Christmas With His Wallflower Wife. Janice Preston
Look at the number of times you’ve forgiven me!’ He winked at her and they both smiled at the shared memories. ‘But I’ll not say anything if you prefer me not to. Now, I really ought to mingle. Not that I want to, but I did promise Aunt Cecily and my stepmother I would be sociable.’ Alex’s father had remarried five years before. ‘I’ll see you later, I expect.’
Off he strode, leaving Jane deflated and with a headache pinching her forehead. She rubbed it absently. The thought of joining one of the loudly chattering groups clustered around the lawn held little appeal. Stepmama was talking to Sir Denzil Pikeford and Jane turned away before Stepmama could wave her over. She really couldn’t face that bore with her emotions in such a raw state.
She slipped through a gate into the apple orchard next to the lawn and on into the copse beyond, on the far side of which was the Abbey lake where, it was said, the monks used to raise fish to supplement their diet. The fresher air by the water would hopefully help her headache. And no one would miss her.
Tension gripped Alex as he made polite conversation with his father’s guests. He didn’t belong here. Even in this crowd, even among his family, he felt alone. Separate. For ever the outsider.
He hadn’t been back to the Abbey since Olivia’s wedding and was only here now because it was the first time in over four years the entire Beauchamp family had all been together under one roof. The rest had been here a month already and he had only finally agreed to attend the annual Abbey garden party because Dominic threatened to drive up to Foxbourne to fetch him. He’d arrived yesterday and fully intended to leave tomorrow.
An hour or more of small talk and sipping cider-apple punch was enough to try any man’s patience and Alex had less than his fair share of that. When dealing with people, at least. Horses…now that was another matter. There, his patience knew no bounds. With a smile and a gesture towards the house, he extricated himself from an in-depth conversation about last year’s appalling weather—still the main topic of conversation for country folk—and he slipped away, feeling his tension dissipate as he left the crowds behind. Once inside, he hurried through the library, and out on to the terrace that hugged the east wing of the Abbey. Down the steps, along the stone-flagged path that bisected the formal garden, through the arch cut into the beech hedge and out on to the path beyond. It took less than a minute to reach his goal: the small gate that opened into a copse of ornamental trees.
He closed the gate behind him.
Alone. As always. As he liked it.
Nothing but trees. No need to put on a charade. No need for polite conversation about trivialities.
He leaned back against the trunk of a copper beech and closed his eyes. It had been as painful as he feared, coming back. The family had all come out to greet him. Alex had tolerated hugs from his aunts and his sister, but when Father had come forward, his arms opening, Alex had thrust out his hand for a handshake, quashing his guilt at his father’s sorrowful expression. He couldn’t explain the aversion he felt for his father, but it was undeniable. Every time they met, Alex felt like a cat having its fur rubbed the wrong way and he couldn’t wait to get away.
Then last night, in his old bedchamber, the dreams returned. Not as badly as in his childhood, but enough to unsettle him and for him to wake this morning with that old feeling of impending doom pressing down on him.
It was good to see the rest of the family, though. And dear Jane…his childhood playmate: the squire to his knight, the soldier to his general, the pirate to his captain. Shame about Pippin… God knew what her father was about, allowing that old witch to pick on poor Jane the way she did.
Alex pushed away from the tree and shrugged out of his jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. Warm, dry days had been few and far between this summer—although it was still an improvement on last—but today was one of them: the sun high in a cloudless sky and insects humming. Alex wandered through the trees, his jacket hooked over his shoulder, absorbing the peace, disturbed only by the occasional burst of laughter from the garden party, taking little notice of where he was going. It was only when the sun reflecting off the surface of the lake dazzled him that he realised where he was. He stopped, his guts churning in that old familiar way.
He’d had no intention of coming here, to the place where it had happened. His mother’s favourite place. And yet his feet had led him there. Unerringly. As they always did. The summer house overlooking the lake was no more—destroyed by his father after his mother died, a weeping willow planted in its place, in her memory.
The willow had grown in the years since he had last seen it, its fronds now sweeping the ground, and the surrounding trees and shrubs—also planted after her death—had matured, isolating the willow in a clearing bounded by woodland and water.
He stood, just looking, the dark memories close, clawing their way slowly, inexorably, out of the chasm of the past. His heart drummed in his chest, nausea rising to crowd his throat as he shoved those chilling memories of his childhood—of that day—back into the depths and slammed a mental lid on them. He’d had enough practice at keeping them at bay. Eighteen years of practice—he’d only been seven when his mother died…when she was killed.
He shoved harder, feeling sweat bead his forehead. He shouldn’t have come here, should’ve stayed with the others, endured their chatter and their laughter, but it was the same every time he returned to his childhood home. No matter his best intentions, this spot drew him like a lodestone.
The sound of a scuffle and a scream, quickly cut off, grabbed his attention. He scanned his surroundings, still shaken by the past that lurked, ready to catch him unawares. He saw no one, but a muffled cry and a grunted oath sounded from beyond a clump of rhododendrons. His heart thudded. Those sounds… The memories swirled, trying to form. He swore and strode into the copse, rounding the bushes. Whatever he saw would be preferable to the images hovering at the edge of his mind.
‘No! Please! Stop!’
Breathless. Pleading. Scared.
No…terrified. Alex broke into a run, deeper into the trees, even as the sound of a slap rang out. He rounded another thicket.
Rage exploded through him—a starburst of fury that electrified every single nerve ending and muscle. He hauled the man off the woman beneath him and jerked him around, vaguely registering the stink of alcohol. His fist flew and he relished the satisfaction of the crunch of bone and the bright claret spurt of blood. He cast the man aside.
She was curled into a defensive ball, her back convulsing with silent sobs. Alex knew that feeling…he shoved again at the memory that threatened to burst free. The past needed to stay in the past. He fell to his knees and gathered the woman into his arms.
‘Shh…shh. You’re safe. He’s gone.’
He’d recognised him. Sir Denzil Pikeford, a local landowner, who’d been well into his cups when Alex spoke to him earlier and now stumbled away through the trees, hands cupping his bloody nose. Pikeford would suffer the consequences for this, but he could wait.
He held the woman’s head to his chest as he stroked down her back, soothing her, registering the bare skin, the ripped clothing. Her shuddering sobs gradually subsided. Her breathing hitched. Slowed. Hitched again.
‘There now. You’re safe.’
Alex looked down. And realised for the first time she was a lady…one of his father’s guests then, not a maid, or an unwary farm girl caught off guard.
‘Alex?’
A quiet, halting enquiry. She looked up, face blotchy with tears, one cheek stark red, eyes puffy, ringed by spiky wet eyelashes. Recognition thumped Alex square in the chest. He recalled the slap and another surge of fury rolled through him. How could anyone single