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by Mary Balogh
She drew breath, but she closed her mouth again and shook her head. An ambiguous gesture, Christopher thought.
They danced the rest of the waltz in silence.
“I had better join Manley for supper,” she said when the music came to an end. Her eyes were directed at his waistcoat.
“Have social conventions changed in the last seven years, then?” he asked. “It used to be that the supper dance entitled a man to lead his partner in to supper?”
“Do you not think there is enough gossip about us now?” she asked him. “And enough speculation? Must we make it worse by sitting together and conversing at supper while my betrothed sits with other people?”
“Frankly,” he said, “I do not care what other people say, Elizabeth. I asked for the supper dance for a purpose. We will not go into the dining room, then, where other people can watch us and put their own interpretation on every change in our expressions as we talk together. Are you hungry?”
“No,” she said.
He took her by the arm and let everyone else move past them from the ballroom. Even the members of the orchestra abandoned their instruments and disappeared in search of their own supper.
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “There will be a great deal of gossip about this,” she said.
“You care too much about what other people say,” he said.
Her eyes snapped open. “Yes, I care,” she said, “because other, innocent people are involved. Manley is involved and Christina too indirectly. What sort of a future can she expect if her mother puts herself beyond the pale?”
He drew her out onto the balcony, deserted now. The air felt cool and delicious after the stuffy perfumed warmth of the ballroom.
“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked her. “Are you going to marry me?”
“No, of course not,” she said. “I am going to marry Manley.” But her voice faltered and her eyes slipped from his. She was standing with her back to the stone balustrade. “Or better still, I will marry no one. I will release him from the scandal that is beginning to brew around us and go home to Kingston.”
“With the faithful Martin,” he said.
“You hate him, don’t you?” she said. “Because he is faithful, Christopher? Because he shows up your own infidelity in contrast? No, not with Martin. I will not allow him to sacrifice any more of his life to my care. I don’t need a man to lean on. Not any longer. I can stand on my own feet.”
“You will not be allowed to,” he said. “You will find that Martin will not take no for an answer.”
Her chin jutted. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked.
But he looked at her broodingly and shook his head. It was too soon to reveal half-formed suspicions. She was more likely to believe in her beloved stepbrother than pay credence to the little proof he could offer her of Martin’s perfidy. He himself would still be an adulterer in her eyes and a man who had married her so that he would be able to support his mistress and bastard child in comfort.
“Martin’s feelings for me are those of a brother,” she said. “I suppose someone like you would find it hard to believe that there is nothing improper in our relationship even though there is no blood bond between us.”
“And yet,” he said, “I can remember a time, Elizabeth, when you fled from him in a panic because you thought he was making improper advances toward you.”
“That is unfair,” she said. “I had lost my memory at that time.”
“Does Martin like Christina?” he asked.
There was a small hesitation. “Yes, of course,” she said. “It is just more difficult for men to be patient with children. And he has little experience.”
“I have even less,” he said. “I love her, Elizabeth. I want her at Penhallow.”
“No,” she said.
“With you,” he said. “And I want her to have her proper name. It is Atwell, not Ward. And so is yours.”
“I did not want to keep your name,” she said, her voice trembling, “or Christina to have it. I wanted to forget you.”
“And yet,” he said, “after she was born you saw me in her every time you looked at her, didn’t you? It was unfortunate for you that she did not look like you. Perhaps Martin would have liked her better if she had. And your father.”
She frowned. “Papa arranged it all,” she said. “The divorce and the shedding of your name. He has treated Christina as if she is his own daughter.”
“But she is not,” he said. “She is mine. Lady Christina Atwell. And if it seems to you that I am bitter, Elizabeth, then you are right. ‘What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’ Your father is not my favorite person, I’m afraid.”
“Why did you not take that woman with you when you went away?” she asked. “Was it easier to abandon her? And the child?”
