Page 2 of A Stormy Season

But if the man was so foolish as to become entangled with, and even to marry, such a woman as Anne Bailey, then perhaps he was not a good match for Jane. She wanted to respect her husband, not feel sorry for him. And her determination remained strong to marry a gentleman who met all her requirements. She would not settle for less than her ideal, even if it meant she never married. Better to be alone than to lose her self-respect, married to a man of poor character or intelligence.

Long before the evening was over, Mr. Watley spoke to the hosts and apparently excused himself and departed early from the ball, for she did not see him again.

He may not have encouraged the young ladies’ attentions to him, but it still did not sit well with Jane that he was so fawned over, especially since, unlike Sarah, Jane did not enjoy feeling contempt for her own kind.

Jane did not wish to be seen going out of her way to flirt with the newly widowed Luke Watley, but she sincerely hoped he would rally from his disappointments and choose more wisely next time he married.

~ ~ ~

Luke awakened so suddenly it took him a moment to realize he’d been dreaming.

His heart was pounding.It was only a dream,he repeated to himself, wishing he could erase the memory of it from his mind. But when he closed his eyes and lay back on his pillow, the image assaulted him afresh—his wife screaming as she was trampled by the horses and run over by the carriage wheels.

In the dream he’d tried to call out to her, to warn her that the runaway carriage was bearing down on her. But he was too late, and the whole thing happened slowly, as the horses first knocked her down, then . . . He’d woken himself up trying to shout her name.

He sat up again, this time throwing the covers off and getting out of bed. He’d go check in on Jeffrey.

He made his way to the nursery in the dark, keeping a hand on the wall, as there was only the barest bit of light coming in the windows from the moon outside. But the nursery was close—he had moved to the closest bedroom so he could be nearer where his son slept, and to escape as many memories as possible in his old room.

Luke opened the door and moved carefully, trying not to make any noise. A candle burning in a brass candlestick nearby illuminated his two-year-old son, lying on his back in the child-sized bed, and the nurse, Sally, asleep in another bed two feet away.

As Luke drew closer, Jeffrey’s eyelids flickered, then stilled.

His face was so innocent and peaceful. The poor child did not understand that he no longer had a mother, that he would grow up without knowing the unconditional, unstoppable love of the person who had birthed him.

But he might not have known that love even if his mother had not died.

Luke covered his sleeping son with the blanket that his restless legs always kicked off sooner or later and left the room as quietly as possible, thanking God that Jeffrey had not been awakened; if he had seen Luke, it would have taken a long time to get him back to sleep.

Heading back to his bedroom, Luke went to the window that overlooked the stables. No one was stirring yet, as it was only about three in the morning according to the clock on the fireplace mantel. He wondered if he should light a lantern and go for a walk. He wanted to be sure that nightmare was completely off his mind before he went back to bed.

His thoughts drifted back to his son as he stared at the three-quarter moon. Jeffrey hardly ever mentioned his mother, as she had usually been away from him more than she was with him. Anne was forever thinking of any excuse to go to London and leave her son and husband at home in Hertfordshire. Luke had grown tired of trying to force her to stay with him. He didn’t want to believe that she was actually being unfaithful to him, but in his heart he knew it was true. Too many people had seen too many suspicious things, and he had seen some of them himself.

A couple of his friends had insinuated that he should be thankful to God to be free of her. And perhaps he should. But Luke had gone to his uncle Edmund, the man he trusted most in the world, and told him, “Everyone wonders why I am mourning her, but I loved her. I was her protector, and she was my wife, the mother of my child. Everyone expects me to be cold and unfeeling about her now that she has died so suddenly, but how can I? I find I am not equal to such a task.”

Uncle Edmund had given him that serious, wise look of his and said, “You are not a fickle man. You are not so changeable or shallow as most others these days. It is no wonder your emotions cannot turn so quickly and irrevocably from love to hate. You must give yourself permission to grieve as long as you need to. But when your grieving is done, be wise enough to also allow an end to it.”

These words made sense to Luke.

So far he had mourned Anne’s death, but perhaps even more, he had mourned the loss of hope that she might be innocent of the much-gossiped-about unfaithfulness, the hope that she might learn to be happy and content to be his wife and Jeffrey’s mother.

He’d also mourned the loss of his own reputation.

He was well aware that everyone saw him as a dupe, a cuckolded, foolish, humiliated husband of a woman who would betray him with more than one man.

Never in his life had he imagined he’d repeat his own father’s mistake. His father had been so heartbroken by the death of Luke’s mother when Luke was ten years old that he had immediately remarried—within two months, in fact—just to stop the pain. But the woman he’d married was so similar in nature and behavior to Anne that Luke had berated himself over and over for not seeing it.

It was humiliating enough to have a father who was so fooled in his wife’s character, but much more humiliating to repeat the mistake himself. His father, who refused to believe what everyone was telling him about his faithless wife, had gone to his grave defending her. At least Luke now accepted the truth of what his wife had done.

He let out a long, uneasy breath, leaning against the window and rubbing his face with his hands.

Even though Luke had wondered how his father could have remarried so quickly, he had recently been tempted to do the same thing for the same reason—to stop the pain. But the thought of making the same mistake again filled him with such dread that the temptation was soon overcome.

How could he ever trust another woman again?

And in fact, he wondered if he could trust anyone. One of the men Anne was rumored to have been involved with was a Frenchman, Louis Lenoir, who Henry Gilchrist said was connected with a group of revolutionaries—a secret, seditious society bent on overthrowing the government. Henry was on a committee that was investigating them.

“The man could be dangerous,” Henry told him after Anne’s death, “so if you see him following you, send me word immediately.”