Helen Dickson - Rogue in the Regency Ballroom - Rogue's Widow, Gentleman's Wife / A Scoundrel of Consequence

‘The judge who sentenced him does not think so.’

‘There are many who do not believe it and never will accept his guilt.’

‘And if he is innocent, will you devote your life to saving him from the undeserved penalty awaiting him? Because, if so, imagine what it will mean to you.’ She put her hands to her flushed cheeks. ‘Oh my goodness, what a muddle all this is. I’ll talk it over with Mr Quinn. Perhaps by now he will have calmed down and will be in a more logical frame of mind.’

‘There—there is more, Charlotte.’ Charlotte looked at her, waiting for her to continue with absolute dread as to what might be coming next. ‘Mr Claybourne has a child. I have promised him I will take her to England—to her cousin.’

Shaken by this latest piece of news, Charlotte listened in an appalled silence as Amanda told her of the promise she had made to Kit. ‘I am his wife, even if only in name. I promised I would take care of his child, and I will honour that promise.’

Charlotte took a moment to assess the situation. At length she sighed with resignation and said, ‘Very well. You and I will see to it in the morning. I can only hope that none of this gets out. A scandal is the last thing we want. Perhaps it’s a good thing you’re to return to England.’

The scene was one of tranquillity and sparkling water snaking inland. The surface of the river tumbled and tossed its white foam on either side of the river steamer as it ploughed its way through. Gulls screeched overhead and an assortment of waterfowl swam in the shaded reaches. They passed several plantation houses, some lived in, some still nothing but empty shells—the scars of the Civil War. It was a beautiful day. Nature was at its grandest, with the landscape wrapped in a warm, golden haze as Amanda and Charlotte sat in the boat beneath their parasols.

When the steamer neared a small landing the whistle bellowed. A flock of alarmed egrets exploded into flight, their plumage snowy white against the black water and sombre trees. The boatman pointed to them the house where Samuel Blake lived. Tall shrubs allowed only a glimpse of the roof of the timber-framed house, and several others. Walking up a dusty lane, they stopped outside the house as a motherly woman, robust and with a kindly face, came out, wiping her flour-coated hands on her wide pinafore. There was a warm light in her eyes as she introduced herself as Agatha Blake. A small child of three came up behind her, peering round her skirts at them curiously.

‘I do hope we are not putting you to too much trouble, Mrs Blake, descending on you at such short notice. I am Amanda O’Connell,’ she said, having decided not to tell anyone about her marriage to Christopher Claybourne, ‘and this is my cousin Charlotte. It was Mr Claybourne who told us where you lived. We—we’ve come to see you about the child—Sky. He gave me a letter for you.’

Agatha looked at them both, assessing them carefully, and then a large smile broadened her lips as she took the letter. ‘Of course you are no trouble. Come inside and have some tea. It’s rare enough I have visitors—and please call me Agatha. A friend of Kit’s is a friend of ours. You are fortunate to find Sky and me the only ones at home just now. I have a large brood and usually there are children all over the place, but my husband has taken them fishing to give me some peace.’

Amanda smiled at the little girl, realising for the first time that this child was her stepdaughter. She was a startlingly attractive child, her Cherokee ancestry evident in her features. Her mane of jet black hair was loosely caught by a thin ribbon so that its length hung down between her shoulder blades. What entrapped Amanda was the compelling blackness of her eyes. They were large and widely spaced, set above prominent cheekbones and heavily fringed by glossy lashes. The incredible black eyes regarded her with interest.

Having heard her father’s name mentioned, she tugged on Agatha’s skirts to gain her attention and said, ‘Is Papa coming home, Agi?’

‘No, child, but he has sent these ladies with a message.’

Charlotte held back when Agatha turned to go inside. Holding out her hand to the child, she smiled. ‘Would you like to come with me and show me the pretty flowers in the garden, Sky? I’d love to see them.’ Sky nodded and took her hand trustingly.

Amanda looked at her cousin gratefully. It would be easier talking to Agatha without the child. She watched the two of them go into the small garden, feeling her throat tighten. Poor little mite, she thought. Wasn’t it bad enough being without her father, without being taken away from those she loved by strangers? She followed Agatha inside the house. It smelled lovely—of baking and polish and all the other smells that mingle together to smell of comfort and home.

‘Have you known Mr Claybourne long?’ Amanda asked as Agatha busied herself making tea.

‘Sam and me have known Kit for five years. I know all about what they say he’s done, but don’t you believe it. He’s a good man. We like him—and I would trust him with my life if I had to—and our five children adore him. Kit never killed that woman. I’d swear it on my life.’

‘And what of Sky? What shall I tell her?’

Agatha glanced at her sharply, alert. ‘Tell her? What do you mean?’

‘Mr Claybourne has asked me to take her back to England with me—to be looked after by his cousin. She will be well looked after, you can depend on that. Read the letter, Agatha,’ she said, handing it over. ‘He explains everything in that.’

Agatha read what Christopher had to say, then she nodded, her eyes moist and her face set in sombre lines. ‘It will sadden my heart to part with her, but I can see it’s for the best that she goes. She’s a bright child who learns quickly. When she begins to hear the rumours about her pa, she’s bound to find out what happened. It cannot be kept from her and the stigma will always be with her. When do you go to England?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

Pain slashed across Agatha’s features. ‘So soon. And you want to take her with you today?’

‘Yes,’ Amanda said softly.

Agatha nodded, resigned to letting Sky go. ‘I’ll get her things together. She never knew her mother—a lovely little thing she was, Cherokee. Sky has come to accept me in that role and we all love her dearly. But I always knew the day would come when she would have to go, that Kit would take her to his own people in England. How is he?’

‘Bearing up, I’d say.’

‘And will they really hang him?’

‘I don’t see how it can be avoided. He continues to reiterate his denials of guilt—even though there does not seem to be anyone else who could have done it.’

‘What kind of justice is it that will hang a man like him?’ There was anger in Agatha’s voice as she wiped away a tear with the corner of her apron.

‘What kind of man is he?’ Amanda asked gently.

‘Kit? Why, he’s a man of the open, an active man, and I know how much he must hate being confined. He’s his own man is Kit. Often he would disappear into the woods following trails made by the Indians with nothing but his rifle. He would be gone for days and return to lead Sam back to a freshly killed and skinned deer. The mountains became his mentor. He learned to read the signs of the sky and forest like an Indian. He became a hunter and a trapper—shooting a deer or trapping possum.’

Amanda could imagine Kit, striding towering and unafraid through the Smoky Mountains, as controlled and silent as a great cat. ‘Then I can imagine how difficult his imprisonment must be for him.’

‘I will never believe he’s guilty. The attorney who conducted the legal proceedings against Kit was a friend of the Riders. The jury listened to him and Kit didn’t stand a chance. He swayed them with his clever talk and worked on them with his sympathies, portraying Mrs Rider as some kind of poor, defenceless widow, when in truth she was anything but. The jury was out less than ten minutes when they filed back with the verdict of guilty.’