“I did not even know her, Elizabeth,” he said. “Good Lord, I don’t even know her name. She was supposed to be one of the Johnsons from the village at Penhallow, according to the messenger who came to fetch me to her. A poor woman fallen on hard times and not knowing where to turn.”
“Lucy Fenwick,” she said, her voice angry. “You were certainly giving wonderful comfort to a poor destitute woman, Christopher. I want to go back inside. It is chilly out here.”
“It must have been very dreadful for you,” he said quietly, “as a bride of three months to see your husband in the arms of a half naked woman as you did. A bride who was already with child. I used to blame you more than anyone for the way things turned out. In fact I have always blamed you for not having faith in me, for not knowing instinctively that I was incapable of such behavior. But my own pain made me too harsh, perhaps.”
“Oh, Christopher”—her voice was even more angry— “you have such a golden tongue. You used not to have. You used not to talk very much at all. But don’t be cruel. Don’t make me doubt now when really I know there cannot be any doubt. Don’t have me believe that I have wasted all these years and allowed Christina to be without a father when there was no need. Don’t do that to me.”
“Have they been wasted years?” he asked. “Have they been empty years without me, Elizabeth?”
“No,” she said. Her eyes were bright with what appeared to be unshed tears. “I have not spent seven years pining for you. You are not worth it.”
“But I would be if I were innocent, wouldn’t I?” he said.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do this to me, Christopher. If you have any feelings left for me, don’t do this. Let me go and find Manley.”
“You are afraid to believe me, aren’t you?” he said. “Believing me would reveal to you too much of wrong advice and hasty conclusions and broken vows and empty years.”
“I wish I had insisted on going in to supper,” she said, her voice shaking.
“You believed in me a few weeks ago at Penhallow,” he said.
“I had lost my memory,” she said.
“You saw me as I am,” he said.
“No.” She took a step away from the balustrade. “I saw you as you pretended to be. I saw a man who does not exist. I am going to the supper room.”
But he moved sideways as she stepped forward, and she came right against his chest, her hands coming up protectively to rest against it.
“ ‘I’ll never stop loving you. Don’t expect it of me.’ Do you remember saying those words, Elizabeth?” he asked her.
She closed her eyes tightly and grimaced. “I spoke them to a man who does not exist,” she said.
His mouth was open when he brought it down over hers. Her lips trembled out of control and parted. She moaned and her hands slid up his chest and came to rest half on his shoulders and half on his neck.
If there was ever a time when he had hated her, he knew then, it was long in the past. He had fallen in love with Christina during the past few days because she was his daughter. And Elizabeth’s. Because she was theirs. And because he loved Elizabeth. Always had. And always would.
“Do
I exist now?” he asked her, lifting his head after a long and deep kiss. “Or am I still a man who is not really here?”
She looked back at him from miserable eyes.
“Those weeks at Penhallow could be repeated for the rest of a lifetime,” he said. “Christina could grow up there, Elizabeth. Perhaps there could be more children. Perhaps there could be noise and laughter in the nursery there again. And muddy feet in the hall. And sand on the carpets. We could make up for the missing years.”
He could see that she was biting the inside of her upper lip. He touched his fingertips to her cheek.
“Keep thinking about it,” he said. “I’ll be asking you again. And again and again. I’ll not be slamming any doors in your face.”
“I want to go and find Manley,” she said. “I want people to see us together before the dancing resumes.”
He nodded. “You want me to escort you to the supper room?”
“No,” she said, “I’ll go alone.”
He nodded again as she hurried past him and into the ballroom.
He stood against the balustrade, leaning his hands on it and looking down into the lantern-lit garden. Lucy Fenwick, he thought. But how after seven years did one trace a woman one knew only by that name? And that name might be as false as the name Johnson had been.
But somehow she had to be traced. Elizabeth might marry him, Christopher thought. He could sense that she was wavering, that one part of her wanted to say yes. Part of her still loved him. It had been there in her kiss. But they would never be happy together unless she could be convinced beyond all doubt that he had married her for love and for no other reason and that he had had no adulterous relationship with any woman while they had still been legally married.
