Seacliff Read online

  “Caitlin.” A soft voice cried. “Caitlin, don’t be mad. I couldn’t stand it if you were mad at me.”

  Caitlin considered the sky gravely, and the river, the sheep, the stately arrangement of trees.

  “Cat? Please?”

  A grin, sly and mischievous, formed, hidden from her friend. “All right, all right, if you’re going to whine like a pup.”

  “Whine?” Gwen’s back straightened. She was shorter than Caitlin, plumper but not as voluptuous. Her hair and eyes were midnight, and her will just as strong. “Whine? Me?”

  Caitlin’s expression assumed a parody of sternness. “Whine,” she said sharply. Then she poked her riding crop at Gwen’s arm. “You must learn your place, Gwen. It’s not proper for a servant to rebuke her mistress.”

  “Servant? You’re calling me a servant?”

  Her lips quivered in the effort to hold back a smile. “But of course, my child.”

  “Child?”

  “Just the other day, in Eton, didn’t that duke or baron or whatever the devil he was, tell you he’d like to have you in his household for an evening or two? To help you come of age, as it were. Isn’t that what he said?”

  “Caitlin Morgan! If your father could hear you—”

  But she was forestalled when Caitlin gestured a warning and began easing her mount to the side of the road. A moment later came the rhythmic sound of carriage and horses approaching behind them. Caitlin quickly adjusted her skirts and cloak, and pushed herself forward so she rode higher in the gleaming English saddle on the chestnut’s back. She threw an apologetic glance to Gwen and began moving sedately along the grassy verge. It was disappointing to have to rein in their joking; it was something they had little time for when Morgan was home from one of his business trips. He always insisted on prim comportment, an attitude he felt befit the wife of Sir Oliver Morgan, retired major in His Majesty’s army. He did not seem to understand— or he refused to acknowledge—that she was also, and most emphatically, Caitlin Evans Morgan, daughter of David Evans and mistress of Seacliff, Cardiganshire, Wales. And no matter what Oliver or any of the others might say, it was a heritage that she most profoundly cherished.

  The carriage behind them slowed, and when she turned, she saw two pairs of matched grays approaching, each with a flowing white plume affixed to the leather strap between its ears. The coachman and footman were in scarlet and silver livery, and the closed, gold-trimmed vehicle looked impressively bright beneath its faint powdering of road dust. Within sat a bloated, powdered, and rather myopic old woman who had pulled aside the linen curtain and nodded a stiff, imperious greeting. The coach halted beside Caitlin.

  “Lady Coming,” she acknowledged, thinking that of all people she had to encounter on the road it would have to be one of the most self-important harridans she’d ever met.

  “My dear,” the older woman said. “Enjoying the air, I see.”

  “We’ve just come from Egham,” she said. “We ordered some stained glass for my husband’s home.” She smiled. “Egham is such a lovely little place, don’t you think? And the work there is positively superb.”

  “It is indeed. And how are you enjoying your stay in England, child?”

  Her smile stiffened somewhat, but her response was nonetheless genuine: “Oh, lovely! I’ve never seen such marvelous things in my life.”

  From the shadowed confines of the coach came a barely stifled laugh. Lady Coming’s sister, no doubt, Caitlin thought. “But it’s true,” she insisted.

  “Of course it is, my dear,” Lady Coming said. “I hear that response from all visitors to our country. They just cannot seem to get enough of it.”

  Caitlin frowned in puzzlement. “But I’m not really a visitor, you know. That is, I do spend almost as much time here as I do in Wales.”

  A snort from the sister, and Lady Coming smiled tolerantly. “Wales, my child, is not really England.”

  “Well, I know that,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended, “but it’s been part of the country for nearly two hundred years. More, if I’m not mistaken. And certainly far longer than the place those sour-faced Scots call a country.”

  “Yes,” Lady Coming said stiffly. “I’m sure.” And at a rap against the door the coach lurched suddenly into motion, forcing Caitlin to back up quickly and turn her head away from the dust raised by the coach’s large red wheels. Once the air had cleared, Caitlin stared after the departing noblewoman and wondered what she’d said to offend her. She’d only spoken the truth as she saw it, and she had certainly said nothing against the old woman herself. Gwen pulled up alongside her, and Caitlin raised an eyebrow in silent question.

