Chapter 19
“The baron left you what?” Martin exclaimed, eyeing his wife. He’d only been half listening, still angry at the events of the day, still trying to decide what to do with her.
“Twenty thousand pounds, Martin. It seems the baron did not forget me in his plans for what would happen at his death as I’d always assumed.”
“Twenty thousand pounds is a lot of coin, Kit. You’re a wealthy woman in your own right.” A sudden fear reached deep in his mind. Would she ask for the funds and use them to leave him? They had argued and he’d been most cross—justifiably, he reminded himself. Letting his words reflect his thoughts he said, “You don’t need my money now, do you, Kit?” He wondered if she needed him any longer. “Would you have married me if you had known about the money?”
Her pause told him the answer was not an easy one. “Does it matter now, Martin? We are married, and…I would not change that. You are my husband in truth and I am content for you to remain so. I want you, Martin, not for your money but for what you’ve come to mean to me. I meant it when I said I love you.”
Martin felt the tension he’d experienced fall away like a castoff cloak. He had feared her answer would be far different than the one she’d uttered. “Good, for I would not change it either, Kit. That you have the means to be independent and still want to be my wife says much. You see,” he added, turning to face her, “I do not desire to live without you, Kitten. I love you.”
“You love me? ”
She seemed so surprised, Martin almost laughed. Could his intelligent vixen really be so unobservant? “Silly goose. Have you not seen it when I look at you? Felt it when we make love? Why do you think I am so protective of you, so cross when you disobey me and wander into danger?” Pulling her into his arms he said, “You are my wife for always, Kitten. So please take more care with your person in future. I do not want you harmed. I live in fear that something might happen to you. That I might not be able to protect you.”
While she considered his words, he leaned down and kissed her, enjoying once again the softness of her body as she melted into him. She could not know how real his fear was. Though his nightmares had not returned since their marriage, he still harbored a vague disquiet about the future. If Oliver or his cohorts ever discovered his game, they might take revenge on her as well as him. She could not know how badly he wanted to end their time in the Midlands.
Kit returned her husband’s kiss, allowing the familiar feel of him to comfort her. He loved her! The death of her parents and that of her sister had shattered Kit’s life. Only a man like Martin, whose life had once been torn apart, could understand, could help her heal. From that first night at Willow House he’d been helping her do just that, putting her life back together.
When he broke the kiss, she leaned back in his arms and looked into his face. Did his reminder to take care evidence his continuing anger at her sneaking into that barn? She supposed he had a right to be upset. But she had been angry as well. He’d never told her he was one of the Prince Regent’s knights.
“Why did you never tell me you are Sir Martin?” she asked .
“Oh, that. It was Prinny’s idea and I’ve never made overmuch of it. I am still the man I was before. I only become the baronet when I must. My plan, when this is over, is to return to my family’s business where I am merely a merchant.”
“Will you tell me for what great act of bravery you were knighted?”
“One day soon, but not now. Suffice it to say it was not for any act of valor in battle. There were many who deserved the honor and I do not count myself among them. The Prince Regent was being overgenerous.”
Kit was frustrated that he would not tell her of the heroic task that led to his knighthood. Surely he must be proud of it…but she also believed he was a humble man.
“If you won’t share that with me, can you at least tell me why we are here in Pentridge and living as Mr. and Mrs. Donet? We’ve nothing to hide, surely.”
“There is nothing you need worry about, Kit. I’ve done nothing wrong,” he assured her. “The name Donet is perfectly respectable. It is the family name of my French mother.” Then he grinned and said rather sheepishly, “Though I told you my grandfather was a pirate, he is an honorable sort and bears the title comte de Saintonge. He lives on the Isle of Guernsey now though he has vineyards in France. Perhaps one day I shall introduce you to him. As for my purposes here in the Midlands, the French surname suits. You must continue to trust me a little while longer.”
It was like pounding her head against a stone wall. For reasons only he knew, he would tell her nothing.
“I’m not happy with that, Martin. I don’t like living as someone I’m not.”
“Trust me, Kitten. All will come right in the end.”
“So you say.”