Lucy Fenwick would always be a dark shadow between them unless she were found and persuaded to tell the truth. The truth was clear to Christopher. But it had to be equally clear to Elizabeth.
Could he remember the address to which he had been summoned? he wondered. It should be etched indelibly on his memory. He frowned in thought.
Nancy looked at her image in the looking glass, pleased with the way her new pale blue muslin dress complemented her dark coloring. She should have kept the muslin for the afternoon, of course, but he had said that perhaps he would not be able to wait for the afternoon to come.
She would probably be feeling quite wilted by the time he did arrive.
“That looks good, Winnie,” she said, turning her head from side to side and viewing critically what her maid had done to her hair. Then her eyes focused on Winnie. “Did you and Mr. Bouchard go to Vauxhall after all last evening?”
“Yes, mum,” Winnie said, blushing.
Nancy looked more critically. “Well,” she said, “I need not ask if you had a wonderful time. You are looking remarkably pleased with yourself.”
“Yes, mum,” Winnie said.
Nancy had been a little worried about her maid for a while. She had lost her spirits lately. Nancy had even remarked upon it before they left Penhallow, but Winnie had insisted that there was nothing wrong. Nancy had not wished to pry further, but she had suspected that perhaps Christopher’s valet was the problem. Certainly he was a strange man and doubtless attractive to a girl like Winnie. His French accent alone was attractive. Nancy had hoped that he was not in the process of breaking the girl’s heart, but it was not her place to interfere unless a complaint was made. Winnie had cheered up considerably since they came to London. This morning she positively glowed.
“Did you watch the fireworks?” Nancy asked. “They must make be a wonderful sight.”
“No, mum.” Winnie made a great to-do about setting the brush and comb back down on the dressing table. “We left early.”
“Oh,” Nancy said, sympathy in her voice, “what a shame, Winnie. Were you very disappointed?”
“No, mum.” The glow was back in Winnie’s cheeks.
Nancy smiled. “I’ll not ask why,” she said. “Is he courting you then, Winnie? Am I about to lose the best maid I have ever had?”
“Oh, no, mum,” Winnie said earnestly. “He is going to go back to his home in Canada, mum. He has just been very kind to me. Wonderfully kind.”
“Kind?” Nancy turned on the stool to look at her maid. “Kind to lead you on, Winnie, just to abandon you when he returns to Canada? I should call that taking advantage of a girl.”
“Oh, no, mum,” Winnie said passionately. “That is not true. Mr. Bouchard is the kindest and most wonderful man in all the world, he is. I’ll not let anyone say one word against him, not even you, mum. If it was not for Mr. Bouchard I would have surely died, I would. I would have wanted to die. He made me believe that I was not a bad girl, mum. He says I am as white as snow. He has made me feel clean again.”
“Winnie.” Nancy was sitting very still. “What are you saying?”
The passion went out of Winnie suddenly. She paled and stared back at Nancy. “Nothing, mum,” she said. “Someone is knocking at the outer door. Shall I answer it?”
“No,” Nancy said. “Mr. Bouchard or my brother will get it. Winnie, what happened to make you want to die? Why did you feel bad and’ dirty?”
“Nothing, mum,” Winnie said, staring. “I didn’t.”
Nancy could remember bathing twice a day for what must have been weeks, scrubbing herself until her skin was red, never feeling clean. She could remember lying on her bed at Penhallow for days on end, staring listlessly at the canopy over her head, wishing she could die. She remembered feeling that she must be to blame. She had gone with him without even thinking of taking a chap-erone with her. She must be a bad and wicked woman.
“Winnie,” she said, “who did it to you?” But she knew. Oh, dear God, she knew. And if only she had spoken up seven years ago, perhaps she could have prevented him from being able to do it to anyone else. How many other women had he made to suffer?
