The tired postilion, no longer in the first flush of youth, stamped his feet and rubbed his gloved hands in an effort to restore some feeling to his extremities. He was swathed in capes and scarves, a jockey hat tugged low over his forehead, and his rather weasely face looked demonic in the moving light of the lantern as he addressed his passenger again, more exasperatedly this time. “Is it Marchwell Park you want or not, Lord Melville?”
“Don’t shout, damn it, I’m not deaf!” Charles sat up properly and tipped his top hat back on his sun-bleached blond hair. He had long since given up trying to educate the numskull about his correct name and rank; besides, right now it was probably an advantage for the gatekeeper not to know who the new arrival really was.
The postilion wisely moderated his tone. “Begging your pardon again, my lord, but I asked you three times and you didn’t awaken.”
“Even so, as you know perfectly well that Marchwell Park is where I’m going, I hardly see why you suddenly need to confirm it again. Perchance it is your memory that is defective, not my ears.” It was Christmas Eve and a hefty sum had already been demanded before setting out on this drive from the coast to Lady Marchwell’s estate near Windsor, so if this was some eleventh-hour ruse to extract more money . . .
Well versed in the uncertain temper of the aristocracy, the postilion was at pains to be reassuring. “I remembered, sir, but then the gatekeeper said that as all Lady Marchwell’s Christmas guests had now arrived maybe I’d come to the wrong address. He thinks it’s probably Marshgrove House you want, farther toward Windsor, so it seemed best I should check with you . . . just in case.”
Charles’s pulse quickened and he looked again at the cottage, belatedly recognizing it as one of the twin lodges that flanked the impressive armorial gates on the road from Maidenhead to Windsor. “Kindly tell the gatekeeper to stop asking damn-fool questions and just let us through. Lady Marchwell has no idea I’m coming, but will receive me.” Charles crossed his fingers as he spoke, for he was by no means sure how his wife’s doting aunt would react to his sudden return. The last time he’d passed through these gates was when he’d been thrown out and told never to come back. Yet here he was, chancing his dubious luck again. He was twenty-eight now, older and hopefully wiser, and had come back from the other side of the world to tackle the past.
“Very well, sir.” The postilion closed the chaise door and went to speak to the gatekeeper, who seemed most reluctant to admit a newcomer, no matter how titled.
Charles watched the two men arguing, then his attention returned to the cottage, where an uncurtained window allowed him to see a plump woman and two little redheaded girls laughing as they sorted through some freshly gathered greenery for decorating their home. Festive joy would be their lot over the coming days, he mused enviously, conscious that happiness, Christmas or otherwise, had eluded him for six wretched years now. No doubt this one would not prove any different, for in his heart of hearts he expected Lady Marchwell to send him away again without even deigning to see him. And why should she not? After all, he had been a faithless husband to her beloved niece, whose tender heart he’d broken most cruelly.
He repented his sins, oh, how he repented them, but wishing the past could be undone would not bring about the reconciliation he yearned for. He had to face Juliet’s only relative, and throw himself on her mercy. Maybe after all this time she would relent at last, and tell him where his wife now lived. Would it be too much to hope that Juliet was here at Marchwell Park for Christmas? Too much to hope that the wedding ring he now wore on a purple ribbon around his neck would soon grace her finger again?
That had been his wish ever since separation. It was a fragile longing, a prayer that was whispered only in his soul, where his true self now hid away behind the false smiles and air of confidence he presented to the rest of the world. He had learned a very hard lesson, but learned it well, and if he had the chance of speaking to Juliet, he would . . . what? Convince her? Win her forgiveness? Sweep her into his arms once more? He doubted it. More likely he’d be obliged to creep away again with a monstrous flea in his presumptuous ear.
At last the postilion persuaded the gatekeeper to relent, and quickly hauled himself back onto the nearside of the two horses before the fellow changed his mind. His whistle pierced the racket of the storm and the chaise jolted forward again. Charles heard the groan and clang of the opening gates, and glimpsed the gatekeeper’s startled face on realizing that Lord Melville was in fact Sir Charles Neville. The black sheep had returned, ensuring the resurrection of a scandal that had dominated society’s gossip at the end of 1813.