Kent's Orphans: The Prisoner Part 25

Chapter Fifteen.

RIBBONS OF PEACH LIGHT SPILLED FROM THE enormous fire crackling in the hearth, rippling across the faded pattern of the aged wool carpet and sending warm caresses across a collection of small, slippered feet.

"...and so between the evidence, the confessions of the three men, who also admitted to their earlier attack on Haydon in which their accomplice was killed, and the body of Lord Bothwell, the judge realized he had no choice but to drop the charges against Haydon immediately," Genevieve explained to the little flock of nightgown-clad children surrounding her.

It was the following evening, and all the children had anxiously waited up to hear what had transpired during her and Haydon's lengthy visit to the prison and courthouse that day.

Jack was leaning against the wall, his expression guarded and his body tense, as if he still expected the authorities to come crashing through the door at any moment. Genevieve suspected it would be a long time before the lad stopped fearing that either he or Haydon was on the verge of being arrested.

"Why would those three bother to confess?" he demanded, eyeing Haydon seriously.

"I suppose because Constable Drummond explained to them that it would be in their best interest to tell the truth." That seemed a fairly gentle way of putting it, Haydon decided.

He was seated on the sofa with his arms wrapped around Charlotte and Annabelle, feeling overwhelmingly protective of the family a.s.sembled before him. Any one of them could have been injured or killed as they tried to rescue him, he realized, appalled by the risks they had taken. The sight of Annabelle being held at Vincent's mercy with a pistol pressing into her head had unleashed a paralyzing fear within him, just as the sight of Emmaline peering at him through the banister had some two years earlier. Even though Annabelle was now safe and seemed to have recovered from her ordeal, he still felt a need to stay close to her and rea.s.sure himself that she truly was unharmed.

"More likely the crack of Constable Drummond's stick against their big fat crowns loosened their tongues." Doreen snorted with satisfaction. "I'd have done the same with my iron if I'd had the chance."

"Aye, all ye need is for one dog to yelp an' ye'd be surprised how quick the rest o' them start to bark," said Oliver, chuckling.

"Then 'tis every man for himself and G.o.d for us all." Eunice pa.s.sed around a plate of ginger biscuits. "Each points the finger at the other and they all get thrown into the pot like bones for a soup. Those ruffians may not hang for tryin' to kill his lordship, here, but I warrant they'll spend a good long time in prison, just the same. Time enough to make them wish they had never agreed to go along with Lord Bothwell's murdering scheme, no matter how much he offered to pay them."

"Poor Lord Bothwell," Charlotte murmured sadly. "Of course, it's terrible what he did," she qualified, seeing Jack's look of incredulity, "but even so, I cannot help but feel sorry from him."

"He must have missed his daughter very much," Grace reflected, "to be so filled with hatred for Haydon."

Annabelle nestled closer to Haydon, disliking the thought of anyone hating him. "If he loved her that much, then why was he so cruel to her?"

"Sometimes people get confused about their feelings," Genevieve began, trying to help the children understand. She was aware the subject was intensely difficult for Haydon, but she felt it was important that the children have some comprehension of what had motivated Vincent to act as he had, and ultimately to take his own life. "Lord Bothwell's love for Emmaline was deeply painful to him because when he discovered she was not truly his daughter, he felt horribly betrayed-and worse, I think he felt lost. Sometimes we try to distance ourselves from those we love most, not because we no longer love them, but because loving them becomes almost too painful to endure."

"I would never do that," Simon declared with childish certainty. "If I loved somebody, I would want to stay close to them and make sure they were happy and safe."

"Me, too." Jamie yawned and snuggled sleepily against Genevieve. "Wouldn't you, Genevieve?"

"Of course I would." She tenderly ruffled his berry-tinted hair, then stroked Simon's freckled cheek. "I'm just saying that we must not judge Lord Bothwell too harshly. It takes some people a long time to learn about the complexities of love. In Lord Bothwell's case, he didn't understand until it was too late."

"Speakin' of it bein' late, I believe 'tis nigh time ye lads and la.s.sies were tucked in yer beds," said Doreen briskly. "Tomorrow is laundry day, and I'll be expectin' ye to help with the sorting and washin' and ironin' before ye settle down to whatever lessons Miss Genevieve may have planned for ye."

"But I'm not tired," protested Annabelle, who had dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes.

Jamie yawned and burrowed even closer to Genevieve. "Neither am I," he a.s.sured her adamantly.

"You don't have to go to sleep right away." Years of putting weary children to bed had taught Genevieve that the surest way to snap them into wakefulness was to insist that they were tired when they were protesting otherwise. "But it is time for you to go upstairs. Brush your teeth and climb into bed, and, if you like, you may tell each other stories until you're tired-as long as you remember to whisper."