“Nobody, mum.” Winnie looked frightened. “He didn’t do nothing, mum.”
“Who didn’t?” Nancy asked. “Mr. Honywood?”
Winnie started to cry. “I didn’t ask for it, mum,” she said. “I didn’t want to go with him. He made me. You got to believe me, mum.”
Nancy rose to her feet and surprised her maid by gathering her into her arms and hugging her tight. “I don’t blame you, Winnie,” she said. “Not for a moment, my poor girl. He is a wicked and an evil man and I am going to try to see to it that no other girl is made to suffer at his hands. Mr. Bouchard is right, Winnie, bless his heart. You are as white as snow. You must believe that you were not in any way to blame. You must. Oh, don’t let it ruin your life.”
Winnie was sniveling. “I thought you would dismiss me for sure if you knew, mum,” she said. “But ooh, it was horrible, mum. He beat me and then he did that.’”
Nancy released her. “I won’t need you until later this afternoon,” she said. “Go for a walk in the park, Winnie. Or go and look in the shops. Go and do something cheerful. Perhaps Mr. Bouchard will be free to go with you. Dry your eyes and put it all behind you. Don’t let such a monster be responsible for scarring you permanently. “
“Oh, no, he won’t, mum,” Winnie said. “Mr. Bouchard made me feel pretty again and good again.”
Perhaps it would be as well not even to try to find out how he had done so, Nancy thought, or why the two of them had missed the fireworks at Vauxhall when they had been what Winnie had most been looking forward to. But however he had done it or for whatever reason he had taken Winnie away early from Vauxhall, Nancy blessed his good heart. Perhaps Winnie would not have to suffer for as long as she had done.
The thought brought memories of the night before and the realization that men’s voices were coming from the sitting room and that one of them must belong to John. She turned to look in the mirror again to make sure that no crease had suddenly appeared in her dress and no strand of hair had worked loose from her chignon.
She hurried through into the sitting room.
John had
found himself quite incapable of waiting until the afternoon. Although he and Nancy had agreed to a betrothal the night before, he was longing to see her again, to make more definite arrangements, to make everything official. He arrived at the Pulteney when it was still morning, a quite ungenteel time at which to pay a social call. He grinned to himself as he climbed the stairs to the suite Nancy shared with her brother.
Nancy was not in the sitting room when Trevelyan’s man admitted him. Christopher was there alone.
“John?” he said, looking somewhat surprised. “I was just on my way out. I’m glad I did not miss you. Or is it Nancy you are calling on?”
“Perceptive of you.” John chuckled. “Actually I should talk with you first, though. One might as well do things properly if they are worth doing, after all. She doesn’t need your consent, Christopher, but I would like to have it nonetheless.”
Christopher’s eyebrows rose. “Good Lord,” he said, “do you mean that you have come here to offer for Nancy?”
“She doesn’t give anything away, does she?” John said. “She is expecting me, though later in the day, perhaps. I could not wait. Actually, though, I must confess, the offer has already been made.”
“Well,” Christopher said, “you have taken me totally by surprise. Though I do not know why that should be except that Nancy has seemed so confirmed in the single state. And the last time I thought the two of you fancied each other, nothing came of it.”
It was obvious, John thought, that Nancy’s brother did not even suspect the truth. She had kept the secret very well guarded.
“I am nothing if not persistent,” John said. “Can I hope for your blessing, Christopher? I rather fancy having you as a brother again, you see.”
Christopher smiled and came toward him, right hand outstretched.
“I could not be more pleased if I tried,” he said. “I’ll even give away the bride. I suppose I should go and bring her in.”
But before Christopher could do more than turn toward the door that led to Nancy’s dressing room, it opened and she stepped into the room. And John could see, with a rush of relief and tenderness, that she had indeed been expecting him this early and that she had taken as much pains with her appearance as he had with his.