Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I t took a week for Oakley to settle matters pertaining to Beamish—or rather, Mr Smith. Back in London, the Season had begun to wind down, many families leaving for their country homes. Scarlett had extended an invitation to Bess to go to Ashworthe with her and Worthe, and Bess had accepted eagerly. Oakley was fairly desperate to join her there and beyond vexed that even in his counterfeit grave, Beamish was still managing to keep them apart.

The journey from Gloucestershire was just above one hundred miles, but it might have been a thousand for his impatience with it. “You are positively driving me mad,” Leighton said half a dozen times, having been awakened from slumber in the carriage by his companion’s wildly joggling foot or endless opening and closing of his unread book.

At last they were in Hertfordshire where Leighton split from him, intending to go to Beamish’s father to express his ‘condolences’ and see that the death was properly recorded within the parish. “By the end of tomorrow it will be finished,” Leighton promised as he left Oakley with a firm handshake.

Within the hour, Oakley’s carriage was moving down the shady, ash-lined lane towards Ashworthe. Once in the portico, he very nearly tumbled from the carriage in his haste to enter the house. Scarlett’s face held an anxious frown as she hurried into the vestibule to greet him. “Oakley! You are returned!” She kissed his cheek, then drew back to look at him. “And were things…?”

“Things went as things were meant to go,” he said. “Mr Smith is well on his way to Maine, by way of Boston.”

Tears sprang into her eyes, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “I cannot believe it,” she said a little breathlessly. “It seems almost too good to be true!”

“Where might I find Bess?” Oakley enquired rather bluntly. He regretted that his eagerness made him sound uncivil, but his sister only smiled. Ashworthe Park boasted extensive gardens, and it was within them, she told him, that Bess had been spending much of her days, most often with a book to keep her company.

“It has kept her worries from tormenting her. She will be so relieved to know that all has gone as planned. But will you want to refresh yourself first?”

“I can wait no longer,” he told her, already turning on his heel. “I can only pray Bess will love me, road dirt and all!”

A light summer breeze cooled him as he walked out into the gardens, but it did nothing to calm his racing heart. It seemed impossible that after all they had been through, his heart’s desire, his dearest wishes would come true within this hour, in this garden.

Bess was not in the cutting garden nor among the cherry trees. He had just begun to be alarmed when he found her sitting amid the sculptures of Worthe’s ancestors. Her back was to him as he neared, and her book, her bonnet, and an apple were on the bench beside her. He wondered how long she had been there.

She turned when he was about ten paces away from her—he knew not if it was by sound or presentiment that she detected his approach. Her eyes went wide and then she bolted up and off the bench, running towards him. He released a huffing little breath as she leapt into his arms, squeezing him tightly with her head pressed into his chest.

“You have been gone forever,” she said urgently. “I began to fear you were dead.”

“I sent word to Scarlett!” he protested, kissing her hair.

“I feared it was the work of charlatans,” she replied, and he threw back his head and laughed.

“No, it was me, entirely me. Shall we sit?” he asked. “I have much to acquaint you with.”

“Let us walk,” she suggested. “I have been sitting here for some time.”

“Walk!” He moaned. “I loathe walking.”

She gave him a little poke in the chest. “Have you not been sitting in your carriage for an age? It will do you good to stretch your legs.”

“Very well, but I must steal your apple from you, for I am very nearly starved.” He tucked her book into his greatcoat, while she donned her bonnet; she handed him the apple and he then offered her his arm. They began to slowly stroll towards Ashworthe’s maze. He longed to speak of the feelings bubbling over in his heart—of hope and joy and love, but she asked if the journey had been easy and instead, he found himself telling her all of the commonplace things: the condition of the roads, and the misery of staying at inns along the way. She, in turn, told him of Scarlett and Worthe, and how they had passed the days since his departure.

When those subjects were adequately canvassed, and he felt fit to burst with impatience, she asked, “Dare I hope you have successfully made me a widow?”

“Your brother is on his way to the parish to see things recorded, but you are a widow, indeed,” he confirmed. “Mr Beauregard Beamish is no more.”

Glancing about her, Bess whispered, “You and my brother…you did not…that is to say, did you kill him?”