“Come in, gentlemen. ”
Martin and John stepped through the narrow door leading into the office of George Goodwin, manager of the Butterley Ironworks in Ripley. The man wiped the iron dust from his hands on a cloth and offered them a welcoming shake. His office was in a small hexagonal brick building that also served as the gatehouse, nestled among the surrounding factory structures. In his fifties, Goodwin had face stubble the same gray color as the hair on his head, evidence he didn’t always bother to shave.
As he entered the office, Martin focused his attention on the pictures of furnaces and some of the factory’s recent products nailed to a board on one wall. One structure displayed was Vauxhall Bridge, parts of the iron edifice obviously made at Butterley drawn in detail. Other projects, graphically displayed on large sheets, were scattered about Goodwin’s desk, some smudged with oil and iron dust.
The man gave Martin a skeptical look and his bushy gray brows drew together. “Why are you here, Mr. Donet?”
Martin and John took the chairs Goodwin offered on the other side of his desk, and Martin settled back knowing the next few minutes would tell him if he’d have an ally or an enemy. He had been told the man could be trusted, but he needed an assurance that would allow him to share things about himself he did not want generally known, at least not yet. “What I am about to tell you is confidential, Mr. Goodwin. Do I have your word it will remain so?”
The manager paused, doubt in his eyes, but then Goodwin seemed to make a decision and sat down behind his desk. “You have my word. Now, what is it that is so private and pressing?”
“I will be most direct, sir. There are some men in Derbyshire who are planning an uprising, a rebellion against the government.”
Martin saw in Goodwin’s eyes the recognition he expected. “I’m aware there are some who would like to see changes in the way the country is run, even some of my own workers. Are you referring to such?”
“Unfortunately it has gone beyond a mere desire for change. I have been sent here by the Crown to learn the true source of the planned rebellion.”
The older man pursed his lips. “Assuming I can believe that, and I’m not certain I do, what interest has the Crown in the Midlands? Surely this is a local matter for our magistrates.”
“Unfortunately, the Midlands has become involved in schemes that reach as far as London.” Martin gave a slight nod to John in acknowledgment of what they both knew had to be revealed.
“London?” The manager looked at him askance. “What does London have to do with some unhappy men in Derbyshire? The magistrates have already been to see me and sworn in a hundred of my men to act as special constables should there be any trouble.” He gazed out the window. “Even that seemed too much.”
Martin and John exchanged glances. Though new information, it was not surprising. Martin expected both sides to recruit support from this large a pool of men. “I am hoping you are right. It is my desire to avoid violence if at all possible.”
The manager’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “That is my hope as well, Mr. Donet. My men have been through much in recent times.”
“My real name is Sir Martin Powell, Mr. Goodwin. I come from London, sent by the Prince Regent himself. Our monarch is most anxious to know what is going on here. I bring you both a message and a request.”
An expression of surprise flickered on George Goodwin’s face. “ Sir Martin?”
Martin nodded.
Goodwin’s surprise faded, and he leaned across his desk. “What message? ”
“I believe the good men of Derbyshire, for the most part, do not seek active rebellion, but their unhappy condition of late has rendered them vulnerable to a man who would, for his own purposes, urge them to violence. The agent provocateur is one William Oliver, who works for men in Sidmouth’s government seeking to incite the very rebellion the magistrates have asked you to help quash.”
Goodwin stared down at his desk, his hand nervously fumbling with a paper. “I have heard of this man Oliver. He’s a bad one, I think. But why would men in the government want to incite a rebellion? That makes no sense.”
“To justify repressive measures and, once they see the rebellion put down, send a message to all of England that there will be no revolution here as there was in France.”
Raising his head, Goodwin said, “I begin to see. And do the magistrates know of this?”
“They know Oliver was sent by some in the government because they were asked to cooperate with him. So, yes, I believe they know. Undoubtedly, the request for your special constables is the direct result of their complicity.”
“Where is all this leading, then?” asked Goodwin.
“It is possible,” Martin said, “even likely, that you or your men will be approached by the leaders of a group of rebels seeking weapons, or the makings of such, as well as men to join their cause. If you can convince them to turn from their path and go home, to avoid an altercation with the authorities, it would be a gift to the people of Derbyshire.”
