Though usually he claimed not to care what people did or did not see, he nodded and pulled Samson to a halt. She waited until she was safely on her feet to thank him. “I’m grateful to you, Lord Barric.” Grateful, especially, that he hadn’t asked her more questions. Perhaps he already knew the answers.
He nodded and gripped the reins more tightly, as though preparing to ride off, but then he met her eyes instead.
“There are at least a hundred things you aren’t saying to me, Mrs. Hawley.”
His voice wasn’t hard, exactly, not accusatory. Curious, perhaps. Commanding.
“There are at least a hundred things you aren’t ready to hear, Lord Barric.”
A smile neared his lips, followed by a challenging nod. “Perhaps,” he agreed, swinging his gaze back to the road. “For now.”
Then he galloped off, leaving Rena to walk the rest of the way to the church alone. People in the streets watched her approach, but she didn’t mark any of them as she pushed through the wide oaken door and stepped up into the cool stone sanctuary.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed off the buttressed ceiling as if she’d merely answered herself.
She waited, walked the length of several pews, then called again. “Parson Richardson?”
Seconds later the parson emerged through the sacristy door with a book in hand. He approached her with footsteps that thudded loftily.
Later Rena realized the parson did not seem at all surprised to find her there, nor did he ask her if something was the matter. He merely nodded, as if he already knew exactly what she would ask of him, and calmly invited her to be seated.
When Rena returned home, it was dark, and Nell was sitting at the table with a cup of untouched tea, its steam already dwindling from neglect. Chin propped on her hand, the woman stared vacantly at her husband’s will. Her eyes were flat and distant, as if she had already committed the words to memory and was now floundering beneath their import.
As soon as Nell spotted Rena by the door, she startled up from her chair, nearly spilling her tea. “I was so worried,” she half cried, crossing the room to take Rena’s hands in hers. “I am so sorry, Rena. What you must be feeling, it’s unimaginable. I know you are angry with Alistair, maybe even with me, but his will—”
“I was baptized today.”
At Rena’s quiet interruption, Nell’s expression opened, slowly, into a look of confusion, then of delight, as if each emotion was unfolding into the other. Rena knew she ought to explain, for there were still a million unspoken words hovering in the space between them, but she could barely manage more than a trembling sigh.
As if sensing Rena’s struggle, Nell lurched forward, taking Rena’s face between her hands. “My child,” she murmured, “this is glorious news. I pray God will strengthen you always, and keep you steadfast in His church.”
If she was honest with herself, Rena still wasn’t sure what had led her to the church in the first place, or why she asked such an unexpected favor of the parson. Hours before, she’d wished to cleave her grief into smaller parts, into dust, just so it might at last fit in her hands. But then the parson’s words came back to her, and snatches of prayers, and the remembrance of a crucifix she’d tried so hard not to see…
Rena still worried she’d made a mistake in going to the parson, but she also knew doing so had changed something within her, like diving into a deep pool with no way out. For hours the parson listened as she spoke to him of Edric’s death, of Sir Alistair’s will, of the letter she finally received from her father. She told him she feared the feelings she harbored for Lord Barric, and feared his feelings even more. And in return he told her stories of prodigal children, of loss and of great sacrifice, of joy that comes with the morning. And he had finally given Rena the answer to her most gnawing question.
“Their eyes will not be forever closed,” he promised, and he meant it. “Jesus lives,” the parson said. “And all who are baptized into Jesus—their
eyes are opened with His.”
And though Rena still had more questions than answers, though she was still uncertain of what she had done, or why, she believed him.
When Rena finally spoke again, her voice was hushed. “I would marry again.” She took Nell’s hand. “For you. I would marry long before I would ever again watch you starve. I promise.”
Nell sighed. “Rena.” She rubbed at her eyes. “We should not make any decisions today. Let us rest for now and face these questions later.” She folded the will gingerly, then placed it in the cabinet behind her. “For now, we should both sleep.”
Rena did not feel like she could sleep. She felt like her bones were stretching, wider, taller, reaching to get out of her skin. She thought again of her father’s letter and wondered what he would say if she wrote to tell him she’d been baptized. Would his remnant kindness fade entirely? Would her family cease their prayers?
She watched Nell begin the usual nightly bustle. Clearing her teacup from the table, then dressing for bed, then looping her silver hair into a long, thick braid. As the older woman sat at the table and prayed, Rena had the oddest feeling she ought to sit and pray as well, but she didn’t. Even after everything that had happened, she still couldn’t. Everything Rena had ever counted as certain in her life had crumbled, and she could not bear for it to be the same with her prayers.
Barric’s uncle sent two more bottles of wine, each vintage worth a small fortune. Barric had already drunk both bottles to the bottom and found he rather liked the taste of his uncle’s penance. Still, he couldn’t banish the niggling concern that the bottles were more than just an apology.
Standing on his outer terrace, Barric stared pensively at the most recent empty bottle, his fingers curled around the weathered seal on the bottle’s shoulder. He’d not heard anything else about the Hawley estate, but he worried his uncle knew more about the matter than he had revealed. He had spent many hours recalling his uncle’s story, how he and his father traveled the road to the glen and admired the property even in their youth.
