Alan grasped her upper arm and said with rough kindness, “Come on, lass, I’ll row you out to the ship. Whether they return or not, we’ll have to leave soon or we’ll lose the tide.”
Her shivering worsened on the short ride to the vessel, and she almost fell from the rope ladder as she pulled her exhausted body up. Alan Brown sent the skiff back to the beach as a stiffening wind broke up the clouds, revealing the shore with dangerous clarity. The boat had hardly touched ground before a dark figure ran over the bluff, skidded down the sandy incline, and raced across the beach to hurl himself into the waiting vessel as wild shots pursued him. The skiff flew across the choppy water to the mother ship; as soon as it was secured, the three sailors inside scrambled up over the railing, their leader calling hoarsely, “Away, now!”
Christa watched it all, numb to her very core. As desperately as she hoped the fugitive was Charles, she had known immediately that it must be Alan’s crewman—the height and build were wrong for her brother. As sails were raised and the anchor lifted, Alan conferred with the man who had escaped. Her teeth chattered and she gripped the railing with blue-white fingers as the captain turned and came reluctantly toward her. She was paralyzed by the fear of learning irrevocably what she had lost.
“I’m sorry, lass. Apparently, Guardsmen set on your mother’s party. Bob here saw your brother take a bullet in the head.” He stopped, unnerved by the implacability of the words, then added quietly, “No survivors.” He took her arm again and said, “Come below now, miss. Have some soup to warm you. We’ll see you make it home to England.”
She stared at the black shore falling away behind them, orange flashes and dark echoes rolling across the water as futile shots followed the rapidly departing ship. In a voice as stark as death she said, “I have no home.”
She watched until nothing more could be seen, the creak of rigging and forlorn cries of gulls making a mournful accompaniment to her desolation. When she finally slid into a faint, only Alan’s watchfulness saved her from falling over the railing. As he carried her below, he glanced at the still white face and thought it a mercy that for the moment she could feel no more.
Radcliffe Hall
Berkshire, England
March 16, 1795
Marie-Christine Madeline Louise d’Estelle, Comtesse d’Estelle, usually known as Christa, sat in the velvet-cushioned window seat and traced patterns on the fogged window. When she looked at what she had drawn and saw that it was the d’Estelle coat of arms, she smiled with faint sadness. The time had come to let go of her old life and to begin again.
She rose and crossed the richly furnished room to the fireplace, where a lively blaze worked against the damp chill of the gray March morning. On her way she picked up three pastel sketches from the satinwood Sheraton table. Kneeling before the flames, she lifted the first drawing and studied it. She was not a great artist but had a knack for portraits and had made many drawings in the last year. From her portfolio she had chosen three pictures as the most characteristic.
This first one was of her father, and it caught him well. Philippe and her mother had been cousins and they shared the dark hair and slight stature she had inherited. Her father’s merry, irreverent face was much like her own, not strikingly handsome, but with a brimming charm and vitality. He had given Christa his own curiosity and passion for learning and the ability to find laughter in the midst of blackest tragedy. Laying the sketch carefully on the fire, she watched it char and curl around the edges before bursting into flames. “Adieu, Papa,” she said softly.
When the paper was completely reduced to ash, she lifted the next sketch, studying the classically lovely face that radiated peace and serenity. Her mother was the most remarkable woman Christa had ever known, wise in the ways of the heart, knowledgeable about many things ladies seldom understood, and showing unshakable bravery during the horrifying months of the Terror.
Most of all, Marie-Claire knew how to love with courage and generosity, never counting the cost though she had lost two husbands and an infant son to premature death. Her daughter knew that if Marie-Claire were still alive, she would go forth and love again after she had done with mourning. Christa had never known her mother’s equal for womanly warmth and strength; while she herself was incurably frivolous and too impatient to achieve such heights, she dreamed that someday she would be at least half the woman her mother was.