Appeased by that compromise and quite confident that they could stay awake far longer than Genevieve antic.i.p.ated, the children rose and crowded around her to kiss her good night. Jack stood off to one side, slouched against the wall with his thin arms folded across his chest, watching. Genevieve sensed that despite his affectation of utter apathy, something about the children's nightly ritual touched him. It was clear he believed himself far too old for such childish nonsense as good night hugs and kisses and giggles. But she wondered if somewhere buried beneath the battered shield of his hard-won maturity, he wished that he could lower his guard, just for a moment, and permit himself to be a mere lad once again.

As the children were bidding Haydon good night and scampering up the stairs with Oliver, Doreen, and Eunice, she went over to where Jack stood.

"It has occurred to me, Jack, that a young man of your age should not have the same bedtime as the children."

His brow lifted in surprise.

"Starting tomorrow evening, you may stay up an additional hour if you like. This will be your time, and you may spend it however you wish. There are many fine books in the library that you might enjoy looking at. Or you may want to join Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen in the kitchen for a cup of tea-I'm sure they would be delighted to have your company. The time is entirely your own, to do with as you please."

Jack straightened, clearly pleased to have had his maturity recognized with the granting of such a privilege. "Fine." As an afterthought he awkwardly added, "Thank you."

Genevieve hesitated. "I was just wondering, Jack," she ventured quietly, "will you be staying?"

His gaze became shuttered. "What do you mean?"

"I know that you are quite capable of taking care of yourself, as you have for so many years before you came here," she elaborated. "And I also realize you sometimes think you would prefer to be on your own again."

Jack remained silent, neither confirming or denying her conjecture.

"It's just that I'm afraid I'm finding managing this household rather difficult," she continued, sighing. "With all the painting I shall be doing over the next while for my future exhibitions, I don't know how I will be able to accomplish everything else. Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen already have their hands full with a hundred different ch.o.r.es. I could never expect one of them to take on a challenge such as maintaining our financial accounts, for example, which requires quite a lot of concentration and attention to detail."

Jack regarded her in astonishment. "You want me to keep your accounts?"

"Of course, you would begin with simple equations, and I would review your work once it was done," Genevieve a.s.sured him. "But I'm confident that eventually you would be able to manage the task completely on your own, as you have demonstrated a very quick mind when it comes to addition and subtraction."

A thin ray of pride lit his face.

"There are many other responsibilities that could be given to you, were you willing to take them on," she continued. "You're certainly old enough, and there is no question that you have the intelligence and maturity to handle them. It would be an enormous help to me if you would a.s.sume some of my duties-but I would delegate them to you only if I knew you were going to stay."

His shifted uncomfortably and looked away. It was clear he had no desire to lie to her.

Bitter disappointment washed over her. Genevieve had prayed that Jack would be so delighted by her confidence in him that he would accept her proposition outright. Evidently that was too much to hope for.

"You don't have to answer me tonight," she told him, somehow managing not to sound completely defeated. "I would not want you to make a commitment that you might later feel compelled to break. All I ask, Jack," she finished earnestly, "is that you give it some consideration."

"Fine."

She regarded him uncertainly. "You mean you will consider it?"

"No, I mean I'll stay."

A hesitant smile crept across her face. "You're sure?"

"Not forever," he swiftly qualified.

He didn't want Genevieve to think he was planning to spend the rest of his life living off of her charity. But if he was honest with himself, part of him desperately wanted to stay. Of course he disliked being told what to do all the time, and he hated peeling b.l.o.o.d.y potatoes and chopping up stinking fish and washing dishes, and it chafed not being allowed to just come and go as he pleased. Furthermore, he would never understand Genevieve's maddening obsession with bathing and manners and such. But despite these things, he found he actually liked living with this odd family of thieves and outcasts. For the first time in his life, he felt accepted for exactly who he was-and more, he actually felt wanted. Most of all, there was Charlotte. A terrible sense of helpless rage filled him every time he watched her limp awkwardly across the room, or prop her leg up and try to rub away some of the pain that plagued her constantly. He could not bear the thought of leaving her-not yet, anyway.

Charlotte needed him to watch out for her.

"I'll stay for two years, the length of my sentence. That way you won't be gettin' into any trouble with the governor when I leave." He had not forgotten how anxious the children had been when he had told them he was going to Glasgow. "As long as you think I can be some help." He wanted to make it clear that he intended to earn his keep.

