Chapter Twenty-Four
With a grunt of effort, Nathaniel held the injured man afloat as Hugh and the fishermen dragged the fellow on board. In the rough swell, Nathaniel hung on, his strength failing as he waited for his turn to be pulled aboard. He had come close to death before; it wasn’t a new experience, but this time had special significance. This could be a second chance for his marriage and his life. The smugglers were finished; after this, they couldn’t start their business again. And as his life and his past mistakes swept before his eyes, he vowed he would make Laura happy.
A huge wave broke over him, sending him spinning away from the boat. The rope snapped. Nathaniel, salty brine filling his throat, sank into the depths. Thoughts of becoming another victim of Davy Jones’ Locker made him kick violently.
When he resurfaced gasping for air, the fishing boat had drifted farther away. Finding himself closer to an outcrop of rocks within sight of the shore, Nathaniel fought to keep his head above water and swam toward them, aided by the strong tide. It would take all of his boyhood skills to climb high enough up the green-tinged granite slopes to rest before striking out again. If he couldn’t rest, in his exhausted state, he knew he would never make it.
***
Laura slept deeply on and off for what seemed like weeks. Whenever she opened her eyes, she saw her worried aunt beside the bed. Her limbs ached and her head pounded.
When the drowsiness left her, she pushed herself up on the pillows, surprised at how weak she’d become.
“You’ve been sick for three days,” Dora said. “I was tempted to send for your mother.”
Laura eyed her with a frown. “I hope you didn’t.”
“No. There was some concern that you might have contracted whooping cough.” Dora hovered over her with a bowl of broth, waiting to feed her. “I’m so relieved you’re back with us.”
“I can manage, thank you.” The beef soup was tasty, but she had little appetite. She put down the spoon and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “I’m sorry I worried you. Has a telegram come?”
Dora smiled. “Yesterday.” She took the telegram from her pocket.
Laura anxiously read it. “Nathaniel’s well, thank God. He says he’s been busy working with the police. He makes no mention of my coming home.” And no word that he loved or missed her.
“You can’t expect much from a telegram,” Dora said soothingly. “At least he’s all right.”
He was all right. With a deep, gratifying sigh, Laura threw back the bedclothes. “I shall get up today.”
Dora frowned. “Are you sure you should?”
“I’m much better. Send the maid in, will you please?”
An hour later, upon entering the library, Laura caught sight of Dora tucking papers under a cushion. Her aunt looked up with a guilty expression.
“What have you there, Aunt Dora?”
Dora retrieved a bundle of letters and handed them to her. “I decided to wait until you were stronger before I showed you these.” She shrugged. “While you were sick, I searched the attics.”
“You went up to the attics? It seems I can’t leave you alone for a minute before you busy yourself with something you ought not.” Laura’s fascinated gaze settled on the letters, spotted with age and tied up with a faded blue ribbon. She held out her hands, and her aunt deposited the bundle into them. “I suppose you’ve been frightfully bored.”
“Au contraire. I am never bored in my own company. But I haven’t read them,” Dora said with quiet dignity.
Laura sat and patted her aunt’s knee. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit bad tempered. But certainly curious. Shall we read these together?”
Dora’s eyes brightened. “I’ll ring for tea.”
As they nibbled mustard and cress sandwiches and drank their tea, Laura opened each letter, smoothing out the fragile paper.
“They are love letters to Nathaniel’s mother, Olivia, from someone who signs himself, Your loving protector.”
“He did little to protect her at the end,” Dora said wryly.
Laura folded them. “I’m not going to read them.”
Dora looked disappointed. “Oh, why not?”
“I know they appeal to the poet in you, Dora, but I’m… Wait a moment.” Laura examined a plain white envelope. “This one is from Nathaniel’s father, Lord Lanyon.”
Dora moved closer. “What does it say?”
Laura read quickly. “It’s as we feared. He refuses to acknowledge the child as his.” She read down. “He accuses Olivia of debasing herself and the Lanyon name with the steward at Wolfram. He writes that she broke his heart, and that he will never set eyes on her again.” Tears blurred Laura’s vision. “How sad.”
“Men!” Dora huffed.
Laura folded the letter, added it to the rest and retied the blue ribbon. “Although he was a boy, Nathaniel must have heard something of this. It would have been a bitter, lonely time for him.”
“Will you tell him you know?”
“I cannot.” Laura handed the letters to Dora. “You must return these to where you found them.”
“But surely this needs to be discussed between you.”
“I hope it will be someday. Right now, it’s enough to know.”
Laura now understood some of what made Nathaniel behave the way he did. No wonder he found trust and intimacy difficult, especially after the rumors concerning Amanda and Mallory. He was more open with his dogs and horses than with Laura.
“The rumors about Nathaniel’s first wife and her affair with the gardener is like history repeating itself,” Dora said. “It would be doubly hard for him.”
“Yes, even if they weren’t true. Poor Nathaniel. So much sadness in his life.”
Dora raised her brows. “How do you know they weren’t true?”
“Cilla didn’t believe it.”
“How could she be sure?”
Laura pulled the shawl closer around her shoulders. “She was Amanda’s friend and confidant.”
“But might Amanda have lied to her?”
“Dora, do stop this. It is not going to help anyone.”
“What do you intend to do?”
Laura stood. “We shall return to London tomorrow.”
“I forgot to tell you. The ladies from the church committee called to see you while you were ill.”
“Oh, dear, I did invite them. I’ll write and apologize, donate to the church fête. Really, Dora, this house should be lived in by someone who can involve themselves in village affairs. I shall ask Nathaniel to sell it.”
“I quite agree. Before we do,” Dora said, “I want to show you something else I found in one of the larger bedchambers while you were sleeping.”
Laura followed her cryptic aunt up the stairs. They entered an airy bedchamber. “There!” Dora said triumphantly.
During her inspection of the house, Laura hadn’t entered this room. It smelled musty, and the furniture was covered in dust sheets. A portrait in a gilt frame hung on the far wall. A lady with a calm, attractive face sat with a small dog perched on her knee, dressed in the fashion of the last century. Painted by a well-known artist, the folds of her rose-patterned damask gown were so cleverly wrought they looked almost real. Her auburn hair was arranged in ringlets at her nape. She had a strong face, with a long nose, a generous mouth and a whimsical expression in her eyes.
“I think I would have liked her,” Laura said.
“There’s something about her which reminds me of you, not in looks, but in spirit,” Dora said.
“She looks more serene than I,” Laura said with a laugh. She suspected Dora was becoming overly sentimental. She gazed fondly at her aunt. Had she worried her terribly? “Nathaniel told me Olivia’s mother had red hair. There are other paintings of Lady Charlotte here, but nothing quite this detailed.” Laura studied the woman’s face for features like her grandson’s. She found it in the brow and high cheekbones. She touched the painted canvas as if she might connect with the woman who died so long ago. “Nathaniel was fond of her.”
Dora’s eyes shone. “There you are then.”
“She took care of her daughter until she passed away, despite the scandal.”
“Yes, I can see compassion and intelligence in her eyes.”
“If Nathaniel thinks I’m like her in some way, I must endeavor to live up to her.”
“Darling girl.” Dora put her arm around Laura’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “You already have.”