  “I don’t know,” Gwen said. “I didn’t hear all you said.”

  “Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I hope I haven’t done it again.” She rode on silently, reviewing the brief conversation over and over in her mind, trying to pinpoint the moment of offense. But she could not; and the more she thought about it, the more it distressed her, pulled at her, tossing her back and forth between two convergent loyalties—her husband, and her country.

  And in that moment of melancholy, and in an abrupt surge of homesickness, she saw in the June air before her the mocking visage of Griffin Radnor, his long, dark-copper hair flowing behind his rugged face in some impossible breeze. Oh, Griffin, she thought in momentary desperation, why did you let me do this thing? And the instant the thought formed, she scowled. Griffin Radnor was of the past. Whatever she might have felt for him was over, done with. Her father was right, had been all along. Griffin’s past was too dark to brighten Seacliff’s future, and whatever dreams she might still dream about him were simply the lingering fancies of a young girl, not those of a married woman. They would fade soon enough, just as the twinges of her heart would fade until the sound of his name no longer provoked her.

  A sigh, whisper-soft, passed between her lips, and she looked guiltily to Gwen, who returned a quiet smile.

  “You’re thinking of Griff, aren’t you?”

  “No!” she snapped, almost shouting. Damn that girl. Always bringing up his name when it wasn’t wanted. Implying this and wishing that until Caitlin thought she would scream. Wasn’t it bad enough she and Oliver were locked in a marriage that was in name only? Must she always endure Gwen’s sporadic reminders of what might have been?

  A tear welled in one eye, and she wiped it furiously away.

  And in that gesture she snapped back to a time almost four years ago, to a glen nestled in the mountains far from Seacliff’s valley. She recalled a soft spring afternoon and a diamond-sparkling stream, birds of all colors weaving rainbows in the trees and deer by the dozens gamboling down to the banks to cool their thirst. She’d been told shortly before by her father that no matter how wealthy Griffin Radnor was, no matter how large his holdings or how respected, there would be no union of the Radnors and the Evanses. There were too many unpleasant rumors about Griffin’s time in the army, in which he did everything from gamble to wench, and perhaps worse. And wasn’t there Morag Burton’s claim that Griffin was the father of her bastard child? Sowing wild oats was one thing, her father had preached, but doing so in your own back yard was something else again.

  Caitlin had raged and wept, had finally fled the house and ridden into the mountains to the glen where she and Griffin often met… to talk, to dream, to laugh at their elders as children will do when they love those elders. And he had come to her, having heard from Gwen the story of the fight. He had taken Caitlin in his strong arms and comforted her, stroking her until she could no longer stand the anguish of their parting. She had taken his hands and placed them firmly on her breasts, wound her fingers through his hair and pulled his lips down to hers. The warmth of the sun and the salt of her tears, the caress of the cool breeze on her flesh as he disrobed her slowly, like a man at devout worship, came back to her. He said nothing, but spoke with his fingers and the fire-touch of his mouth. And then, with the grass soft beneath her and the sun filtered by the trees,
she had—

  “Cat? Cat, this is where we turn off.”

  Caitlin blinked away the images swirling around her, put a hand to her cheek and felt the flush of her memory. She nodded, not daring to speak. Without warning Gwen, she leaned hard over her mount’s neck, nudging its flank with her crop, and whispered into its silky ear. In no time, the chestnut exploded into a gallop down a narrow lane lined with towering oaks. The foliage blurred past, the wind wove through her hair, and before long she was laughing again and listening to Gwen’s shouts as she raced after her.

  And Griffin, she thought then, could go straight to hell. He could have had her if he’d truly wanted her. But he hadn’t even put up a fight. It was his loss. And it served him damned right! She really didn’t care anyway. She’d been a lot younger then, and hadn’t known her own mind.

