Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 32

  No, not that, never that, but that his life would have no more importance to him. And if he was of no importance to himself, then how could he possibly serve God?

  In that instant, holding this precious human being against him, realizing that he could so easily have lost her, still could lose her, he finally understood. Everything fell into place. All the confusion, all the chaos and uncertainty, it was gone as if it had never existed in the first place. He felt peace flow through him, fill him, and he knew it was all right now, all of it.

  He smiled as he kissed her forehead, her nose, and finally her mouth. “We are together,” he said against her dry lips. “I love you, Mary Rose. I love you with all my heart, I will love you all my life and beyond, and together we will bring joy to this damned town and to ourselves and to our children. Please tell me that I haven’t lost you. If I lost you, it would be all over for me. And for my children, too, I suspect.”

  Mary Rose looked at his dearly loved face through the tears that blurred her sight. “Tysen,” she said, “I’m so glad you came back to me. I love you so very much. I don’t want to ever leave you.”

  Then she simply closed her eyes. She was unconscious, that or asleep. He touched his forehead to hers, not moving.

  “The bleeding has nearly stopped, Reverend Sherbrooke. Your wife will be all right. You did well.”

  Tysen realized he was praying again, and it was a prayer filled with hope and endless gratitude, a prayer of promise and soul-deep joy.

  Tysen stepped to his pulpit. Brilliant sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows. He felt the warmth of it on his face. He paused a moment, looking out over the many faces he’d known for eight years, all of them focused now on him, wondering at his silence, starting to get nervous because they didn’t understand.

  Tysen looked at his brothers and their families, then at his own family—his boys, Meggie, and Mary Rose, who was still too pale, too thin, but she’d insisted she was well enough to come. And she was smiling at him, the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen in his life.

  He felt a smile tugging at his own mouth. He wondered if he would ever stop smiling. He leaned forward, clasped his hands atop the pulpit, and said, “I have been here for eight years. I was a very young man when I came to Glenclose-on-Rowan, given this living by my brother, the earl of Northcliffe. You have, all of you, seen me grow to my full manhood amongst you. You have held me and my children close to you. I know each of you and I cherish what you are, what you doubtless will come to be.

  “As you all know, I am now Lord Barthwick of Kildrummy Castle in Scotland. I went there solely out of duty, but God must have been directing my steps, for what I found was a very special woman who has shown me the absolute wonder of life, the glory of being a man who is beloved not only by God, but by a woman that He fashioned just for me.

  “Through her, my dearest wife, Mary Rose Sherbrooke, I finally realized how very lucky I am. I finally saw what was right in front of me. I finally saw my children as the precious beings they are. I found that life could be filled with joy—endless joy. All I had to do was embrace it. I did.

  “Now, however, I see that many of you wish that I would return to being that very devout and sober man you were used to, that very serious young man you had nurtured and watched grow in his faith and his self-belief. Since you had never seen him as a man filled with contentment and laughter and so much love he threatened to burst with it, you did not know that person, and thus he made you uncomfortable, and thus you did not want him.

  “He was a stranger to you. He made you uncertain because where he once was stern in his admonishments to you as God’s creatures, once told you in no uncertain terms that a sin would blight your soul, he now wanted you to see the simple pleasure of just being alive, to feel the sun on your face and to smile under its warmth, to hear the sound of your children’s voices, knowing that they are yours and you will love them into eternity. This man now wants you to believe with all your hearts that God loves you, wishes you to be devout and loyal and honest, to worship Him with all the joy in your hearts, to be grateful to Him and to each other for the happiness we find here, on His magnificent earth.

  “Our Lord created us, all the men and women who are sitting here today. And what he gave us, what he placed deep within each of us, is the capacity to love and honor and know in our hearts that there is meaning in our lives, meaning that allows for us to come together and give each other boundless happiness.

  “I stand before you this morning a man who has been given one of our dear God’s greatest gifts. God has blessed me, opened my heart to know more pleasure than a simple man deserves.

  “All of you know that I returned from Scotland with a wife. Her name, as you well know now, is Mary Rose Sherbrooke. She and I and our three children are a family, and we will remain a family who loves God and each other, a family that rejoices that we are together, that we care endlessly for each other.

  “This will be my last service as your vicar. Mr. Samuel Pritchert, a man you all admire and respect, will be here to advise you and assist you in any spiritual matters. I do not know who will come to Glenclose-on-Rowan as your vicar, but I know that the earl of Northcliffe will give it serious and careful thought.

  “I thank you again for my eight years as your vicar. I will think well of all of you for the rest of my days.”

  And he smiled again, at everyone, and stepped back from the pulpit.

  The silence was deafening.

  Meggie said, her voice delighted and spontaneous, reaching to every pew in the church, “Oh, my, Mary Rose, just imagine. We’re all together. You can have babies and I can teach them what’s what, just as I have Max and Leo.”