“It pleases me to hear you say so, Sir Martin. I worried when the local magistrate asked me for the special deputies. To me it only spelled violence. ”
“You may be the key to keeping the countryside calm, perhaps even a voice of reason in the midst of a growing insanity, Mr. Goodwin.”
The older man squared his shoulders as if accepting the responsibility Martin offered. “When do you expect this to happen?”
“Soon. Though I cannot give you a date with any confidence, I have heard Oliver mention the ninth of June. I will get word to you through John, my assistant here, should we catch wind of a more specific time.”
Goodwin gave John a measured look as John nodded and said, “Aye, ye’ll be seeing me afore long, I expect.”
“I will gladly do as you ask,” said Goodwin. “I have no wish to see the men of Derbyshire involved in any uprising. ’Tis only foolishness. No good can come of it.”
Martin and John rose from their chairs and, as they did, Mr. Goodwin stood to shake their hands. “Thank you for coming, Sir Martin.”
“Mr. Donet, please.”
The older man nodded, and Martin was assured his message had been well received and his confidence kept. Now, if they could only assure no lives were lost.
Kit had come to enjoy the peace of the village, notwithstanding her displeasure at her husband’s continued reticence to tell her how he was involved in the plans for an uprising in Pentridge. She took long walks and, during the days following the skirmish at the barn, sometimes rode with John or Martin to the neighboring towns of Belper, Ripley or South Wingfield. It was the end of the first week in June and the days were long. Though sometimes they were favored with sunshine, more often a cold rain fell upon the village. Today, observing the chill in the air and dark clouds on the horizon, she determined to take her sketchbook outside to draw while she could.
From her seat on the wooden bench in front of the inn, she could see lambs grazing in the far distance on the green hillsides and thought perhaps it was a sign that times would be better for the people of the Midlands. She hoped so. Watching the endless circle of life in the farm animals was peaceful and reassuring. Pentridge had brought a quiet to Kit’s life so different from the frantic pace in London and the tragic events of her past.
She’d become a familiar sight as she sat on a stone wall or bench drawing the faces of the villagers going about their day, working in the fields, tending their sheep or feeding their chickens. There were always children running with dogs, too. Many waved or bid her good day as they passed. Not a few times George Weightman, sometimes accompanied by one of his brothers, stopped to chat. On this particular morning he was alone when he paused to speak to her, just on his way out of the White Horse.
“Have ye finished my picture, Mrs. Donet?” he asked, flashing his blue eyes at her.
“I have. Would you like to see?” She flipped through her sketchbook until she came to one of the earliest sketches she’d completed since coming to Pentridge and showed him.
He studied it for a moment then said, “’Tis a nice picture. Better than my true face, I think.”
“Not to me,” she replied. “I’ve made one for your mother, too. You’re a handsome fellow, George. Have you never noticed the attention village girls pay you, or does it take a woman to see that?”
A red blush crept up his face, and he dropped his gaze to his shoes. Well…I suppose I have noticed a few. ”
Kit pondered the man before her. He still seemed more like a younger brother to her, even though his ruddy complexion and wavy blond hair would never have been seen in her family. Perhaps his youthful demeanor came from living in the country where life was simpler. His eyes did not speak of experience. In London, she had seen so much at such an early age she felt a decade older.
“There, you see? Even you have observed the girls of Pentridge watching you from beneath their lashes. When it comes to choosing a wife, you will have your pick.”
“Do you think so, ma’am?” he asked.
“I do.” And when she smiled up at him, he returned the expression and sauntered off with a lighter step, leaving Kit pleased she could bring him some joy. It saddened her to think that the fair-haired young man was involved with the men planning an uprising, even at his mother’s insistence, and she worried for him.
A moment later two little girls rushed by at play, teasing each other. Kit hurriedly flipped her sketchbook to a new page to capture them. One had blonde curls and the other a more common brown. Though very different in appearance, they reminded her of two other girls the same age a long time before. Kit remembered again the day that she had rescued Anne’s doll from the bullies; they had played together just like these two. Pausing in her drawing, she realized not for the first time that she would never again hear Anne’s sweet voice, never again have the chance to comfort her. Kit had said a brief good-bye, and that was the last memory she would have of the sister she loved who called herself the brown mouse.
