by Mary Balogh
Ah. One could see where this was going.
“She doted on her children and displayed them for other people’s admiration as an extension of herself,” she said. “First Blanche and Justin, who were blond and lovely as she was, and then Ruby, who was dark like our father but just as lovely. And then I was born with a great red . . . blob covering one side of my face and head like a giant ripe strawberry. She had me taken away as soon as she set eyes on me. She could not bear to look at me. She saw me as a judgment upon herself for quarreling bitterly with Papa when she discovered she was bearing me. All I was to her was a cruel punishment.”
Alexander opened his mouth to say that surely she must have meant something to her mother, but his words remained unsaid. Somehow he did not doubt that the woman was as narcissistic as Wren had said.
“She and Papa were often away from home,” Wren said. “She liked being in town attending parties and balls. When they were at home, she liked to have guests, sometimes enough of them for a house party that would last for several weeks. I had to be kept out of sight when she was home. When there were guests, I had to be locked inside my room, lest I wander out and be seen.”
“There was no schoolroom?” he asked. “No nursery where no adults came? No outings?”
“My sisters and elder brother adored her,” she said. “They took their cue from her. Ruby would turn her back whenever I came into a room. Justin would make loud retching noises. Blanche would be cross and tell me to go back to my room, where they could forget I existed to spoil life for poor Mama and all of them. The governess just shrugged and pretended I did not exist. I sometimes went out of doors when there was no one at home except us children, but Justin or Blanche would lock me in if any of their friends had come to play.”
“Your father?” he asked.
“I rarely saw him,” she said. “None of us did. He had no interest in children, I believe. Perhaps he did not know how I was . . . segregated.”
“No one took your part?” he asked.
“Only Colin,” she said. “He was born four years after me, blond and beautiful and sweet-natured. He would sometimes come into my room, even when it was locked—he learned how to turn the key from the other side—bringing toys and books with him. He would always ask me how my face was and insist upon kissing it better. And he would spread his toys around me and pretend to read his books to me until he really could do it. I could not read myself. Once, we played outside together and ran and climbed trees and . . . laughed. Oh, how good that felt. I used to listen to the others playing and laughing outside . . .”
There was a lengthy silence, during which Alexander held her close and kissed the top of her head. He was chilled at her words, but would not show his horror. “What happened when you were ten years old?” he asked.
“A few things happened together,” she said. “Aunt Megan came to stay. She was my mother’s sister, but she had never come before. They were as different as day and night. I do not know why she came then. She never said. But she found out about me and came to see me in my room. I remember her holding me and kissing me and wondering why everyone had been making such a fuss about a great strawberry swelling on one side of my head and face. By then the swelling had gone down and the red had mostly turned to purple. Then a day or two later there were people visiting who had children, and no one had locked my door. I did not intend to show myself or try to join in their game, but I did go outside to watch. They were playing some boisterous game on the bank of the lake, and I climbed a tree as close as I could get without being seen. But somehow I lost my balance and fell out. I did not hurt myself, but I frightened the children so much that one of them fell in the lake and the others ran up to the house, screaming hysterically. My sisters ran after them and my elder brother too after warning me that I had done it now. I pulled the child out of the lake—it was shallow and there was no real danger of his drowning—and went back to my room.”
Alexander closed his eyes.
“Aunt Megan came for me after it was dark and told me she was taking me away where I would be safe and loved for the rest of my life,” she said. “I do not remember feeling much either way. I believe I was exhausted from crying. No one had ever loved me—except Colin—and I liked my aunt and went with her without a murmur. But she was not stealing me away without anyone knowing. As we passed the drawing room, my mother came out onto the landing and told Aunt Megan that she was a fool, that she would regret taking me, that it would be far better to let me be sent to the insane asylum as she had planned to do the next day.”
Alexander sucked in his breath.
“I did not even know what that was,” Wren said. “I asked when we were on the way to London, but my aunt told me she did not know either.” She took a long, shuddering breath. “I have neither seen nor heard of my mother or any of them from that day to this—to a few hours ago at the theater. Almost twenty years. And she looks now exactly as she looked then.”
Her breathing was a bit ragged. He held her close.
“She saw me,” she said. “She knew me.”
“You belong to me now, Wren,” he said. “I have ownership of you. Not to tyrannize over you, but to keep you safe so that you can be free of these fears and horrors. I look after what is my own. It is more than a promise.”
It sounded ostentatious to his own ears. He was not even quite sure what he meant. How could he both own her and set her free? But he did know that he was speaking straight from the heart and that he would not, by God—not ever, not even in the smallest of ways—betray her trust in him.
“I care,” he told her.
Nineteen
Wren awoke slowly from a deep sleep and was aware of warmth and comfort and daylight and the sounds of wheels and horses and a single human shout from beyond the window, and of the fact that she was nestled in her husband’s arms, her head on his shoulder. And then it all came flooding back—yesterday, the first full day of her marriage.