  Five minutes later, just as the trees fell away to expose Morgan’s estate, she slowed her mount to a halt.

  The house at the end of the circular drive was not overly large and, because it stood in the middle of sprawling lawns bordered by forest-land rich and verdant, it appeared much smaller. Morgan Hall was a large-beamed Tudor structure built during the reign of Elizabeth, comfortable enough, without ostentation, and near enough to its neighbors, despite the woods, so as not to seem unpleasantly isolated. Oliver’s grandfather had purchased it after his tour in the army, and it was maintained by his father, who’d been shrewd enough to invest much of his officer’s pay in the mercantile business. A forest of chimneys populated the angular roof; diamond-shaped panes of leaded glass reflected the last rays of the sun. The exterior glowed because it had been freshly whitewashed, and the flowers and tall shrubs that grew around the house seemed to be waiting especially for her coming.

  On the steps leading up to the front door stood a white-haired, slouch-shouldered man whose face was heavily lined and whose red and black livery seemed too large. He held Caitlin’s reins wordlessly as she dismounted, and led the horses away to the small cluster of stables near the line of trees on the left. Gwen looked after him with a faint moue of distaste.

  “Nasty old brute, isn’t he?” she said, following Caitlin inside.

  “Oh, Bradford’s all right. You just don’t give him a chance.”

  Gwen’s expression was doubtful. “Has he ever smiled at you? Does he ever bid you good morning?”

  Caitlin shook her head. “But he’s a quiet man; that’s all. He’s been with Oliver’s family for years.” She paused. “But I do wish he didn’t look as if he were eating lemons all the time.”

  Gwen giggled, and covered her mouth quickly.

  The foyer was wide and unadorned, flowing to a sitting room on the left dominated by a ceiling-high fireplace. On the right was an ornate dining room. When neither Mrs. Thorn, the cook, nor Mary, the sullen maid, came out to greet them, Caitlin shrugged off her cloak and handed it to Gwen.

  “Oliver will be home soon, I imagine,” she said, heading for the fan-shaped staircase that swept to a landing beneath a round, stained-glass window. “I’d better clean up. He hates me smelling like a horse. Tell Mary I’ll need plenty of hot water, will you?” Then she stopped and hurried back, planted a solid kiss on Gwen’s cheek, and thanked her breathlessly. “You do help me manage, you know. You really do.”

  And before Gwen could respond, Caitlin was running up the steps, hurrying down the corridor to the sanctuary of her large sunny apartment overlooking the front of the house. It had a massive pair of wardrobes in scrolled walnut, a gold canopy bed raised on a dais covered with wine velvet, a canted-beamed ceiling, a crescent vanity and several mirrors, some armchairs, a chaise lounge, and a fireplace much smaller than those on the ground floor. A fire was already crackling against the onset of a cool evening. She stood on the hearth and stripped off her gloves, shrugged off her jacket and sank wearily to her knees.

  Her room wasn’t Oliver’s, and a brief wave of resentment clouded her eyes and tightened her jaw. It was all very well that she had married Oliver to provide a steady hand for Seacliff after her father’s passing; and it was all very well that Oliver had been a military hero during the last battles of the French and Indian Wars; and it was even understandable that they should spend almost half of each year in Eton because England was, after all, Oliver’s country. But at quiet moments like this, and after encounters with people too much like Lady Coming, she longed to gaze out the window and see the tides thundering in at the base of Seacliff’s bluffs, the misty rolling hills in the distance, and the broad valley where she’d been born.

  Perhaps, as her father had suggested from his sickbed, much of her problem was in her attitude, and her unrestrained tongue. Certainly the latter had caused her no end of embarrassment because, unlike the English, she did not deliver her opinions obliquely, but stated them boldly. And she stated her opinions far too often, to too many of the wrong people. Thinking before speaking was, she conceded, not exactly her strongest virtue.