His uncle was not usually a sentimental man. He was a drinker, a man fluent in cursing.
And yet much of his drinking and cursing had come about after Barric’s father died. Barric set the bottle down on the rail. He worried the wine was extra incentive to help Uncle George get his hands on Hawthorn Glen. Beneath the tug of family allegiance, Barric almost wanted to help him, but he knew, somehow, it would destroy him if he tried.
When Charlie came to stand beside him on the terrace, Barric took one look at the cigars in his brother’s hand and shook his head. “I’m in no mood,” he warned him.
Charlie held a cigar out to Barric, dangling it beneath his nose despite the dismissal. “Come,” he said grimly. “Someone ought to help me celebrate the birth of my son.”
Reflexively, Barric’s hand came up and closed around the end of the cigar.
“Celeste has had the child, then.”
In answer, Charlie struck a match on the terrace rail. As the tobacco kindled, Barric detected a rich tangle of walnuts and burning moss, as if the trees themselves had been lit on fire. Barric waited for Charlie to puff a few times at his cigar before he spoke again. “When did you find out?”
“Today.” Charlie shrugged, but the gesture was sharp, not at all as careless as he wanted it to appear. “Apparently, he was born several months ago. She thought I ought to know.”
When Charlie lit the second match, Barric held his own cigar at an angle, watching as the tobacco began to curl beneath the flame. “A boy,” he remarked, bringing the cigar at last to his lips. “And so, the world ushers in the next generation of Fairfax.”
“Half Fairfax,” Charlie corrected, staring up at the sky as he blew a thin line of smoke from his mouth. “If Celeste ever deigns to tell him my name.”
“What else did she say in her letter?”
“She thanked me for the money,” Charlie narrated, his words clipped. “She said as long as I choose to send it, she will use it, but I a
m under no obligation. She said I’m free of her and the child.”
Charlie’s profile was illuminated faintly by the light of his own cigar, his lips pressed tight as he stared out at the trees. “I wonder,” Barric mused, trying to lighten Charlie’s anguish, “if he’ll grow up to be anything like his father.”
Charlie stabbed his cigar toward Barric as if the same thought had crossed his mind. “He’d better not.”
Sighing, Barric scuffed his shoe along the terrace tile. “Well, what has she named the little scamp?”
“Philippe.”
It was strange to hear the baby’s name spoken in his brother’s familiar voice. Charlie seemed to be living two lives simultaneously—one spent on Barric’s terrace, cigar in hand, the other galloping away from him in Paris, always out of reach.
“It’s a good name,” he admitted.
“Yes, almost as good a name as Uncle Jack.”
“Ah, I hadn’t thought of that.” Barric slid a look at his brother as he considered. “Do you think I would be as imposing to him as Uncle George was to us?”
“Twice as imposing,” Charlie corrected with a half grin. He glanced down at the cigar in his hand, tilted it as he knocked a few ashes to the ground. “Remember when we stole cigars from Uncle’s office?”
Barric fell just short of a smile himself. “Of course. You, I believe, were sick for two days.”
“He never did tell Father about it.”
“Father knew enough.”
Charlie slipped into silence, briefly considering his cigar. “Do you ever wish he was here to tell us what’s to be done?”
“I make a point to always know what’s to be done.” Barric’s tone was made of iron, carefully constructed, but his eyes traveled down to the valley despite himself, where a thin curl of smoke rose from the cottage behind William’s house, where lights glowed like specks in every narrow window.
Charlie followed his gaze. “Have you heard anything else about the will?”
“Nothing,” Barric answered. He did not mention he had ridden with Rena out to Hawthorn Glen. That particular encounter felt strangely private. Though Rena had shared very little with him on their ride to the Glen, he could not shake the feeling that she had crossed some inward line, perhaps placed herself more within his reach.
“Are you going to help him get the estate?”
“I haven’t decided.”
A quick puff of smoke. “And what if Uncle gets the property and then gives it to Thomas? You know how Thomas would lord it over her.”
Barric’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone is lording something over her,” he said, his voice like gravel in his throat.
“Including you?” When Barric didn’t respond, Charlie tried a different track. “Do you think she knows there’s something amiss with the will?”
Barric gripped the railing as he remembered the way she’d drifted like a wraith around Hawthorn Glen, her eyes that gloomy shade of sorrow. She claimed she didn’t know what she’d been looking for, but something had compelled her there. “As if she’d tell me,” he muttered.
Charlie’s expression sharpened. “You’re angry with her.”
More than anything, Barric wanted to be angry with her. It would have made matters much simpler. But he had held her in his arms as he’d ridden her up to the Glen, and he couldn’t lie to himself. They were already rumored lovers, even more so after his Christmas party. It was the one rumor Barric sometimes wished were true, though part of him knew he wanted more of her than that.
Charlie was still watching him, his faint smirk the only reminder that Barric had not answered his brother’s question. “What would I have to be angry about?”
“There are many kinds of anger,” Charlie replied but didn’t press further. “What did Uncle George have to say about her?”
Barric let out a tight breath. “I don’t wish to talk about Uncle George.”