  “I will teach them how to tell ghost stories,” Grayson Sherbrooke said.

  Ryder Sherbrooke shouted with laughter.

  Epilogue

  Bleaker’s Bluff

  Kildrummy Castle

  September 15, 1816

  THE SUN WAS a ball of fire, warming the land as it slowly rose to fill the sky and turn the sea red.

  “It is the most beautiful sight in the world,” Mary Rose said as she leaned closer to her husband. She was sitting against him, cradled between his arms and legs, and he tightened his arms around her, pulling his cloak closer around her, just in case, since it was still early morning.

  “It is one of them,” he said, and kissed her ear. His fingers splayed over her swollen belly. “Our babe does well this morning? He is not kicking you?”

  “He is fine. Mayhap he is resting after performing Leo’s acrobatics all night.”

  “We must leave next week, love. I don’t wish to, but I don’t want you too far along in your pregnancy before we go back to Glenclose-on-Rowan. Also, Dr. Clowder has threatened me to ask that you be there for him to deliver our child.”

  “Dr. Clowder told me that since Max and Leo and Meggie are such marvelous children, if we don’t want this one, he will be delighted to adopt him or her.”

  Tysen laughed, then said more soberly, “Well, the poor man had two sons, both of them rotters. One got sent to Botany Bay for beating two men and stealing their purses; the other was killed in a duel for sleeping with a man’s wife.”

  “We can give him very liberal visitation rights,” Mary Rose said.

  “Did you enjoy your mother’s birthday last evening?”

  “Oh, yes, everyone was in such high spirits. Isn’t it grand, Tysen? She’s so very happy with Miles. All those years playing a madwoman, and now all she does is sing and laugh, just like we do.”

  Tysen wasn’t sure what he felt about Mary Rose’s mother. He supposed he wished her well now. He was kissing Mary Rose’s ear when she said, “Isn’t it odd that Donnatella was married to Erickson for three months and his mother just up and died so suddenly, in her sleep? At least that’s what my mother told me.”

  Tysen thought of Donnatella. It didn’t take long for him to say, “No. I don’t find that particularly odd. Donnatella, I think
, was born knowing how to land on her feet.”

  “You don’t really think that she—”

  “I think it best not to visit that notion. Oh, yes, love, I got a letter from Samuel Pritchert.”

  “Oh, my, I don’t like the way you said that. All right, Tysen. I’m ready. What did Samuel write to you?”

  “Actually, he’s pleading with me to come home. He said that Mr. Gaither, as the congregation’s representative, came to see him. It seems that everyone is despondent, nearly miserable. We have been gone for three months, much too long a time, it seems. A great cloud of melancholia has descended over the town, and all because they were so used to leaving the church smiling, perhaps even grinning a bit at something the vicar had said during his sermon, feeling warm that the vicar told them they were worthy of God’s love. Yes, they were used to discussing their problems and their neighbors’ problems with a vicar who made them see that silver linings abounded, and not just misery and bad feelings. He wrote that they want me back so I may bring optimism into their lives again.”

  “Was Samuel truly pathetic?”

  “Very.”

  “Well, then. Perhaps after we spend some time with Sinjun and Colin at Vere Castle, we can return. At the first frost?”

  “Probably before that. I believe that Oliver can’t wait to see the back of me. Bless his heart, he finds himself in a bind. He loves the children so much, they follow him everywhere, and yet he much enjoys being the master here. If he could get away with it, he’d have me go back to England and keep the rest of you here.”

  She turned a bit in his arms to look up at him. “I’m glad that Douglas and Alex were here so they could see how very well Oliver is doing. I’ve never seen such a proud man as your brother, striding along beside while Oliver showed him everything.” She snuggled against him, breathing in the scent of him, and then his fingers moved lightly over her belly, and she knew such a burst of love, such overflowing gratitude, that she wanted to shout with it. Instead, she said, “It was just a year ago that I met you. Remember, Tysen? I was stuck in one of those dratted sheep killers and you hauled me out.”

  “The luckiest day of my life,” he said.

  She was silent a moment, the sun filling the sky now, the warmth on her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, her head on his shoulder, and said against his throat, “And mine as well.”

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PENDRAGON

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Catherine Coulter

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1913-3

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2004

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epilogue

  1

  The Cat Races

  A bright Saturday afternoon, April 1823

  near Eastbourne, England

  The McCaulty Racetrack,

  “MR. RALEIGH, GET Tiny Tom out of Mr. Cork’s way. Blessed Hell, he’ll run right over him!”

  Tiny Tom was jerked off the track just in the nick of time, not more than two seconds before Mr. Cork would have laid him flat. Tiny Tom was Mr. Raleigh’s great hope, but he just wasn’t yet ready for this level of competition. Tiny Tom, black as the devil’s familiar with small white paws, was, after all, only one year old, not fully grown or as yet well trained.

