The Rebel Read online

  Her chin trembled, but she held her head high. “But that is now, sir. If you gave us a chance…”

  “No.” Impatient, he took a step away, but then turned around again, facing her. “I know you are young, but you must try to understand that giving ‘a chance’ to two people as different as we are will not change things. I do not want you for my wife. And in spite of whatever foolishness is going through your head at this moment, I know that you don’t want me, either. But this does not mean that my rejection should be the end of it all for you. You are a beautiful and intelligent young woman. You have great promise. And you should be doing your own choosing, rather than allowing yourself to be guided by the whims of your parents.”

  Tears stood out in her blue eyes, and Nicholas gentled his voice.

  “There are many men out there, far more deserving than I. In time, you will meet someone who will be your perfect match. Until then, do not throw away your pride by settling for someone whom you can never love.”

  “There are many kinds of love, Sir Nicholas.”

  “There is only one kind of love fit for a husband and wife,” he responded roughly. “And I, for one, intend to have it.”

  Clara turned away, and Nicholas frowned at his harsh tone.

  “You deserve better, Clara,” he said as gently as he could. “Do not settle for anything less than the right man.”

  Without another word, Nicholas strode up the path. When he reached the house, he turned to look at her. She had blown out the light in her lamp, and he could just make out the hooped expanse of her skirts’ light material where she stood motionless in the dark.

  What he could not see were the uncontrollable sobs that were wracking her body as she wept.

  ***

  Two full days had passed, and Jane still was not back.

  Alexandra sat on the bed and ran her fingers over the delicate cloth of the gown that Fey had carried into her room only minutes earlier. The workmanship was excellent. The design was exactly as she’d desired. But what good would this garment be, if the one it had been made for was nowhere to be found?

  Ah, but where could she be?

  Here, tomorrow night was the ball, and still no one seemed to care where the older Purefoy sister had gone…or when she was to return. And if that were not distressing enough, Alexandra had been faced with having to find excuses for Nicholas’s empty chair at dinner.

  Oh, she knew he was at Woodfield House…when he wasn’t out combing the countryside. He, too, was looking for Jane. She was sure of it. His features had been set in an expressionless mask, showing nothing of what she knew he must be feeling inside. His words gave away even less.

  In recent years, when she’d thought about Nicholas settling down and marrying, she’d never considered the situation might also entail any of this pain that he was going through now. Women, in general, had been plentiful in Nicholas’s life. Foolishly, she’d assumed that taking the next step would be as simple as picking one from the flock of eligible heiresses. She had been so wrong.

  Alexandra left her bedroom and went directly to Jane’s attic studio. When she’d run into Nicholas before dinner, she had seen him going in that direction.

  The quiet of the upper floors pressed on her ears like January cold. Every servant in the household was apparently downstairs, bustling about under the sharp eye of Lady Purefoy as the house was prepared for tomorrow night’s ball.

  She knocked on the door before opening it. Nicholas appeared at the top of the stairs, his face hopeful for a moment before seeing who it was. He was wearing no jacket or tie. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the white shirt lacked the crispness with which he always presented himself.

  “May I come up?” she asked softly.

  “I assume she has not returned.”

  She shook her head and climbed the stairs. Alexandra wished she could be the bearer of good news, but other than just wanting to be here with him, she was at a loss as to how she could help.

  At the top of the stairs, she paused, not trying to hide her awe at the display of Jane’s work. Unlike the first time that she’d been here, when everything had been hidden beneath covers, nearly every painting was now arranged for viewing, and the space was ablaze with the light of dozens of candles. If she overlooked the rough and inadequate finish of the room, she could easily imagine that she was in one of the finest galleries in Europe.

  “So much talent,” she murmured. “I am so glad she has decided at least to display her work up here.”

  Nicholas had moved to the opposite end of the room and did not respond, if he heard her. She watched him uncovering another canvas and looking carefully at it, before placing it against a wall with others that were similar in color and theme. Alexandra realized he was the one who’d taken it on himself to uncover her incredible gift. She picked up a candle from one of the tables.

  “She is so prolific a painter.” She admired the sheer amount of work. There was much here that she hadn’t seen on that first day. “I never had a chance to speak to Jane about coming here and looking at more of her work. I hope she doesn’t mind…”

  The words died in Alexandra throat as she heard a low curse. Nicholas was crouched down before a canvas he’d just uncovered. She wanted to go to him and see for herself what had affected him so. She held back, though, silent as death while her son sat for what seemed like eternity.

  Alexandra remembered her own reaction to the canvases Jane had painted of the seasons’ passage and the destruction of an Irish village. Finally, she could wait no longer and broke the silence.

  “If someone were to convince Jane…to tell her about the genius so apparent in her work. If someone were to convey to her the powerful sense of reality she depicts in every painting. The balance, the structure, the coloring, the use of light and shadow. All of these things. Perhaps these paintings could provide a new beginning for her somewhere beyond of the walls of Woodfield House.”