So great was Genevieve's relief, she wrapped her arms around him, embracing him in a long, fierce hug. Jack froze, uncertain how to respond. She smelled sweetly crisp and clean to him, like a rain-soaked field of gra.s.s, and utterly different from his filmy remembrances of his mother, which now reminded him of cheap perfume and ripe wool. He closed his eyes and leaned into her, just a little, feeling strangely childlike as she held him. It was as if the years suddenly melted away and he was a little boy clinging to his mother, tearfully begging her not to leave him. But Genevieve was not leaving him. A tentative gust of happiness filtered through him, so new and unfamiliar, he scarcely knew what it was. She was asking him not to leave her.

He raised his arms and draped them around her, awkwardly returning her embrace.

"Thanks, Genevieve," he whispered fiercely, "for takin' me out of prison and bringin' me here."

He dropped his arms and cleared his throat, suddenly embarra.s.sed by his emotionalism. "'Night," he said, casting a cursory glance in Haydon's direction as he sauntered out of the drawing room.

"Good night, Jack," Genevieve returned, smiling as she closed the doors.

Haydon rose from the sofa and went to the fire, suddenly ill at ease now that he and Genevieve were finally alone. He grasped the poker and jabbed at the logs piled in the hearth, which were burning satisfactorily and in no need of adjustment whatsoever. He then carefully selected another piece of wood and added it to the pyre, watching as the flames licked ravenously against the dry wood. Uncertain what to do next, he braced one arm against the mantel and stared at the blaze, feeling hopelessly lost.

Just as abruptly as his life had been stripped from him, so it had unexpectedly been restored. He was the marquess of Redmond once again, a free man with a clear name, other than the distinction of his sordid past and the freshly minted scandal of his recent troubles. That would provide fodder for the gossipmongers for years to come-or at least until some other deliciously shocking event came along to eclipse it. His legacy was as seamy and despicable as his father had once predicted it would be, although the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had never imagined that Haydon would actually bear the Redmond t.i.tle while he was dragging his family's name through the mire.

Haydon had never given a d.a.m.n about his reputation or the sanct.i.ty of his family pedigree. But neither had he ever imagined himself caring about a woman with the relentlessly moral spirit of Genevieve MacPhail. Hers was not the kind of morality that took pious delight in judging the rest of the world according to the narrow dictates of religion and the law, the way people like Governor Thomson's wife and Constable Drummond did. No, what Genevieve lived by was an inherent morality of gentle compa.s.sion and selflessness.

From the moment she so willingly sacrificed both her position in society and any hope of a life of ease as the wife of the earl of Linton, pompous a.s.s though Charles may be, she had detached herself from the rarefied world of privilege and acceptance that she had always known. All for the sake of rescuing a dead maid's b.a.s.t.a.r.d, which any other gently bred woman in her position would have been satisfied to see quietly sent off to an orphanage to languish a while and then die.

But Genevieve was not like any other woman, he realized, feeling awed and humbled by her. There was a magnificent brilliance to her that defied a.n.a.lysis, like the silvery flare of a faraway star. At the youthful age of eighteen she had elected to leap from the path of familiarity and comfort that had been laid before her and fight to survive on her own, not because she wanted to, but because there was a helpless child who needed her. She had promptly been discarded by the man who had vowed to make her his wife, and rejected by the very society that had once celebrated her for being so young and lovely and charming.

What that society could not accept was that she was also profoundly ethical and caring and humane, and these attributes could not be stifled beneath lavish homes and expensive jewels and shallow gestures of carefully calculated generosity. Instead of being revered for her selflessness and determination, she had been ostracized and called mad, as if it were unfathomable that a young, eminently desirable woman might choose to save a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child's life over becoming a pampered wife and countess. And then, because her tender spirit found true joy in helping children, who were surely the most vulnerable members of society, she had gone on to rescue five more. Not because she felt driven by a sanctimonious need to please G.o.d, or to earn a better place in heaven, or to feel morally superior to the rest of the world. Genevieve helped others because within her breast beat a n.o.ble and caring heart, which rendered her incapable of walking away from the pain of someone else's suffering.

Even a brutal, condemned murderer on the eve of his execution.

He had always known that he was unworthy of her. He who had so casually destroyed the lives of not one, but now two people, each ending in a self-inflicted death. But he had never imagined coming to love her so deeply that he would have gladly given up anything and everything for the sole privilege of being the man with whom she shared her life. What he could not do, no matter how much he wished it, was escape the ugly black stains upon his soul. They would torment him forever-the memory of an innocent child's suffering and a betrayed father's unbearable anguish. How could a woman like Genevieve, who had devoted her life to easing the misery of others, accept a callow, selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d like him as her husband and the father to her precious children?