“What time is it?” she asked, drawing back her head, not checking first to see if he was awake.
He was. He was gazing back at her, his hair tousled, his nightshirt open at the neck. She was still wearing her nightgown. A man in his nightshirt, she thought, could look every bit as enticing as the same man naked. This man could, anyway, and he was the only one in whom she was interested.
“Late enough,” he said, “to satisfy our servants and please our relatives.”
“Oh.”
“It is important,” he said.
“To keep up appearances?”
“I think perhaps it is more than that, is it not?” he asked.
I care, he had told her last night. You belong to me now, Wren. I have ownership of you. Not to tyrannize over you, but to keep you safe so that you can be free of these fears and horrors. I look after what is my own. It is more than a promise. Strange words, which might have sounded alarming but had not. For she had believed the intention behind the words. And after they had come back to bed, he had loved her slowly, gently, and surely with tenderness.
“Thank you for listening,” she said. “I try not to be self-pitying, but last night it all came welling up at your expense. My life has been hugely, wondrously blessed and continues to be. I will not inflict my darkness upon you again.”
“Avoiding self-pity can sometimes mean suppressing what needs to be spoken of and dealt with,” he said.
“You are going to be late for the Lords,” she told him.
“I am not going today,” he said. “I daresay the country will not fall into total collapse as a result. I am going to spend today with my wife. If she will have me, that is.”
“She will think about it,” she said. She raised her eyes and set one fingertip to her chin. “She has given the matter due consideration. She will have you.”
“Wren.” He laughed softly and touched his forehead to hers. “I may find myself capable o
f missing a day at the Lords, you know, but I am quite incapable of missing my breakfast.”
A short while later they entered the breakfast parlor together. Everyone was still there, though it seemed they had all finished eating. Wren felt acutely self-conscious as all eyes turned their way and was very glad indeed that they had had their wedding night and yesterday’s breakfast to themselves. There was a cheerful exchange of greetings.
“I hope I have left you enough sausage and bacon, Alex,” Harry said. “After twelve hours of unbroken sleep and those few ghastly days of nothing but gruel and jellies, I was ravenous.”
“There is enough for me,” Alexander said, peering into the dishes. “I am not sure about Wren, though.”
“If you did not leave me two slices of toast, Harry,” Wren said as she seated herself between her mother-in-law and Abigail, “I shall have to get the cook to put you back on broths.”
“I did. I swear.” He laughed. There was more color in his face this morning, and it was already surely a little fuller than it had been a week ago.
“You were very tired last night, Wren?” her mother-in-law asked, covering one of her hands with her own as the butler poured her coffee and set her toast before her.
“I was,” Wren said. “But I do apologize for not saying good night before I went upstairs. That was ill-mannered of me.”
“Oh, it was clearly more than just tiredness,” Elizabeth said. “It was exhaustion, Wren. Going to the theater must have been a huge ordeal for you in addition to everything else.”
“So it was for Viola and Abigail,” Wren said. “But we did it, and today we may bask in self-congratulation.” Just please let no one mention my mother.
“I am taking Wren out for the day,” Alexander said. “Yesterday was a mistake. Sometimes there are more important things than cold duty.”
“Ah.” Elizabeth laughed. “There is hope for you yet, Alex.”
“I think, Wren,” their mother said, patting her hand, “you are already having a positive influence upon my son.”
“You are not leaving for home today, I hope?” Wren asked Viola.
“No.” Viola shook her head. “Mildred and Thomas have organized a family picnic to Richmond Park.”
“You and Alex are invited too, of course,” Wren’s mother-in-law said. “But if you would prefer a day alone together, I am sure everyone will understand.”
“I think Wren needs a quiet day,” Alexander said.
She wondered how much any of them understood that even just this much was all new to her and a strain on her nerves—this sitting at a table with six other people, part of a conversation. For the past year and a bit there had been almost total silence in her life. But these people were her family now. So were the others—the other Westcotts and the Radleys—and they had been kind to her.
Alexander’s quiet day sounded infinitely desirable. But—
“It would be a pity to be the only ones missing from a family picnic,” she said.
He had the loveliest eyes. Not only were they a clear blue, but they had the ability to smile even when the rest of his face did not. “Yes, it would,” he said.
Was it possible now, Wren wondered, to move forward, to be happy, to be done finally with the past? Now that she had seen her mother again and felt the full force of the pain she had bottled up for twenty years? But she had spoken of it, so could she now forget? Or, if forgetting was impossible, could she at least let go of the feeling that the central core of her being was one bottomless pit of darkness?
Was it possible to be . . . normal?
• • •
Richmond Park had been set up as a private deer park during the reign of King Charles I, but although it was still royal property, it was now open for the pleasure of the public. It was a broad expanse of wooded areas and grassland and flower gardens, with a number of small lakes known as the Pen Ponds. It was a lovely piece of the countryside close enough to London to allow for a brief escape to those who must spend most of their days there. It was the perfect place for a picnic, and the weather had cooperated, as it had been doing for several weeks past. The sky was blue with just enough fluffy white clouds to offer occasional shade from the sun.