  He remained engrossed in the work.

  “This family does not deserve her. They have no appreciation for the person and the artist she is.” She whispered her feelings. “These paintings must be shown at the Royal Academy in London. Or, if not, on the continent then.”

  Alexandra didn’t know how far the relationship between Nicholas and Jane had progressed. Though she was sure the beginnings were there, she had no way of knowing their level of commitment to each other. Understanding her own son’s independent and rebellious nature, she could not pressure him or ask his intentions, but at the same time she decided to explain the plans that had gradually been developing in her mind for most of this week.

  “I should like to invite Jane to come back to England with us. From there, if she wants, she can come back with me to Brussels.” There was no reaction to her words, and Alexandra slowly approached Nicholas. “I think she should be introduced into the top artistic circles at Court. I am certain that Sir Joshua Reynolds, your neighbor in Leicester Square would love to take her under his wing. He is a powerful force at the Royal Academy. He is also tremendously jealous of other portraitists, of course, but I have great confidence in her work and know that he and others will see her genius. After a lifetime of receiving no encouragement here, she could use some genuine praise…”

  A gasp escaped her as she glanced over Nicholas’s shoulder at the canvas in his hand. Her candle flickered, and she dashed a tear from her face.

  The small canvas portrayed five bodies hanging from gibbets in a town square. The background of faces in the crowd and the buildings framing the scene were only muted brushstrokes—an effect that highlighted the shocking reality of those who’d been executed. Their condition cried out from the canvas. It was obvious this was a work that had been completed much earlier than anything else that Alexandra had seen, but still Jane had managed to capture the tragic emotion of the scene with power and style.

  “I have asked her to marry me.”

  Nicholas’s voice drew her gaze to his solemn profile.
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  “I believe she was frightened by the offer—and perhaps by my persistence. I should have given her time to become accustomed to the idea before pressuring her. Now I have driven her away.” His fingers touched the three-quarter view of the man’s body hanging in the foreground. “He has been dead for nine years, and she is still in love with him.”

  “Devoted to him,” Alexandra gently corrected. “And she will always have a sense of loss when she thinks of him. But I am certain she thinks of him less now than she did then. And that does not mean she is incapable of loving again.”

  He rose to his feet, and she saw the doubt clouding his features.

  “We must remember that life has not been kind to her,” she continued. “She has been alone—held responsible for a scandalous act from such an early age. Regardless of how she feels for you, she undoubtedly sees so many obstacles that stand between the two of you.”

  “Damn her reputation and everyone else here.”

  “You can afford to ignore society’s view of your life and future. You are a man, first of all, and you have intentionally worked at establishing a reputation for recklessness. As far as the ton is concerned, once you do settle, they will recall your roguish ways only as youthful wildness. But Jane knows nothing of how your society works. All she knows is that you were reputable enough to be considered the ideal husband for her sister, but now you are interested in her.” She followed him when he moved away. “If she were any other woman, she would have jumped at your offer. Clara would have jumped at it. But not Jane.”

  “She might at least tell me how she feels…then I will know what is to be done.”

  “But she is.” She placed a hand on Nicholas’s arm. “Nick, you have all the blind stubbornness of your sex. Can you not see? In her own way, she is showing you her love by running away. She doesn’t want to ruin your reputation by linking you with her…”

  “Ha!” he laughed bitterly. “I have thought about what she should have to bear because of me!”

  “But don’t you see? She values you more than she does her own future and happiness.” Her hand made a sweeping motion over the paintings in the room. “Look at this place—at all of this work. These paintings are a window to this woman’s soul. The compassion with which she paints these canvases is the heart of the woman herself. And yet, what does she do with this talent? She hides it in an attic. She covers it with cloth. She brings no attention to herself or her gifts.” She met her son’s burning gaze. “You have a great challenge ahead of you, Nick, but you are the man to handle it.”

  “How?”

  His question tugged at her heart. It had been a long while since he’d asked her advice on anything.

  “You must be here for her. You cannot give up. You must try to understand the motives behind each of her actions…the same way that you try to understand the message behind each of these paintings.” She placed the candle on the worktable. “It will all work out. You two were made for each other. Just make her see it. Prove it to her.”

  As Alexandra descended the stairs and made her way back to her room, she knew the biggest challenge still lay with her. If these two were to have any chance of finding a future, she had to locate Jane now and bring her back.

  ***

  The village, peacefully perched on a curl of Backwater River, erupted not an hour after sunset in an explosion of activity. They were coming.

  The western sky still glowed with the last shreds of orange and red when a half dozen masked Whiteboys came silently out of the darkness on foot, led by a single rider dressed all in black—but for the white smock of the Shanavests. The news swept through the village like the wind, and each cottage sprang to life as the inhabitants roused themselves.

  The entire village was to feel the blade of the King’s justice for their history of helping Shanavests. Indeed, the dragoons were coming.