That evening, after dinner, Kit and Martin wished John a good night and entered their rooms. Martin settled into a chair in the sitting room, while Kit went to the bedchamber.
“What’s this sketch?” Martin called.
Kit glanced over her shoulder to see her husband studying her sketchbook and remembered the drawing she’d left open when she’d returned that afternoon. “Two village girls I was watching play near the inn.” She put on her blue wrapper, tying it in front of her waist and went to retrieve the book, worried he’d see more.
“There is something about this drawing,” Martin continued. “So much emotion between the two girls.”
“Perhaps it’s because they reminded me of my sister and me,” Kit said, taking it from his hand.
He must have heard the quaver in her voice, for he rose and followed her into their bedchamber where she took a seat and began brushing her hair. Leaning down, he wrapped his arms around her. “What’s wrong, Kitten?”
“There are times, like today,” she explained, setting the brush down, “when the loss of Anne overwhelms me. I’m reminded…” She turned to the side as her voice caught and took a deep breath before continuing. “I will see something, like a pale pink ribbon she would have loved, and I want to buy it for her. But then I remember she is gone and I’ll never again share such a gift with her.” She turned to find his indigo eyes filled with sympathy. “I’ll never see her again, Martin. Not in this life.”
“I know, Kitten,” he said, pulling her up from the bench and drawing her into his arms. “I know.”
He reached his hand to her face and wiped away the tears she could feel spilling down her cheeks. She supposed he did know, for he too was living with the loss of someone he loved.
“Come,” he said. “Let me help you forget the sadness. ”
Willingly she let him undress her and, having doffed his clothes, he gently pulled her to the bed. He kissed away her tears and loved her with his gentle hands just as he had that first night they came together. The scent of him and the heat of his body surrounded her, and she pulled him closer. He kissed her deeply as she delighted in the rough hair on his chest teasing her breasts.
“Oh, Martin,” she sighed as she pulled him closer. He was so perfectly formed; she slid her hands over his back and rubbed her face against the rippling muscles of his chest. “You smell good, Martin. An spicy scent, all earthy man.”
He chuckled. “Enough of that. I want you.”
They made sweet love together. When their passion subsided, she clung to him, cradled in his arms, and let out a sigh of contentment. Her husband stroked her arm, tender in his touch, and she was reminded that she had made a wise decision in marrying him. No matter the questions that still remained, she would trust him.
“I love you, Martin,” she said.
“Ah, Kitten, you’ve made me a happy man. I’ll never grow tired of hearing those words, nor of giving them. I love you, too. ”
“I wanted to tell you for a long time, but I was afraid. I didn’t know if I could trust you,” she whispered in a revelation.
“And you do now?” Martin whispered back, softly kissing her temple.
“Yes,” she admitted, shivering.
“You and I are very much alike, you know.”
“How is that?” she asked, nestling deeper against his body.
“We both want to control our lives. It’s why you wouldn’t have married me when I asked, not if you’d had the baron’s money then…and it is why I gave up the sea and left my father’s ships. You’re brave, independent and curious, and you care for others, like your sister Anne and even the people of this village. You make me care, too, Kit. It’s because of you I have more sympathy for the plight of these people of Pentridge.”
She kissed him then, a soft thank-you for who he was: her knight. There had never been anyone like him in her life. Not her father, who loved her but failed to understand his younger daughter, nor Anne, who admired her strength but did not share it. Martin understood her and loved who she was. He encouraged her drawing and gave her time many husbands would have denied. He’d met her need for small comforts on their trip north. He sent her a bath and tea even when he was angry. And, too, there was that first night at Willow House. In some mysterious way she could not explain he’d understood what she’d needed even then.
She wanted to be the wife who met his needs. “I don’t care about having control anymore, Martin. I care about sharing a life with you. Please don’t do anything that would jeopardize our life together.”