Alexander was glad to be with the family, though he hoped to be able to wander off for some time alone with Wren. He must make a decision about what to do with his new knowledge, but he needed to sense her mood first. She had slept deeply through the night—he knew because he had not—and had seemed refreshed this morning. She appeared to have recovered her spirits, though he was not foolish enough to believe that now she was healed.
Everyone remained together for a while, seated upon blankets on one expanse of grass, trees behind them, one of the ponds before them. Wren was holding the Netherbys’ baby, a bald, plump-cheeked little girl who was just beginning to smile in that wide, toothless way of babies. Anna was beside her on one side, Abby on the other, Elizabeth close by. Wren was totally absorbed in the baby, the child’s head on her raised knees, its little hands in hers, its feet pressing against her ribs beneath her bosom. She looked utterly happy, and it struck Alexander that motherhood would agree with her—as fatherhood surely would with him. Soon, he hoped.
Jessica and Harry had wandered close to the water. She was talking animatedly about something. The older people were in a group together, centered about the chair that had been brought for the use of Cousin Eugenia, the dowager countess. Netherby stood a little apart, as he often did, his shoulder propped against a stout tree trunk, his posture indolent and elegant. He was dressed as gorgeously as ever. He was flicking open the lid of a jeweled snuffbox.
Alexander used to dislike him. He had thought him effete and trivial minded, someone who did not take his position and responsibilities seriously. He had felt disliked in return, thought of, no doubt, as stuffy and humorless. Alexander had changed his mind during the last year or so with all the family turmoil that had followed upon the death of the former earl. He doubted he and Netherby would ever be close friends. They were too different in almost every imaginable way. But they respected, even perhaps liked each other, he felt. And they trusted each other. At least, he trusted Netherby. He approached him now, and Netherby closed his snuffbox unused and returned it to his pocket.
“A family picnic in rural England,” he said on a sort of sigh. “It is deeply affecting, is it not?”
Alexander smiled. Not many minutes ago Netherby had been holding his child and subjecting himself to having his nose grabbed. “What do you know about Hodges?” he asked.
“Lord Hodges?” Netherby pursed his lips. “What do you wish to know, my dear fellow? His life story? I cannot give it, alas. I was never a keen student of social history.”
“How old would you say he is?” Alexander asked. He did not know Lord Hodges at all, but he had seen him a few times.
“Mid-twenties?” the duke suggested.
“Not mid-thirties?”
“I would say not,” Netherby said, “unless, like his mother, he has discovered the fountain of youth.”
“What is his first name?” Alexander asked.
Netherby thought. “Alan? Conan?”
“Not Justin?” Alexander suggested.
“Colin,” Netherby said decisively. “I assume there is some point to your questions, Riverdale? The sight of an apparently youthful Lady Hodges last evening, perhaps? I do assure you she is the man’s mother rather than his wife.”
“Does he live with her?” Alexander asked.
“Hmm.” Netherby raised his quizzing glass and tapped it against his lips. “Why is it that I know he has rooms very close to White’s? Ah, yes, I have it. He made a joke when someone asked him if he had ridden to the club. He said it would be rather pointless, as he could mount on the rump of his horse outside his rooms and dismount from the neck at White’s without the horse having to lift a hoof. I assume
he somewhat exaggerated unless he owns an extraordinarily long horse.”
“I’ll find out,” Alexander said, “and call on him.”
“You will call on him,” Netherby asked, “to discover just how long his horse is? Perhaps five people can ride on its back without being crowded. But the poor beast might sag in the middle.”
“He is Wren’s brother,” Alexander said.
“Ah.” The world-weary eyes sharpened to regard him shrewdly. “Which fact would make Lady Hodges her mother and Lady Elwood her sister.”
“Lady Elwood?” Alexander said. “The other lady in the box last night, do you mean?”
“The same,” Netherby said. “The lady is gradually growing older than her mother.”
“The father and the older brother must have died,” Alexander said.
“Was there an older brother?” Netherby asked. “I never had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Your wife said nothing at the theater last evening.”
“No,” Alexander said. They did not speak for a while. Harry and Jessica had returned to the rest of the group, and Harry had stretched out on one of the blankets, one arm draped over his eyes. His mother seated herself beside him and said something to him while she smoothed his hair back from his brow. “Will Harry go back, do you think?”
“To the Peninsula?” Netherby said. “Oh, without a doubt. He has been worn to the bone by injuries and fever, but the bone is tough and so is Harry.”
“This has all been the making of him, then?” Alexander asked dubiously.
“This?” The duke brooded over his answer, his glass tapping against his lips again. “Rather, life is the making or breaking of all of us, Riverdale. We are all tested in different ways. This is Harry’s testing ground.”