  Disbelief quickly faded as panic chilled their souls. The villagers knew what their fate would be if they didn’t escape. They’d heard of the barbarism that had been inflicted on other towns larger than their own. The horrors were nearly unspeakable.

  Now was not the time for packing the treasures of a lifetime. Now was not the time to tarry at all. They were coming, and the shock of the news quickly gave way to action.

  The poorer villagers—those with less to part with—were the first to start down the river road to the place where the bog land offered the best protection. They could all hide there for weeks, if need be, deep in the marshes that flooded each spring with the rising of the river. If the dragoons decided to leave their horses at the edges of the murky swamps and follow, then the villagers would push beyond, leaving the bogs in the dead of a moonless night, climbing into the hills, and making their way to the south.

  But where would they go then, they wondered as they gathered their children and the few belongings that they could carry. Where?

  The torches of a hundred mounted men lit up the road on the far side of the river. As the leader of the Shanavests ushered the last and more resistant of the fugitives along, the raiders closed to within a league or two of the deserted village. Looking back, the mounted Shanavest saw the advance riders reach the village bridge, and it was only a moment later that the screams began to cut through the night.

  “Old Rohane’s cottage,” someone from the group gasped.

  “I went to their door, but there was no one inside,” another man explained.

  “They are not with us,” a voice from the dark called out.

  “My wee Kevin is with them, too,” a woman cried.

  Egan touched another member of Shanavests on the shoulder. “Move them on. I’ll go back for those missing.”

  Without paying any heed to the man’s immediate objection, Egan spurred Mab back toward the village. The main body of dragoons was still minutes away, and the screams that now were recognizable to be that of a woman were continuing. They seemed to be coming from the livery stable sitting on the riverbank by the bridge itself. Drawing her pistol from her belt, she dismounted in the shadows of the next building and ran toward the building.

  When she pulled open the heavy door, the acrid smell of smoke greeted her. Panicky livestock pressed to escape through the same opening. Egan pushed her way through them and stepped into the smoky darkness.

  The first cold flash of fear clawed at her when she realized the cries of the woman actually were retreating from her. She felt her way quickly across the stable floor and saw two people slip out the door leading to the smith’s forge. She reached the door in seconds, only to find it already barred from the outside.

  She could no longer hear a cry for help and a sickening chill crept up her spine. She sensed the presence of others in the stable. It was a trap.

  Egan whirled around and saw soldiers coming out of every corner of the darkened stable. Pistols and swords glinted dully in the dim light. She could hear more outside, and she knew that the dragoons across the river would be here in a moment. Once they surrounded the building completely…

  Someone doused a burning blanket in a corner near the door that she had used to enter. Another one shouted to others outside.

  “We have him. We have Egan.”

  She pressed her back against the barred door and looked frantically about for any means of escape. Someone with a torch came in at the door to her left.

  Pointing her pistol at one and then another of the steadily closing circle, she realized her only route of escape lay in shooting one and then trying to run through the dozen drawn weapons. Not a very good plan, she thought, considering that there were probably quite a few more waiting outside.

  Egan drew her dagger with the other hand. She would kill first before they took her down. She took a step toward the approaching group.

  “The magistrate’s order,” someone shouted, coming in the far end of the stable with another lantern. “Take him alive. He must be taken alive.”

  The distraction was all Egan needed, and she leaped into action. As she cha
rged the two men farthest to her left, she spotted a rope hanging from the high rafters and leading to a loft. Perhaps if she could just get from there to…to where?

  Screaming Gaelic curses as she attacked, she delivered a sharp kick to the first one’s groin, whirling and slashing at the hand of the man holding the torch. He cried out in anger and shock, but the torch fell to the ground, and Egan leaped past him as the dry straw immediately crackled and caught fire beneath her feet.

  Tucking the pistol into her belt, she jumped at the rope and climbed a couple of feet. The shouts were echoing around her and she felt a soldier’s hand grab her boot. Before he could drag her down, she managed to draw her pistol and fire. The man screamed and fell back as the bullet struck his foot. Someone else already had a grip on her neck, but she swung the pistol hard, striking him across the face and knocking him into several soldiers behind him.

  The flames were spreading fast around their feet now, and the soldiers were in total disarray. Seizing her chance, Egan climbed the rope as quickly as she could, expecting a bullet to end her escape at any moment. Her mask and hat were dangling down her back, but she didn’t pause or look back. Instead, she pulled herself hand over hand until she could clamber into the loft.

  The smoke was thick and she could hear the shouts of the dragoons. Working her way through the mounds of hay, she found a shuttered window that she kicked open. In a moment she was out on the sloping thatch of the roof.

  Egan climbed quickly, trying not to think of what would happen if a section of the roof gave way. The smoke was billowing up through gaps in the thatch. She stood up and glanced at the mayhem surrounding the stable below. Dragoons—afoot and on horse—were running here and there, clearly in disorder because the village was empty.

  Or because Egan had eluded them…so far.