Chapter Nine
For a moment Hadrian was too stunned by his wife’s sudden appearance to answer her question.
The crack of that twig under her foot might have been the sound of a pistol cocking for the spasm of panic it sent through him. But when he spun around to confront the person listening in on his most guarded thoughts, the sight of Artemis had unnerved him in a different way altogether.
The robust Durham wind had blown her bonnet back, exposing her hair to its impatient caress. It whipped dark tendrils about her face and teased a rosy glow into her cheeks. It pushed her skirts tight against her slender legs, plucking up the hem to taunt him with a glimpse of her dainty ankles. Hadrian did not trust himself to watch the wind have its lusty way with her, as he could not.
The anxious, furtive set of her features drove out those bedeviling thoughts, reminding him of what she must have overheard. He felt naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Then she asked the question he could scarcely bear to answer. “Of course they’re my family. Why else would I be here?”
“And they all…died…in a colliery explosion?” The horror and pity in her voice threatened to break through a barrier he had erected around that part of his life.
He had no choice but to respond to that threat. “All except me and Julian. He was too young to work when it happened. He’s with them now, though. Your brother saw to that.”
Artemis swayed, as if she was being buffeted by something stronger than the upland wind. But she managed to stay on her feet. “Why did you not tell me what happened to your father and brothers?”
“Why should I have told you? Someone like you could not begin to understand!”
The moment those words were out of his mouth, Hadrian knew he should not have spoken them. After all, he’d been the one who wanted to put the past behind them. Now he wondered if there were some parts of his past that he could never escape—things that would haunt him until his dying day, no matter how far he ran or how deep he tried to bury them.
But what else could he say? Admit that it troubled him to tell her what he’d never been able to tell his partners or even his beloved first wife? That was something he truly could not expect her to understand, for he could not quite fathom it himself.
Artemis flinched from his bitter outburst, but her reply surprised him. “Perhaps you were right. I do not understand how your father came to be in a coal mine with four of your brothers, all so young. But I want to know, if you will tell me.”
He’d expected her to storm away or hurl an angry retort that would give him an excuse to break off this disturbing encounter. He was not prepared for her concern.
It slipped past his defenses. “My father wasn’t always a miner. He had a farm once, not far from here, land Northmores had worked for as long as anyone could remember. If only he could have held on to it until me and my brothers grew big enough to help him. But he got hit with a string of bad harvests and had to borrow money he couldn’t repay. There was nothing for it but to go to Fellbank and take work in the colliery.”
“But your brothers?” Artemis’s dark brows knit together in a baffled frown. “The youngest was only eight. That is what I cannot understand.”
“I knew you wouldn’t,” he muttered, vexed that she would not leave it alone. “You and your genteel poverty. One miner’s wages would not keep a family of four, let alone eight. Around here, all the lads go to work by the age of eight if they can get a place. Lasses, too, when there’s work enough for them.”
“That is monstrous!” Her striking eyes flashed with passionate indignation. “It is one thing for children to help out on farms, gathering eggs or herding sheep. But underground in a mine? Such practices should not be permitted in a civilized country!”
“No, they should not.” Hadrian heaved a deep, frustrated sigh. “What do you reckon I’ve worked for all these years? To raise up my family so they never again have to fear being wiped off the earth. But more than that—to keep lads and lasses out of the mines so they have a chance to go to school and learn enough to do something else with their lives, if they choose to.”
Was Artemis beginning to understand now?
In case not, he continued. “Nobody with the power to change things is going to listen to a bunch of sooty, ignorant miners who talk too broad for them to understand. That was why I sent Julian down south to the best schools. That is why I wanted him to stand for Parliament. So he could speak for lads like our brothers in a way the high and mighty could understand.”
If his fierce indignation had been a bludgeon and every word struck a blow, Artemis could not have looked more stricken. Though Hadrian knew none of this was her fault, too many painful memories had been roused—too much impotent anger and gnawing guilt let loose. He could not rein it in.
“Now do you understand?” he demanded. “Do you see what your family has done?”
Intense, contradictory feelings overwhelmed Hadrian at that moment—a tidal wave of liberating release and a paralyzing undercurrent of shame. He wished Artemis would strike back, as she had when they’d first met, with regal disdain and bitter hostility.
Instead she gave a jerky nod, as if she were a puppet in the hands of an unskilled master. Her icy facade seemed dangerously brittle.
“Now I understand—” her whispered words tore into Hadrian like tiny shards of glass “—why you hate me.”
Hate her? He wanted to deny it, but his throat was too constricted with guilt to speak.
Artemis would not have heard him anyway, for she had turned and fled from him as if in terror for her life.