Genevieve watched Haydon uneasily, dreading whatever it was that he was struggling to tell her. Caught in the vortex of events that had consumed her so absolutely during the last two days, she had not permitted herself to consider what was to become of them. But seeing Haydon standing rigid before the fire, his expression twisted with a mixture of guilt and remorse, she knew what he was about to say.

"You're leaving," she concluded dully.

He nodded, not turning to look at her. "Tomorrow morning. I'm taking Vincent's casket by coach to Oban. From there, I've arranged for a ship to sail us north to Inverness." His voice was hollow as he finished, "I want to ensure that he is buried next to Emmaline."

Of course. His t.i.tle had been restored and his name was cleared. What had she thought he would do? Genevieve wondered. Had she actually thought he might stay with her and-what? Marry her? An outcast spinster living in a shabby old debt-ridden house with her eccentric brood of aged thieves and semi-rehabilitated urchins? The idea was ludicrous-she could see that now as plainly as anyone. Something within her began to crack, like a thin sheet of ice beneath the crushing wheel of a carriage. She gripped the threadbare arm of the sofa, fighting to maintain some semblance of dignity. The gold ring that Haydon had given her in Glasgow gleamed against her finger, a mocking reminder of their charade as husband and wife. For one sweet, shimmering moment she had foolishly allowed herself to forget that it was all a pretense. Somewhere between the nights of feeling his heart pound against her as they joined their bodies and their souls, and the agony of believing she had lost him forever, she had forgotten that they were not truly wedded. But they were not, and they never would be. It was as simple, and as heartbreaking, as that.

She plumbed the depths of her composure, fighting to shield her feelings from him. Realizing how terribly difficult the task of taking Vincent's body back would be for him, she found the poise to comment quietly, "I'm certain Vincent would have appreciated your concern for him, Haydon."

A harsh, dry laugh erupted from his throat. "I doubt that. Vincent despised me, and he had every right to." He turned away from the fire, his face shadowed with torment. "I killed him, Genevieve, as surely as if I had been holding that G.o.dd.a.m.n pistol myself."

"I don't believe that and neither should you." Her protectiveness of him instantly overwhelmed her own feelings of anguish. "Vincent was going to kill you, Haydon, as he had been planning to for months, or perhaps even years. But when he realized you were not the monster he had envisioned you to be, he could not bring himself to do it-"

"So he killed himself instead," Haydon finished harshly, "because I had destroyed his life." The words were raw with self-loathing.

"You injured him terribly by creating a child that Ca.s.sandra convinced him was his own," Genevieve acknowledged. "But you didn't destroy him, Haydon, and you certainly didn't make him kill himself. It was Vincent's choice to erect a wall between himself and Emmaline. Perhaps at the time he felt he had no choice, but I believe he did. We cannot control much of what happens to us in our lives-we can only control how we allow ourselves to react to it." Her voice softened as she continued, "Vincent was devastated to learn that Emmaline wasn't his daughter by blood, but no one forced him to withhold his love from her. That was his choice. And the consequences of that choice were insufferable, both for Emmaline and for him."

Haydon shook his head, unconvinced. "If I had never fathered her-"

"If you had never fathered her then Vincent might never have known the precious love he experienced for her during those first five years," she interjected, "and the love he continued to feel toward her afterward. Or Ca.s.sandra may have become pregnant by one of her other lovers and that child would have been presented as Vincent's own. It is impossible to speculate upon what might have happened, Haydon. Our lives have unfolded as they have, and we have both made choices in response to the situations we have been faced with. When Jamie was born and his mother died, I raged against G.o.d for creating him, because I was given the impossible choice of having to either take responsibility for him, or close my eyes and walk away."

"But you didn't walk away, Genevieve."

"No, I didn't. And everything that has happened in my life since then has been inextricably tied to the choice I made that day. It awakened me to the plight of unwanted children who exist so tenuously in the dark corners of our society. It brought me my children and Oliver, Eunice and Doreen, who have become my family and filled my life with unparalleled joy. And finally, incredibly," she finished, her voice beginning to break, "it brought me you."

She stopped abruptly. She could not bear the thought of him knowing how much he had come to mean to her. Not when he was going to leave her. She could suffer almost anything, but she did not think she could endure his pity.

Haydon regarded her with surprise. She looked away, avoiding his gaze, her hand clutching desperately at the arm of the sofa. In the span of a heartbeat she had gone from being strong and sure and full of fire as she defended his life and his actions to him, to being achingly fragile and uncertain.

And finally, incredibly, it brought me you.

