Chapter Sixteen

August, 1815

The quiet country life was not as lonely or boring as Phoebe had feared. In fact it was quite refreshing. She stayed in a charming cottage with Mrs. Condon—who’d refused to leave her side—and Elizabeth, her more than trustworthy maid. Together the three of them enjoyed a relaxed, companionable existence. They laughed and read, knitted and hemmed, and Phoebe’s spirits lifted by the day.

Her grief and feelings of shame had not completely ebbed, but little by little her positive nature was taking over. At night she still had dreams of James. Some memories of the times they’d spent together, others nightmares of him ravaged in battle. In her current condition it was impossible to put him from her mind. It was so difficult to accept that he was dead given that a piece of him grew daily inside her. Repeatedly she reminded herself not to pine and weep for him. He’d rejected her long before his death, and never once written or expressed a moment’s regret. He’d known the risk of bedding her and simply hadn’t cared.

That logic never failed to steel her emotions.

Gathering up her basket of paint supplies and a brimmed straw hat, Phoebe moved toward the front door. “Elizabeth,” she called into the next room, “I’m going to take a walk down by the field. There are some lovely wildflowers I want to paint.”

“That sounds lovely, my lady,” her maid returned. “Dinner will be on the table at six-thirty sharp.”

“I’ll be back,” Phoebe promised, slipping out the front door. She settled the hat on her head and tilted her face into the sunshine. What a beautiful day. Bushy green leaves rustled in the treetops while birds twittered and squirrels chattered. Before long Phoebe found herself humming a simple hymn. Over the last couple weeks the profound nausea and exhaustion consuming her had waned, and today she felt energetic, and more like herself than she had in months.

She quickly located the spot she’d picked for painting and set to work. Before long a big yellow dog lumbered across the field, tail wagging. The animal often joined her for walks. She had no idea where he actually lived or who he belonged to, but he was friendly and well fed and she was always glad for the company.

“Well, hello, boy!” She scratched behind his ears and he flopped beside her in the grass to watch her work. Every so often she’d share a bite of the bread and cheese she’d packed as a snack with the dog.

Suddenly the dog’s ears pricked and he barked once.

Surprised, Phoebe set the brush aside and glanced around. “What is it, boy?”

As if on cue, the dog jumped up and barked again. He then loped toward the edge of the field, tail wagging as it always did. An ill-mannered bone didn’t seem to exist in the mutt’s body.

Phoebe too stood. Someone must be coming. Pulling the brim of her hat down to better shield the bright sun, she looked past the dog to the narrow path alongside the field. A flash of red clothing flickered between the trees. The figure of a man soon became visible as he weaved into the trees, heading toward the field and the dog. A moment later a uniformed soldier stepped into the field, grinning down at the dog.

“Oh, my god.” Phoebe physically swayed and staggered backward. She pulled the hat from her head. It must be obscuring her view! “Impossible.” And yet… the haunting figure of James Witherspoon stepped onto the edge of her field. More than a figment of the imagination or a ghostly apparition. He looked every inch flesh and blood.

*          *          *

Absently James extended a hand for the strange—if friendly—dog to sniff. Just that afternoon he’d located the cottage where Phoebe was supposed to be staying only to find that she wasn’t home. A rotund woman with mischievous eyes had refused to grant him any information regarding her health and had given him directions to this field. Now that he’d found the field, all he saw was this mangy—

“James?”

The lilting voice drew his attention upward. He went weak in an instant, clasping a hand over his chest. Dear God, there she was. His siren. His reason for breathing. Cheeks high with color and skin glowing with the luminescence of pearls, his memories of her hadn’t done justice to the reality of her beauty. “Phoebe,” he rasped. “I came as soon as I learned where to find you.”

Wide-eyed, Phoebe moved slowly forward as though in a dream. “The casualty roster… I-I thought you were dead.”

“No, love. No.” He broke into a jog, closing the distance between them with long strides. It had been so long and he was within inches of holding her. Her eyes were like stormy ocean pools that he could stumble into and lose himself in. He reached out and yanked her into his arms, crushing her against him. “I’m here. I—” His voice trailed off. She made no move to embrace him. Instead she lay limp against him like a child’s cloth doll. His heart clenched. She hadn’t forgiven him for leaving her in the spring. “Phoebe, I’m sorry. I was an ass and a fool.” He pulled back and dropped his hands to her waist, feeling for the first time the slight swell camouflaged beneath her skirts. A shiver of combined panic and excitement raced through him. “I’m here now.”

She stepped backward and crossed her arms, regarding him warily. “I take it you received my letter,” she said, tone flat, eyes cold.

“No,” he replied quickly. “I never received any news. I was on special assignment away from my division, and then wounded soon after I rejoined my men.” He flashed a wry smile. “Once reported dead, no mail is forwarded. It wasn’t until I returned to England that Mrs. Collins informed me of your condition.”

“I see.”

