and will fall in love with you the moment he sees you.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ Sarah said. She felt that the tears were very close and got quickly to her feet. ‘Excuse me, I must see if Mama has come down yet. I believe she has arranged for us to have a fitting with Arabella’s seamstress this morning. Some of the gowns we ordered in York were not well finished.’
‘Sarah…’ John spoke to her retreating back, silently cursing himself. He thought that perhaps he had hurt her, which was the last thing he had intended. Once he would have responded very differently to such an invitation, for he believed it had been a gentle hint that he might find favour in her eyes. ‘Damn! Damn it! Why did I not just walk away? Forgive me, Sarah. I am not worthy…not worthy of you…’
John turned away from the house, striding out towards the woods. It was his intention to fetch his curricle and horses, which had been stabled at the inn in the village. The blacksmith would have done his work by now, and John meant to take his leave of Arabella and the others as soon as he decently could. If it were possible he would leave now, make some excuse, but it would offend his friends. He could bear it for a day or so longer, though it almost wrenched the heart out of him when Sarah looked his way and he saw hurt mirrored in her lovely eyes. Would that he could turn back the past two years! He ought to have followed Sarah to Italy as had been his intention, but he had lingered, uncertain of his reception, and then it had been too late.
If only he had walked away from Andrea that day…if he had not listened to her pleas for help…but it was useless to look back. He had married her, given his name to her child, stood by her—and all to no avail. She had taken her own life while in a fit of despair and the sight of her lifeless body as it was taken from the river had nearly destroyed him. He had failed her. Andrea had begged for his help, but he had failed her. And now his guilt haunted him like a dark shadow at his elbow. He had nightmares, which woke him sweating with fear, and he had begun to imagine things; sometimes he wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him—it was as if his late wife were haunting him.
He had ordered that her personal belongings be packed and taken to the attics, but small things kept reappearing, tucked in amongst his own clothes as if placed there on purpose to remind him. A kerchief had been under his pillow when he went to bed the night before he left Elworthy House, and a few days earlier he had discovered her prayer book in his dressing chest; another time he had smelled her perfume in his room. It had been so strong that he had almost believed she was there.
He did not believe that he had placed any of the items where he found them. He had questioned his housekeeper about them, but the woman denied all knowledge of Andrea’s things, except to say that they had been taken to the attics. Indeed, she had gone so far as to say she was certain the prayer book had not been in the dressing chest the previous evening when she had placed some clean linen there herself, and she had looked at John curiously as if suspecting that he had put it there. But John was certain that he had not done anything of the kind. Yet how could it have come there…unless Andrea’s unquiet spirit was haunting him?
Surely not! John did not truly believe that such a thing was possible. He knew that he had failed Andrea, but he had not been deliberately cruel—so why was he being punished for her death? She had taken her own life by walking into the river. It was true that he had been a little irritated with her earlier that day, but he had apologised almost at once for his brusque manner. Had it really been a few cross words that had driven her to take her life? Or was it something more? Perhaps she had guessed that his feelings for her could never be more than kindness?
They had known each other since they were children, their parents friends and neighbours. After John’s father died, Sir Andrew Walton had offered to help John put his estate in order. He had not needed his help, but he had remembered the kindness given and when Andrea had turned to him in her distress, he had done what any decent gentleman would do. Rather than let her face the shame that a wicked rape had brought upon her, he had asked her to marry him, and she had gratefully accepted. Indeed, he knew that she had hoped for it when she came to him.
After he had married Andrea, John had tried hard to put Sarah out of his mind, but he was afraid that his wife had sensed his heart was not hers to command—that he would never love her as a man ought to love the woman he had married. John had been kind, but she had been suffering from the sickness brought on by her condition when they wed, and he had left her to sleep alone that night. After the birth, when she recovered, she had told him that he might join her in her bed, but he had told her that she was not yet well enough and she had not asked again. Somehow they had drawn apart as the days and weeks passed, and Andrea had retreated into a silent world of her own.
They did not quarrel. Perhaps it might have been better if they had, but each treated the other with unfailing politeness, speaking when they met but never really talking. After the harsh words that morning, John had realised that this situation could not go on. Either he must make Andrea his wife in all ways, or they must live apart. He had made up his mind that he would talk to her that evening—but by then they had taken her lifeless body from the river.
Was it his fault? John had told himself that he had done nothing to harm Andrea, and yet his conscience would not let him rest. Had he made Andrea so unhappy that she had taken her own life? It was a hard cross to bear, and the reason why he had begun to wonder if he actually had placed those items amongst his things. Was he trying to punish himself without knowing he did so?
No, this was ridiculous! John shook his head. There must be another reason for what had happened, something that ought to be apparent but was not. He had no reason to torture himself in this way. Andrea had known he did not love her when they married. Surely she must have known? But she had not understood that his heart was irrevocably given to another woman.
He had tried to forget Sarah. He had believed that she would never return to England, and for months he had succeeded in dulling the sense of loss that lived with him. Now, seeing her, being close to her, the scent of her perfume teasing his senses, he knew that he had never ceased to think of her. Staying here in this house was exquisite torture, making him achingly aware of a need within himself. Yet how could he ask her to marry him?
John knew that Andrea’s death had set off some whispering. People had wondered why a young woman delivered of a fine son would take her own life…no one had said it to his face, but John believed that some suspected that she might not have gone willingly into the river.
He had no idea who had begun the rumours, but they had been brought to his attention a few weeks earlier by Andrea’s father.
‘I know it is all nonsense,’ Sir Andrew said when he rode over that morning to show John the letter he had received. ‘Had there been any truth in this wretched insinuation, this would surely have been signed. It is a damned lie and I do not believe it for a moment, but I thought you should see it.’
John had read the accusation, his lips white with anger. He handed the letter back to his father-in-law. ‘I swear to you that there is no truth in this, sir. Andrea was a little unwell after the birth of…our son, that is all.’
‘No, no, John, let us be straight with one another,’ Sir Andrew said. ‘We both know that the child was not yours. Andrea told me the truth after she had spoken to you. She wanted me to know that you had not shamed her.’
‘I never knew that,’ John said. ‘She need not have told you. I promised her that no one would hear of it from my lips—and, as far as I am concerned, the boy is mine.’
‘You are a good man,’ Sir Andrew said, ‘and that is why I know this is a lie. I shall destroy the letter, but it may not be the end of it, John.’
And it had not ended there. John had received a vicious letter himself a few days before he left