He closed the distance between them in two strides. Kneeling down, he took her chin between his fingers and gently tipped her face up. Her eyes were shimmering with tears as she stared at him, a glaze of agony that cut through his soul. Slowly, tentatively, she grasped his hand and held it hard against her heart.

And then her teardrops began to fall, glittering upon her cheek like diamonds.

Haydon stared at her in awe, feeling the warm softness of her heart beating rapidly against his palm. And suddenly he understood. Genevieve did not condemn him for the dark transgressions of his past, any more than she condemned any one of her children for the lives they had led before coming to the sanctuary of her home. Somehow, she believed that deep within him there was actually good. That was why she had helped him to escape from prison and then risked everything to protect him from the authorities and his kidnappers. It was also why she had permitted him to become part of her closely guarded family. But it was not the reason she had given herself to him, sharing a magnificent, reckless pa.s.sion that he had never known with any other woman. Nor was it why she now sat drowning in pain, his hand clutched tightly against her heart. The reason for that was far more bewildering and glorious.

She loved him.

A brilliant shaft of joy blazed through him, obliterating the leaden shadows of his tortured past and replacing them with healing light.

"I love you, Genevieve," he managed hoa.r.s.ely, leaning into her until his lips were but a breath away from hers. "More than life itself. I have loved you from the moment I first laid eyes upon you in the bleakness of prison, and I have grown to love you more every day since. And if you give me the chance, I will spend the rest of my life surrounding you with that love."

Genevieve stared at him in silence, unable to accept what he was telling her.

"I will also cherish and protect each of our children to the very depths of my soul," Haydon pledged, wanting her to understand that he would never again fail a child the way he once had. "And I will happily welcome any other children you bring into our lives, whether from the prison or the street, or as a result of our devotion to each other."

"But-you are a marquess," she protested tearfully, still clasping his hand tightly against her heart.

"I was hoping you would not hold that against me."

"You could marry anyone," Genevieve clarified.

"I'm flattered that you think so. Shall I take it, then, that your answer is 'yes'?"

She shook her head in misery. "You cannot want to marry me, Haydon," she told him with painful certainty. "You only think you do because you have been away from your home for so long. My children and I don't belong in the society in which you live-surely you can see that. They would never be accepted by your friends and family, any more than they have been accepted here by those who once welcomed me into their homes as a guest and an equal." Feeling as if she were tearing out her own heart, she slowly released his hand. "I could not bear to see you scorned because of me and my children, Haydon, just as I could not bear to see my children despised by narrow-minded people who are blinded by the trappings of their t.i.tles and wealth."

"Then I'll give up the b.l.o.o.d.y t.i.tle," he swore fiercely. "I'll sell my estate and my house in Inverness, so none of our children ever have to go there and endure being the subject of idle gossip. We can live here, or we can move somewhere else and begin anew. I don't give a d.a.m.n about any of it, Genevieve," he a.s.sured her with harsh finality. "Not the t.i.tle, or the holdings, or what people think about me or my choice for a wife. The only thing that matters is that we are together, as a family. Marry me, Genevieve," he finished in a raw, pleading voice. "Marry me, and let me spend the rest of my life loving you." He brushed a silky strand of hair off her face, capturing a silvery drop of her anguish on his hand as he did so. "Please."

Genevieve bit her trembling lip, staring at him in awe. Firelight was playing across the chiseled planes of his face, etching his grim expression in shadows of gold. There was determination in his eyes, the granite-hard resolve of a man who was accustomed to having his way in virtually every challenge he undertook. But there was fear there as well, like a ragged, bleeding gash from which his very soul seemed to pour as he tensely waited for her answer.

And suddenly she knew that she could never let him go.

With a little cry she wrapped her arms around him and crushed her lips to his, kissing him deeply as she sank to her knees on the floor and pressed herself against him.

"Yes," she breathed, feeling joy flood through her, washing away her fear as it filled her with newfound strength. And then, because she had no wish to force him to relinquish his t.i.tle and turn his back on his family and his heritage in order to win her hand, she added with just a hint of playfulness, "I suppose I will marry you, Lord Redmond."

He laughed and kissed her hungrily, cradling her against his body as he lowered her onto the carpet before the hearth. He pulled the pins from her hair and let it spill in silky waves around her, fascinated by the dance of coral light against the creamy skin pouring from the neckline of her gown.

"There is something I feel I must bring to your attention," he murmured, nuzzling the tender hollow of her throat as his hands roamed the lush hills and valleys of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The tiny round b.u.t.tons of her gown were quickly released, enabling him to free her from the confines of her corset. Haydon ran his tongue over the claret tip of her breast before drawing it deep into his mouth.