Artemis ran from the churchyard, desperate to escape the memory of that headstone with its heartbreaking list of Hadrian’s dead brothers. Her imagination conjured up images of those boys, all looking like Lee might when he turned eight…nine…eleven years old. How would she feel if she’d lost her precious boy five times over, along with the father she’d bashfully revered, all in one calamitous day?
Would she have had the strength to go on as Hadrian had? Somehow he’d found the courage to venture halfway around the world and make his fortune from nothing so he could provide for his one remaining brother. But he had not stopped there. He’d striven to protect other children from suffering the same fate as his brothers. Her heart swelled with pity and admiration.
“Artemis!” His voice pursued her, hoarse with urgency. “Wait…please!”
Part of her wanted to run faster so she would not have to face him. Another part insisted she owed him a hearing…and so much more that she could never hope to redress. Gasping for breath, she staggered to a halt and waited for Hadrian. However harshly he denounced her, it could not be worse than the tribunal of her own conscience. She stared at the ground, unable to look him in the face.
“Artemis.” His footsteps slowed as he approached her. His voice sounded a little winded, too. “I’m sorry for what I said just now. For a long time, I’ve refused to let myself think about what happened to my father and brothers. All of a sudden it overpowered me, but that was no excuse for lashing out at you the way I did. I don’t blame you for what happened to Julian, I swear. And I most certainly do not hate you.”
Those were the last words she’d expected to hear from him. They should have eased her guilt, but they did not.
“You…should blame me.” She pressed a hand to her chest to keep her heavy heart from battering its way out. “I blame myself. I tried so hard to shift the responsibility for what happened on to Julian and Lord Kingsfold and you so I could absolve Leander and Daphne…and me. Now I can no longer deny what I’ve done.”
Having acknowledged her guilt gave Artemis the nerve to look Hadrian in the face. But the condemnation she’d expected to find was absent from his gaze. She could not make out whatever was there in its place.
“What is it you reckon you’ve done?” he asked in a husky murmur.
Must she confess aloud the things she’d been reluctant to examine too closely, even in the privacy of her own thoughts? That was the very least she owed Hadrian and his family, surely.
“Is it not obvious? I was the one who brought up Leander and Daphne after our parents died. They were both so different than me—so sociable and high-spirited. Because I envied them those qualities, I encouraged their gregarious ways. Because I wanted to make up for the loss of our parents, I indulged them and made excuses for their behavior.”
Hadrian began walking slowly in the direction of his house. He beckoned Artemis to join him. “None of that sounds so terrible to me.”
“Don’t you see?” She fell in step beside him. “I raised my brother and sister to be amiable and outgoing. But, as you told me, vices are the tail side of virtues. Leander and Daphne could also be impulsive, willful and reckless.”
Not long ago, she would have cut to the quick anyone who dared say such a thing about her adored brother and sister. To say it herself made Artemis feel treacherously disloyal to their memories. But it was true, and Hadrian deserved to hear the truth.
His dark, dynamic features creased in a pensive frown as he pondered her words. Then he shook his head. “You are not responsible for your brother and sister’s actions. I’m certain, if you’d had your way, Daphne would never have lain with my brother and Leander would never have called him out.”
“Perhaps.” She could not excuse herself so easily. “But what I did was just as bad. How could I have expected Daphne to stay away from your brother when I’d spent eighteen years doing my best to give her whatever she fancied? How could I expect Leander to put reason and caution before pride, when I’d filled his head with notions of family honor and tales of our illustrious ancestors?”
Hadrian’s frown deepened. Perhaps he had begun to grasp how deeply she was at fault.
In case he did not, Artemis summed it up. “Because of me, you lost the last remnant of your family. And countless children, little older than Lee, lost the man who might have been their champion.”
It was all she could do to contain the sob that ached in her throat and hold back the tears that might cool her stinging eyes. She did not want Hadrian’s false reassurances of pardon because he felt sorry for her. She did not deserve his pity.
As they walked on in silence, Artemis shored up her composure in preparation for whatever recriminations Hadrian might heap upon her. If only she had not let herself begin to think well of him, she would be so much better able to bear his disdain.
As they rounded a bend in the tree-shaded lane, his house appeared in view. Its golden-brown stones glowed faintly in the spring sunshine, while stray sunbeams glinted off its many windows.
“I’m afraid it will not do,” said Hadrian, “you trying to take all the blame on yourself. I reckon there are many people to divide it amongst. So many that no one can claim the lion’s share and none is in any position to cast stones at another. Least of all me at you. How old were you when you had to take over the upbringing of your brother and sister?”
She was so astonished by his forbearance and the unexpected question that she answered without stopping to think if it was something she wanted to reveal. “Ten years old when my mother died. Daphne was not much older than Lee is now and Leander had just turned four. Three years later, we lost our father.”
“So you were no more than a child yourself.” A sigh escaped Hadrian’s lips. “Did you have no one to help you raise your brother and sister?”