She looked one last time at the portrait, at Marie-Claire’s wondrously clear and expressive gray eyes, which she had bequeathed to her children. “I know you are taking care of Papa and your children,Maman, wherever you may be. Do not fear for me; you taught me well. I shall strive to be worthy of you.” She watched as the flames consumed the picture, then looked at the last portrait.
“You are the one who gave me the idea for this, Charles,” she said thoughtfully as she studied the handsome laughing face. “Remember the song you taught me, called the ‘The Unquiet Grave’? You have forgotten? So careless, Charles! It was about a maiden who sat and wept on her true love’s grave for twelve months and a day. Then his spirit rose and complained that her grief disturbed his peace, and she must cease to mourn. You told me I must live for both you andMaman, and I promise you I shall.”
The portrait was overlaid with a vivid mental image of her brother, and her voice was a whisper as she added, “But I would not be denied my year of grieving.”
Christa laid the picture on the flames and continued unsteadily, “No one has ever been more fortunate in her father or mother or brother. I thank you all for the love and joy you brought into my life. And now I release you.”
She stood and watched as the last scrap of paper was devoured, Charles’s smile lingering in her memory. “Va avec le bon Dieu, ma chere famille,” she said quietly. There were no tears; she had shed enough in the past twelvemonth.
Now that she had performed this private ritual to honor her lost family, she felt a sudden rush of freedom and lightness. Throwing her head back and spreading her arms outward, she reached inside to the central core of exuberance she had voluntarily abandoned in the last year. “I have honored my dead with grieving, Now it is time to honor them withlife!”
Chapter 1
British Crown Colony of Gibraltar
March 1795
Peter Harrington braced himself before knocking on the door. His noble patient, Captain Lord Alexander Kingsley, Viscount Kingsley and officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, had been raising merry Hades with the household ever since he had recovered consciousness. His good-natured mischief made him a handful under normal conditions. How would he react to Harrington’s unwelcome news?
He knocked and entered the high-ceilinged bedroom without waiting, only to be walloped full face with a feather pillow. “Alex Kingsley! What the devil . . .?” Further comment was cut off by a new barrage of pillows. Abandoning his Hippocratic oath and doctorly dignity, Peter scooped up one of the pillows and fired it back at the tanned face grinning from the bed. The ensuing five minutes bore considerably more resemblance to a nursery riot than a meeting between two gentlemen of mature years and superior station.
The battle ended when Peter collapsed laughing into a chair by the bed. “What the devil wasthatall about?” he demanded. Alex brushed a few feathers out of his collar-length blond hair and chuckled, amber-brown eyes twinkling from his long, high-cheek boned face.
“I wanted to prove that my throwing arm has recovered from its wounds.Nowwill you let me out of this cell?”
Peter scanned the whitewashed walls, comfortable furniture, and bright fabrics, then snorted. He was a solid man of middle height, the premature streaks of gray in his dark hair making him look older than his thirty-one years. “If you think this is a cell, I should have left you in the military hospital. This is a palace by comparison.”
His gaze was affectionate as it rested on his childhood friend. They had grown up on adjoining estates, running wild together whenever they could escape their keepers. Both had cherished inappropriate ambitions—Peter to become a doctor, Alex to go to sea. It had been hard for Peter to convince his father to let him study such a middle-class profession as medicine, but he was the youngest of three sons in a family of no extraordinary fortune, and his father was an understanding man. The Honorable Alexander had a much harder struggle; his father had been reluctant to let his heir embark on the dangers of a military career and had given permission only after a younger son was born and giving every evidence of lusty good health.
Alex looked repentant. “You must know how much I appreciate your taking me in, Peter. If you hadn’t stopped them, they would have cut off my left arm. Cursed nuisance, since I’m left-handed.” He gave a half smile and added, “Considering the shape I was in at the time, they could have taken anything they wanted, and welcome to it. I’m still surprised Sarah would let you in when you brought my battered carcass home.”
