do."
"Kit holds no great fondness for me, nor for you, I'm sure," Blythe retorted. "He only does what your father orders him to."
"I think you misjudge my brother's essential decency," Ennis replied. "Likewise, you underestimate your own charm. Though, I vow, you've shown poor Kit not a shred of affection, so I can't imagine why he pines for your love."
"Pines for me?" she scoffed. "You must be joking!"
"Indeed, I'm not," Ennis replied. "But that is beside the point. My revered father doesn't just wish that our families be joined in holy matrimony. He wants his eldest son and legal heir to add the Barton estate to his own holdings so that the entire parcel can be handed down as an even larger legacy to future Trevelyan generations. Even if I married you and bequeathed Barton Hall to my heirs, the Barton and Trevelyan parcels would nevertheless remain separate. The younger Trevelyan wed to the Barton heiress simply doesn't serve my dear pere's grandiose purposes, don't you see?"
"I don't give a farthing for Collis Trevelyan's lofty schemes…" she retorted. "I care about your future and mine!"
Blythe had earlier outlined her plan for eloping to the Continent and coming back to Barton Hall after the baby was born. That way, she assured him, they would simply present everyone in both families with a
fait accompli.
"Think of it, Ennis! If you marry me, you shall be master of Barton Hall, instead of being condemned to paint in some drafty garret," she cajoled. "You will sit at a fine table and eat off sterling silver, and practice your art night and day, if you wish!"
And with that Ennis Trevelyan had agreed to her plan. Excited that their moment of escape from this coil had finally arrived, Blythe gave a shove against the bookcase with her shoulder and was relieved when it slid open far enough to allow her to pass through the smuggler's storeroom with her portmanteau. She shivered in the chilly blackness and then gave a little gasp as she heard scurrying sounds on her right. Rats, no doubt.
When she emerged into the damp air outside, Ennis stood by as she struggled to pull the silver-laden baggage through the secret door.
"Good God, Blythe, did you pinch every last fork?"
"Well, help me, blast it all!"
"We're not eloping."
He said it calmly and with frightening finality.
"But you're here!" she cried. "You came at dawn, just as you promised."
"I'm not so much of a rogue that I wouldn't tell you in person that I've had a change of heart. Look, Blythie, darling…"
"Don't call me 'darling' and then have the insolence to tell me that you're not—"
"I can't do this, Blythe," Ennis said, running his hand nervously through his neatly coiffed blond hair. "Your wedding to Kit is to take place today! My father will—"
"Your father can do nothing if we leave immediately!" she shot back. "That's why they've finally let down their guard. Until today the grooms were told to watch the ponies, and the maids were told to watch me! Now they think they've won… they think it's too late for me to escape. That's the beauty of our plan—"
"Your
plan!" Ennis exploded.
In the silence that loomed between them, Blythe could hear a cock crowing down by the henhouse. In a moment the sun would be swimming above the rim of the hills, and the estate workers would soon be bustling about their tasks on this, the mistress's wedding day.
"Ye gods, Blythe!" Ennis said hoarsely. "You know I care for you… that, if the truth be known, I'm quite mad for you. But this is folly—I can't go through with it."
"But 'tis your child! You can't deny it!"
"I don't deny it," he said quietly, "if you are, in fact, with child. You must admit, 'tis a bit early to be sure… and in any case, 'twill be better for all concerned if everyone else thinks 'tis Kit's child."
"Better for you!" she cried accusingly.
"Better for everyone… even you, perhaps," he asserted.
"If this scheme did not involve an irretrievable break with my entire family, I would be sorely tempted, believe me. Don't think I've not imagined how delicious it could have been to travel through Italy with an impudent woman like you for company," he added, his voice tinged with a characteristic trace of teasing irony. He gazed at her with a look of mild regret. "But as it is…" He shook his head. "I know I must seem cruel and unfeeling. Perhaps, at bottom, I am."
"No!" was all Blythe could reply. "You cannot do this to me, Ennis. You cannot abandon me to—"
"If we marry without my father's consent," Ennis interrupted, "he will claim I defrauded him, and I fear, as your legal guardian, he will drag us to court. Meanwhile, he still controls the purse strings of your inheritance, and unless you can successfully petition to break your father's will, Collis Trevelyan could cut you off without a sou and we both would find ourselves penniless
and
homeless."
"How have you determined all this?" Blythe demanded suspiciously.
"I asked Garrett to see what the law books in his father's shop have to say on such subjects." Ennis shrugged. "He showed it to me in black and white."
"Your father will come to accept our marriage, after we elope," she insisted. "Just watch and see. After all, you are his son, too!"
"Blythe, how willful and naïve you are," Ennis said wearily, "but I assure you, his lifelong goal has been to join his property with yours, and for the three thousand acres to be handed down in a grand gesture of patrimony to his eldest son. My being his second son, and thus dividing the goods, so to speak, will unleash the vengeance he is capable of. And make no mistake, that's precisely what will happen if we follow through with this solution to your predicament."
"I don't consider marrying you, or having your baby, a 'predicament,'" she said in a wounded tone.
"I remind you once again: You could easily pass the child off as Kit's, if you did your duty in the marriage bed," he replied coolly. "Except for the ravages of the pox, he and I look quite alike, wouldn't you say?"