“There were servants, of course, for their day-to-day care—a few at least. And my father’s uncles were our guardians, but they knew nothing about raising small children…and cared even less.”
Those last words slipped out in spite of her. Dearings did not criticize members of the family to outsiders. At the moment, though, Hadrian did not feel like an outsider. Though his loss and his struggles had been so much worse than hers, they forged a bond with her that Artemis could not deny.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” As they walked, Hadrian edged closer to her until they were almost touching. “It’s not an easy job to raise a child. Even in the best of circumstances and with the best of intentions, people make mistakes. I cannot see that you have anything to reproach yourself for. If I once claimed otherwise, it was only because I did not understand.”
Was this how Papists felt when they made their confession and were shriven of their sins? Though Artemis could not surrender her whole burden of guilt, she did feel lighter somehow—less tightly bound. But there was one further step in the search for absolution.
Penance.
“Do the Durham mines still employ children as young as your brothers were?”
“I’m sure they do,” replied Hadrian. “Not only here, but throughout the country. Why would the owners quit a practice that saves them money? Now that I am in business, I can see their side of it, though I still believe it is wrong. Nothing less than an Act of Parliament will stop collieries from employing young lads and lasses in the pits.”
Artemis tugged on Hadrian’s sleeve to make him stop for a moment. “You thought I would not understand or care what happened to your family and you were half right. I cannot imagine how such things are permitted in a country that claims to be civilized. But now that I know about them, I care a great deal. What can I do to help?”
Hadrian studied her face, perhaps searching for proof of her sincerity. “Without Julian to lead the campaign for reform, we will have to wait for his son to come of age. The best way you can help is to make a better job of raising our nephew than I did of raising his father.”
“I beg your pardon?” Could Hadrian mean what she thought he meant?
He gave a rueful shrug. “You said yourself, I ruined Julian’s character with too much money and too little attention. For years, I sent back every penny I could spare so he’d have the best of everything. I told myself that rubbing shoulders with young gentlemen of consequence would help him become a better advocate for children working in the mines. Now I wonder if I was only trying to keep him from harm and make up for what he’d lost. Showering him with money was the wrong way to go about it. I reckon you will strike a better balance with Lee.”
The full implication of his words sent Artemis reeling. “Are you saying that your only reason for wanting custody of Lee, for marrying me, for bringing us here, is so he can be molded into an instrument to further your plans?”
“What’s wrong with my plans?” Hadrian looked as taken aback by her response as she was by his. “I am not proposing we send the lad down to work in the mines. Only that we prepare him to lead the fight for reform one day.”
Did Hadrian not see? He was asking for the one thing she could not give up—her nephew’s freedom and happiness. “What if he does not want that responsibility? Is he to be raised with no say at all in his own future? I’m sorry, Hadrian. I truly want to help you, but I cannot agree to that.”
Could Artemis mean what she’d just said? Mouth agape in disbelief, Hadrian stared after his bride as she turned her back on him and walked away for the second time in an hour.
But so much had happened in that hour. So much had changed between them…at least he’d thought it had. Could that shift have been entirely on his part, while Artemis continued to regard him the same way she had from their unfavorable first meeting?
No. He could not accept that the things she’d told him about herself, and the flashes of intense emotion she’d betrayed, were less than sincere.
Reason warned him to let the matter rest for a while, not to press Artemis now, when feelings on both sides were running dangerously high. But pride refused to heed that sensible warning. How could he let her raze his cherished plans to smoking rubble, then march away victorious?
“Artemis!” For the second time in an hour, he followed her. Not as a regretful supplicant this time, to beg her pardon, but charged with iron purpose, determined to have his way.
He caught up to her on the wide landing of the main staircase. “Stay and listen to me, will you?”
When she did not deign to reply, he caught her by the arm and spun her about. He judged his grip carefully. He did not want to hurt or intimidate her, only get her attention. And perhaps he just needed to touch her. “This matter is not resolved.”
She glared at him—for daring to lay hands on her, no doubt. If only she knew how he longed to lay hands and lips on her again, the way he had on their wedding night. Not in a fumbling, half-awake daze, but in full possession of his senses and abilities. Somehow, her challenge to his authority whipped up that suppressed desire, like a rogue breeze over the embers of a bonfire.
Hadrian fought to quench the flames. He did not want unwelcome desire to cloud his judgment or give Artemis an unfair advantage over him. But the sight of her did nothing to quell his unruly urges. She’d removed her bonnet upon entering the house, letting her windblown hair tumble over her shoulders. Her lips looked fuller and softer. Her eyes glittered with a dozen shades of purple—a different one for every emotion he glimpsed, but could not readily identify.
“Is it not resolved? Well, I am.” She made no attempt to shake off his hand. Was it because his touch had no effect upon her…or quite the opposite? “I cannot raise our nephew to be a slave to your plans, no matter how well intentioned.”