  As for her attitude, marriage with Oliver was not even close to what she’d dreamed marriage should be. Gwen claimed the man had no sense of romance. That much was surely true, though in his fashion he did care for her somewhat. Nevertheless, his excuses for not coming to her bed, and his response whenever she suggested she was more than a bauble to be displayed, puzzled her. There was also the curious fact of the marriage itself—a union between a young Welsh woman and a strict, though not always uncharming, army major. All of this made her determined not to let her spirit break. She would endure for her father’s sake, if for no other reason.

  A hesitant knock on the door disturbed her ruminations, and Mary—thin, fox-faced, and sullen—entered with two steaming pails of water, which she emptied into a curved metal tub set against the far wall. That done, she left and returned with two more, then went out and closed the door silently behind her. Not a word was exchanged.

  As soon as Caitlin understood the servant girl would not return, she disrobed quickly and tested the water with her foot. She winced and hugged herself against the room’s slight chill and sprinkled lavender scent over the surface of the water. A moment later she stepped into the tub, sighing as she eased herself down into its narrow confines. She pulled her knees up to her chest and grasped them loosely.

  She closed her eyes and reveled in the bath-warmed room. She had a fleeting image of Griffin, then of her sickly father, before she slipped into a doze, interrupted only when Gwen knocked impatiently on the door and let herself in. Without speaking, she bustled across the room, lit all the candles in their bronze and ebony sconces, then snatched up the cotton cloths Mary had piled by the tub and gestured sharply.

  “He’s back,” she said, “and he’s in a proper foul mood.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Caitlin sighed. She rose and allowed Gwen to dry her. Then, as she climbed into her petticoats, and let Gwen slip over her upraised arms a simple dark blue shirt and matching multi-pleated skirt, she shook her head slowly. “All this stuff,” she said sourly, smoothing the bodice and adjusting the high neck. “I think I’d rather be naked.”

  Gwen laughed, and followed her to a tall, silver-framed mirror to one side of the vanity. She picked up a pearl-handled brush and stood behind her, frowning. “You didn’t pin it up again, Cat,” she scolded lightly, pushing at the wet-dark ends of black hair. “When are you going to learn?”

  “I didn’t think of it,” she said. “Besides, it’s not as if I’m going to see the queen, is it? Not that I’d care.”

  Gwen laughed as she wielded the brush deftly. “Ah, Cat, you do reassure me, you really do.” And in answer to Caitlin’s questioning reflection: “I sometimes fear you’ve gone English on me, you know. The way you talk sometimes, and the way you go around to all these places…”

  “Gwen,” she said solemnly, “there is nothing wrong with enjoying myself while I’m here. It’s a lovely country, and you know that well. And there are some here who don’t mind who we are and where we’re from. But don’t you forget, ever, that I do know who I a
m.”

  Gwen nodded. “Yes, and that’s what gets you into so much trouble.”

  “Well, can I help it if I say the wrong thing now and again?”

  Gwen rapped her skull lightly with the brush. “You must learn to think before you speak, Cat. There’s just so much these people will take from us before—”

  Suddenly, heavy boots pounded swiftly along the corridor and, with scarcely a pause, a fist slammed against the door. “Caitlin, goddammit, what have you done to me now!”

  2

  Caitlin looked to the ceiling in a silent prayer, then waved Gwen into the comer near the door. Drawing in a deep breath, she bid her husband enter just as she folded her hands primly at her waist.

  “Caitlin!”

  Oliver Morgan was not much taller than she, but his iron-rod military bearing gave the illusion of height. His shoulders were square, his chest broad, and the only evidence of his high style of living was a slight paunch. But he was also much older than his twenty-year-old wife, and his own fifty years were beginning to manifest themselves in the lines inching across his face. The corners of his red-rimmed eyes were webbed from perpetually squinting, the flesh around his jawline sagged somewhat, and his thin lips were gaining a tight look about them. Because he refused to powder his own hair, his head was shaven and the flesh taut, somewhat gleaming, and darkly veined. Over his shirt and knee breeches he wore an ankle-length, velvet-lapeled dressing gown that billowed as he strode angrily into the room. He glared, and Caitlin backed away, gesturing to a tall chair by the hearth. He took it without speaking and dropped into it as if carrying a weight, then stared at the low fire with a slow shake of his head.