  But when the runners had scampered and darted past, Mr. Raleigh set Tiny Tom back on the track, swatting his hindquarters and growling in his little ear. That growl, evidently, promised chopped-up chicken livers. Tiny Tom, tasting those chicken livers going down his little gullet, shot forward.

  Meggie Sherbrooke scanned the racers, cupped her mouth with her hands, and yelled again, “Blessed Hell, Mr. Cork! Run! Don’t let Blinker II catch you! You can do it, run!”

  Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke tended to ignore his daughter’s very occasional lapses into the favored Sherbrooke curse, since it really was quite fit for the racetrack, and yelled himself. “Run, Mr. Cork, run! Cleopatra, you can do it, sweet girl, go!”

  Mr. Cork, who’d finally finished growing into his paws six months before, was a big tabby, all orange-striped on his back, the top of his head, and snow white all over his belly and legs, strong as Clancy, Mr. Harbor’s prize bull. He ran only to the smell of a trout, about six pounds and thankfully always dead, baked with just a squeeze of fresh lemon, held by Max Sherbrooke at the finish line, who waved it back and forth like a metronome, keeping Mr. Cork’s attention focused on that trout in front of him. When not in strict training, however, Mr. Cork many times spent his mornings beneath the dining table, his orange-striped tail waving lazily from beneath the tablecloth, announcing that he was ready to be served a nice strip of crispy bacon, or perhaps a small bowl of milk, or both, if the donor would exert himself a bit.

  Strong and big, legs pumping with muscle—sheer power and poetry in motion—said Lady Dauntry of Mr. Cork in admiration. She’d been the mistress of ceremonies for the past fourteen years, always calling the race, even in inclement weather. Lady Dauntry deplored corruption on the racetrack, and even now, in 1823, it was rumored that there were still occasional attempts to fix races, and so there was always stringent oversight by all racing mews.

  Mary Rose, Tysen’s Scottish wife for eight years now, yelled in a very loud and lovely lilt, “Run, Cleo, my bonnie girl, run!” Then she ratcheted up her lungs and yelled, “You can keep up with her, Alec! Run, lad!”

  Seven-year-old Alec Sherbrooke was actually trying to keep up with Leo, whom he worshipped. It was being said in the major racing mews that just perhaps Alec Sherbrooke was one of a very rare breed indeed—a cat whisperer. If he was, he would be extraordinarily special. It was said that Cleo would begin leaping whenever Alec was about and thus that was how she’d been trained so quickly to this new technique. Everyone marveled—a cat whisperer. If Alec Sherbrooke was so blessed, his was going to be a famous name in the racing world. Since Alec wasn’t yet big enough to keep up with her, Leo, his older half brother, was Cleo’s on-track trainer. Meggie privately wondered if Cleo ran because Leo ran beside her or because of what seven-year-old Alec whispered in her white ear before each race.

  For those who preferred the more dainty racers, like Cleopatra, christened Clea Mia by a visiting Italian curate some months before, s
he was a natural leaper. Breath held, Mary Rose watched her run her very fast six steps, building up momentum, then like a dancer, she took off her hind paws, legs extended, leapt forward, stretching her long calico body in the air and landed directly ahead of Blinker II.

  Everyone cheered. Lady Dauntry had announced that Cleopatra was grace in motion, and all agreed it was true.

  In the beginning of the race, Cleo was content to run a good six lengths behind the leader, running alongside Leo, with seven-year-old Alec trying to keep up. Leo said her name over and over, just loud enough for her to hear, keeping pace with her, difficult when she leapt, but Leo was young and strong and he loved to see Cleopatra stretch and leap and land some three feet ahead of all the other racers. The Harker brothers, from the Mountvale mews, praised the technique as unique and ever so lovely to watch. Then they would speak of Alec and shake their heads and wonder how he would change the world of cat racing with his gift. A cat whisperer, just imagine.

  Blinker II poked his head out, running all out, managed to pass Cleopatra again. He was running his paws off, staying right in the middle of the course, hearing his master’s shout of encouragement, a shout that meant to Blinker that he would get all the fresh warm milk he could lap up as it was squeezed out of Trudy, the Grimsby cow. He didn’t even veer away when another racing cat nearly ran over him. Mr. Grimsby hadn’t overtrained him for this meet, heeding the Harker brothers’ advice some six months before to keep laps at no more than ten per day. Blinker II was all gray, with bright green eyes. He always purred when he ran.

  Meggie was getting hoarse, but it didn’t matter. She yelled at the top of her lungs, “Come on, Mr. Cork! Move! You can run faster than Blinker II! Look at that delicious trout Leo is waving for you. Just you smell that tangy flavor!”