Her icy words sliced through him like miniature ice picks. “Phoebe,” he implored, taking a hesitant step forward, arms outstretched, “had I known—”

Fire flashed in her eyes. “Don’t placate me with what you would have done. You knew the risks. If you’d had any honorable intentions toward me then you would have married me before deploying or at least proposed.”

Frustrated, James gritted his teeth. This wasn’t going well at all. “Please, hear me out. It’s not that simple.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “Oh, but it is that simple. The whole situation is exquisitely simple. You are free, James.” Her cool gaze fell back to him. “There is no need for you to concern yourself with doing the gentlemanly thing. All the arrangements have been made. I will remain in the country until the child is born. My brother found a perfectly respectable couple to take the babe in. Then I will return home, my health fully recovered.” A dangerous glimmer lit her eye as her tone dropped. “It is just as you said, James, no one ever has to know.”

The words thrown back in his face gutted him.

She backed away. “You are absolved of any responsibility. Go on and live your life. You need never look back.” With that she turned.

“Stop, Phoebe! Don’t go. I can’t believe this is what you want.”

She continued marching away from him, leaving her basket of paints in the field.

“Siren,” he called, striding after her.

“Don’t call me that!” She whirled, fists clenched at her sides. The icy façade she’d presented shattered, revealing the pain and anguish lurking beneath her cold exterior. “Don’t you dare call me that. I am not your siren, James. You are the siren. You lured me in with your song. You seduced me. And then you left me wrecked and ruined upon the rocks.”

James stopped short as guilt consumed him. “Phoebe, please. I didn’t know. Give me a chance. Just listen.”

“No! There is nothing I wish to hear from you. I made my choices, and now I will live with the consequences.” Lip quivering, she turned her head away from him. “Just leave,” her voice cracked. “Leave me be.”

“Don’t cry,” he murmured.

Phoebe turned remarkably dry eyes back to him. “I have run out of tears to shed for you, James.”

Taken aback by her stony expression, he stalled. More than anything he wanted to fold her in his arms and bring back the warmhearted, loving woman that had stolen his heart. He extended a hand, but she snatched away.

“Go back to Judith and play papa to Toby. There is nothing for you here.” She whipped around and sprinted across the field in the opposite direction.

What? Judith…

Reeling from the horrible conversation, James didn’t follow.

*          *          *

Phoebe dashed hell-bent through the foliage to a narrow rutted road that wound through the through the countryside on a less direct route back to her cottage. Her heart thundered and her lungs burned, but she refused to slow the pace. She dared not. What if he followed her? She maintained the mad pace as desperate to outrun James as the painful emotions he provoked.

He’s alive!

Those two words pounded through her head in perfect tandem with her drumming footsteps, and as she ran it created an almost musical cadence with her thrumming pulse. He’s alive. James is alive. She didn’t know what to do with the information. She’d just begun to accept her circumstances and the finality of his demise, but when he’d stepped into that field… happiness, like sunshine, had burst inside her. In the past months she’d all but forgotten sunshine. The urge to run to him had been so intense, but before the shock of his appearance ebbed enough to take even one step, the hurt and anger had swiftly resurfaced, clouding her fleeting joy. He’d abandoned her! She could never forget that. If past history proved true, it wouldn’t take much to drive James back out of her life for good.

Her tears blurred the quaint cottage as it came into view. She swiped them away, and finally stumbled to a halt. She dragged several ragged breaths into her aching lungs as her body gave way to painful sobs. She crumpled into the grass beside a flowering hedge and succumbed to the tears. She drew her knees up and buried her face in her skirts as warring emotions threatened to rip her apart. The hopes and dreams that had died with James raced through her mind, while bitter logic warned her to shut him out forever. According to his sister-in-law, James was supposed to be marrying her.

Why did he come here?

The question refused to give her peace. Blast Sarah for telling him where she was. No doubt Sarah harbored grand romantic illusions of James swooping in and sweeping her off her feet. Phoebe knew better than to give him the chance. His silver gilded words had done nothing but get her into trouble before. Now that he knew the truth—that he was absolved of responsibility—it was only a matter of time before he thanked his lucky stars and went back to his philandering ways.

After a good thirty minutes, Phoebe dried her eyes and splashed cold water on her face from the well bucket. She probably looked a fright, but dinner would be on soon and she didn’t want Elizabeth or Mrs. Condon to worry. She’d just let them know she was home and slip quietly into her room.

Making her way to the cottage door, she eased it open and peaked inside.

“Oh, lovely. Here is Lady Phoebe now,” Mrs. Condon’s voice floated from the small sitting room, and the brittle tap of her heeled shoes quickly echoed off the wooden floors.

Phoebe cringed, wanting to shrink back through the door, but there was no time.

Mrs. Condon bustled into the hallway, cheeks flushed with merry pink and eyes aglow. “Come quickly, my lady. We have a guest.”

Before Phoebe could reply the sound of heavier footsteps drew her attention as James Witherspoon followed Mrs. Condon from the sitting room.

“What is he doing here?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned her fury onto James. “Get out.”