Did she mean that backhanded compliment to appease him? It would take more than that from her to make him abandon the purpose to which he’d dedicated his life.
“You took a vow to obey me, remember?” He tried to release her arm, but his fingers froze around it, unable to let go. “It is not one I mean to impose upon, given the circumstances of our marriage. Indeed, there is only one thing I will ever ask of you as a husband.”
There was something else he would have liked to ask, but Artemis had made it clear that was out of the question.
With his free hand, Hadrian gestured around. “As the man who will provide you with a house that is not centuries old and crumbling around your ears, servants, fine clothes, the opportunity to travel and entertain in a manner befitting your rank, is what I ask really so much in return for all that?”
“I don’t want all that! I never did and I never will.” As she flung the words at him, Hadrian fancied her a defiant warrior queen. One of the Brigantes, perhaps, standing up to a Roman centurion. “That was why I came looking for you earlier. To tell you for the last time that I am not a fortune hunter. I want no part of this splendid house or the fine clothes you summoned a seamstress to make me. And I most definitely do not want Lee being tended by some strict old nurse who will keep me from him and train him to be a passive pawn in your grand schemes for the future. You cannot buy my cooperation or coerce it.”
Artemis twisted his words in ways he’d never intended them. She refused to do the one thing for which he’d wed her. Yet Hadrian could scarcely keep his mind on those things because he yearned so urgently to kiss her. Why had his inconvenient desire chosen the worst possible moment to threaten his control? Was it because contesting the things they cared about most passionately provoked other kinds of passion as well?
He could not let that kind of passion overcome his zeal for the cause that had sustained him through the battlefield of tragedy and the wasteland of loneliness.
“I am not trying to buy you.” He forced his hand to release Artemis, one stubborn finger at a time. “And I would never coerce you. I am only trying to make you see how important this is to me, and to a great many others. You said you wanted to help. Was that just idle talk? Does one child’s future matter so much more than the lives and futures of thousands of other children, because he has Dearing blood and they haven’t?”
He stalked past her, inwardly conceding that she had fought him to a bloody draw this time. But the campaign was far from over.
“You don’t honestly believe that, do you?” Her words pursued Hadrian, reminding him of their agreement to make a fresh start.
He paused and glanced back at her, his shoulders raised in a helpless shrug. After all that had happened, was it possible the two of them could ever forge a steady cooperative understanding? Or would relations between them always be capricious and volatile? “What else am I to think?”
Artemis seemed to search for an answer that might alter his opinion, but after a moment she gave up in defeat. With a stony nod to her, Hadrian retreated to consider his next move.
Without giving much thought to where he was going, he wandered up more stairs and down a long hallway that opened on to a high balcony with a breathtaking view of the dales. From that high perch, the rolling countryside looked like a patchwork in every possible shade of green, stitched together with seams of brown and gray stone fencing. In the wide blue sky above, plump clouds rolled before the wind like flocks of yearling lambs.
Off to the east was a different landscape altogether. Barren black slag heaps replaced verdant hillsides. Instead of snug cottages and cowsheds, shaft frames towered like the iron skeletons of hulking, hungry beasts. Tall chimneystacks spouted columns of black smoke that blighted the sky with a jaundiced haze.
But those visible signs of the Durham collieries did not weigh half so heavy on Hadrian as the scenes he could only see in his memory—young lads and lasses toiling in the stifling darkness, deep in the bowels of those hills. Hard as he’d worked the past seventeen years, they had been one long, sun-drenched holiday compared to the bone-grinding labor of his youth.
He could not bear to think how many more lads like his brothers would die in the dangerous depths of the earth before they had a chance to live, with no hope of escape.
Hadrian chided himself on not following through on his original plan for his young nephew. He should have gained custody of Lee by whatever means necessary then hired someone to raise him—someone who understood and approved of what Hadrian wanted the lad to do with his life. Someone more like him.
But where would he have found anyone more like him than Artemis? The woman was strong, stubborn and proud. Yet she was fiercely loyal and devoted to her family. She had known great loss and heavy responsibility from an early age. Though she’d tried her best to fulfill that duty and done a fine job by anyone else’s standards, she remained acutely conscious of her failings.
Perhaps the combustible friction between them came not from their superficial differences, but from the many deep similarities in their character?
As he mulled over that intriguing, disturbing notion, Hadrian asked himself how someone might persuade him to change his mind about a matter of great importance. A direct confrontation would never work, so why should he expect it to work on Artemis? A better strategy would be to lay the facts before him in a way best calculated to appeal to his reason and sense of justice.
He had an idea how he might do the same for Artemis. But could he bear the jagged reminders of things he’d spent nearly twenty years trying to forget?