Oakley laughed aloud. “No! I only meant in the way we discussed! A feigned death!”

“Oh!” She put a hand on her heart. “Something in the way you said so made me think things had gone another, more permanent way.”

“No, the man who was once Beamish still shuffles along his mortal coil, only he is Mr John Smith now, an American from a newly organised state called Maine.”

“Maine,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I do not think I know anything about Maine.”

“There is land to be had there, and relatively few Englishmen,” Oakley explained. “Would not wish him to meet up with anyone from a former life, hm? His money will go far there, and he says he enjoys snow, which I understand Maine has in abundance.”

“Good for him, then. It seems it is more than he deserves.”

“It is indeed. More than any of them deserve truly; Damian’s gang have stolen countless family treasures and?—”

“I have done what I could in that quarter.” With a mischievous grin, she said, “I have been to Beauvis.”

She had gone ostensibly to see to Beamish’s father’s health; finding the man excessively unwell, she had made the necessary arrangements for him to travel to his nephew’s home to be cared for in what were likely to be his final days. Then she had removed all the items she believed Beamish had stolen and brought them to Ashworthe.

Oakley shook his head with wonder. “Extraordinary! Leighton and I had determined what we would do once we had the items but knew not how to go about removing them from Beauvis!”

What he and Leighton had decided was that they would enlist the aid of a Bow Street runner to quietly—and without any hint as to how the items were obtained—see to the return of the valuables. It was not everything, not by a long stretch, but it did them all some good to imagine that at least some of what was lost could be found.

“The jewellers always put some mark on their creations,” he told Bess. “And using that and the records of the shop, we will be able to find some of the rightful owners.”

“The best that we can do,” she agreed. Then she uttered an excited little shriek.

Alarmed, Oakley dropped his apple, whirling about to see the danger.

But there was no danger. She was only elated. Giving a little twirl, she cried out, “Oakley! I am a widow!” She bent and picked up his discarded apple, then flung it high into the air. “Widow!” she cried out gaily.

He laughed at her, although it brought to mind how girlish and gay she had been when he first met her. He had not before realised that her giggling optimism was absent until he saw it appear again now. Yes, there is my Bess , he thought. Always with a laugh and a sparkle in her eye. Who could want for more?

Reaching for her, he tugged her towards him, facing him. “The only thing I have ever wanted in any of this was to see you just this way,” he told her admiringly. “With the sun on your face and laughter bursting from your lips. Your happiness, my darling girl, means more to me than my own.”

“I intend to spend the rest of my life making you as joyful as you have made me,” she promised, her eyes aglow. “You will never have cause to regret any of this.”

“Beginning now?” he asked, taking both of her hands in his. “I fear I can wait no more.”

She had already begun to beam with delight but kept her lips pressed together, waiting for him to speak, to utter the offers and make the promises both of them had desired for so long. Yet he paused, cataloguing every detail of her beauty, from the curl of her lashes to the sweet bow of her mouth. The ribbons of her bonnet, untied, danced in a sudden breeze, so he smoothed them back behind her shoulders, hoping he might fix the memory of her in his mind forever.

“I can hardly believe the time has at last arrived,” he said. “To imagine that henceforth we might be acknowledged as lovers! It does not seem possible.”

“It will not be possible,” she chided him, “if you never actually declare yourself to me.”

“Teasing woman! And at such a moment!” He could not stop smiling; this was so typical of their love, was it not? Tenderness and jollity in equal measure. “Bess, my dearest, beautiful, wonderful Bess, I love you more than I ever imagined it possible to love another. You are the other half of me, the keeper of my heart, the better part of my soul.”

“I adore you,” she whispered.

“As I do you.” A sudden lump made the rest harder to speak, but he did, nevertheless. “My heart knew yours from the first moment I ever beheld you, and somewhere in my soul I believed you must one day be mine, for if not…if not I might have perished.”

She kept her gaze on his, and ran her fingers lightly across his cheek. “How grateful I am that you did not perish and that you persisted in loving me when it seemed all was lost!”

“Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?” he asked.

Tears immediately sprang into her eyes, and she flung her arms around his neck. “Yes. Yes!”