Charlie tipped his head toward the empty bottle balanced on the rail. Barric had nearly forgotten it was there. “You wish only to drink his wine?”
“I told you I’d stay away from her, and that’s the end of it.” It was a promise that rang hollower with each passing day.
Charlie puffed at his cigar and shook his head. “With women,” he remarked, “there’s never an end.”
CHAPTER 15
Barric rode through town on his way to his uncle’s house to bring him the news of Charlie’s unfortunate heir. Charlie said he had no wish to confide any of his affairs to Uncle George, but Barric couldn’t hide this from him. Though Uncle George was a scoundrel, he still deserved to know his own brother would have been a grandfather, had he lived to see the day.
“Good morning, Lord Barric.” Barric glanced down and found Parson Richardson crossing the road in front of him, a parcel of books tucked beneath his arm.
“Morning,” Barric replied, and was about to press onward but found himself pulling on the reins instead. He remembered Rena asking him to take her to the church and suddenly wondered what she had spoken about with the parson.
Of course, it could have been something worshipful, something pious. Over the past few months, Barric had glimpsed Rena’s prayerful eyes in church, but he’d only very recently seen her join her mother-in-law at the communion rail. Still, he wondered. Had she spoken to the parson of Edric that day? Had she spoken about the will? Had she spoken of him?
As Barric dismounted, the parson turned, faintly surprised to find Barric leading his horse toward him.
“I haven’t spoken with you since Christmas,” the parson remarked. “I trust you have been well.”
“Business fares well,” Barric answered distractedly.
The parson angled his head, his eyes keen as he prodded. “Have you stopped to speak with me about business, then, Lord Barric?”
Barric sighed and leveled him with a critical stare. “No doubt you have heard the rumors.”
“I have heard many rumors,” the parson agreed, motioning for them to walk down the road so as not to draw attention to their conversation. “I put good trust in you that none are true.”
Not yet, Barric thought grimly. But if Rena ever confessed to returning his feelings, could he still trust himself to remain an honorable man? He strode beside the parson silently. “What should I do to put an end to all of this?” he asked at last.
“There are only so many options,” the parson mused, then eyed Barric sideways. “You are a sharp man. Surely you have considered them all.”
“My brother tells me to stay away from her,” Barric admitted. “My steward feels the same.”
“I see. And now you are hoping I will give you similar counsel.”
Barric did not mention what his uncle suggested: that he take her on as a mistress, as many men in his station might have done when enthralled with a woman beneath his class. That Barric had even considered this in moments of weakness disturbed him. “I wish to honor my father,” Barric confessed. “His memory, his estate, his title—all are forfeit if I cannot dispel the rumors.”
“And what do you think your father would have had you do?”
Barric considered. Perhaps he would have told him not to have gotten into this mess in the first place. Yes, if Barric could wind back time to their first night on the road, might he not have given her money, instead, and sent her well on her way?
“We cannot take suggestions from the dead,” Barric said, shaking his head at the parson. “What would you have me do?”
“Nothing I think you are ready to consider.”
“Tell me.”
The parson met his eyes. “Everyone in your world will tell you to be done with Mrs. Hawley. Send her away or stay away or use her as you’d like. But your title means nothing, your money and your influence are already forfeit, if you don’t do everything in your power to take care of her.”
“I gave her food,” Barric said defensively. “I gave her shelter.”
“Yes, and everyone believes she has already been to your bed.
”
Barric faltered, shocked to hear the parson speak so plainly about such a delicate subject.
“What will happen to her if you marry someone else?” the parson pressed before Barric could offer a rebuttal. “Things could not continue as they are. But she is a ruined woman, Barric, and will live the rest of her life as your rumored mistress.”
“What, would you have me marry the girl?” Barric nearly laughed outright, though the suggestion made him unaccountably defensive, nearly angry. The rumors irritated him now, unfounded though they were. If he ever lost his mind long enough to speak vows to her, his entire reputation would be a pile of ash.
“You cannot support her as you do forever,” the parson insisted. “As you well know, something must change.”
“So, I am to be shackled in marriage because I once helped an unfortunate widow?” Barric dipped an eyebrow at the parson. “I will not make the same mistake again, I assure you.”
“You may find, when things become clearer, that sarcasm will not serve you quite so well as it does now.”
“I am grateful for your counsel,” Barric said, tipping his head dismissively. “I will ponder what you have said.”
The truth, however, was that Barric had no interest whatsoever in the parson’s counsel. Had he but told him to send her away or keep his distance, he might have walked away less cynical. But to marry her would be to cast off society, like his great-aunt had done when she’d rushed off with Maxwell Hawley. To do the same, so willingly, would bring mockery down upon his father’s legacy.
Still, he couldn’t help thinking of Rena’s half-joking suspicion, all those months ago, that perhaps there was a Hawley curse which brought about imprudent marriages. Such was not the case for Lord Barric, for he had sworn long ago never to marry half as foolishly as his great-aunt had. But this did not mean he couldn’t cast off prayers for guidance and pull her into his arms anyway. Yes, perhaps he’d curse himself, he mused—wincing in shame even as the thought came to him—if it meant slanting his lips over hers, just once.
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