by KJ Charles
“I realise that,” Giles said. “And I am an eavesdropper, not a villain. Though if it was another man— No. I had no right to listen, so I will keep my silence. But you should have told me, Hart. When I came to you for help and you encouraged me to propose—”
“I encouraged you to put yourself in her shoes, that’s all. You are constantly saying I should do that, but when I do, you don’t like it.”
“There’s a difference between showing empathy and supporting a liar!” Giles said hotly.
“So I should only have empathy for people who make decisions I approve of?”
“Of course you must exercise judgement. To understand all is not to forgive all. There are still standards to be upheld.”
It was exactly what Hart himself would have said a few weeks ago. Intellectually speaking, Giles was probably right. He simply couldn’t reconcile that with Robin.
“I suspect it is all a great deal more complicated than a simple aphorism,” he said. “I am sorry for your disappointment, Giles, but I hope you understand that I could not break my word.”
“I don’t understand why you would give your word to such people in the first place.”
“You fell in love with one of ‘such people’.”
Giles winced. “Don’t. Please. I can’t be fair about this. I am finding it cursed hard not to be very angry indeed. If she had accepted me—”
“But she didn’t. She refused you precisely because she thought you would be revolted at her background. She tried to spare you the very pain you are complaining of now. I quite understand that you are hurt, but you haven’t been betrayed.”
“You think not?” Giles said. “I feel like I have. Would you go, Hart? I’m not fit for company at the moment.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Robin and Marianne weren’t speaking.
They had spoken, or rather shouted, an overwrought and overtired exchange of “What do you mean, overheard?” and “Well, if you hadn’t—!” on both sides followed by the slamming of doors and a period of cathartic sulking, crying, or both. Marianne had emerged, looking perfect once more, to inform Robin that if he couldn’t keep his voice down during arguments, she would appreciate him not discussing her affairs with his fancy man in future, made some highly specific threats as to what she would do if Tachbrook found out, called him a prick again, and swept out to visit Alice Fenwick.
That was disheartening, and also annoying because she had a fair point. He’d been appallingly foolish in telling Hart anything that could reflect on Marianne, and culpably careless during the argument. And he bloody well knew why he had.
He sat by the window, staring out at the aggressively sunny February day, which was really quite unforgivably bright for a man who’d lain awake most of the night, and made himself face the truth.
He wanted Hart to know him and still want him. He wanted Hart to tell him I love you, I don’t care about anything else. He wanted to choose Hart without consideration, and for Hart to choose him without reservation, and to believe it could last. He wanted to live their entire relationship over again without the taint of money—not just the arrangement, but his and Marianne’s fortune-hunting, their need, their greed. He didn’t want to do it without the fucking, because that had been glorious, but he wished to hell he hadn’t based everything on physical instead of true intimacy. That was all he wanted to change, because he’d lied through his teeth about no longer wanting to be Hart’s fantasy. He just needed that to be part of their reality, instead of a substitute for it.
None of that was compatible with becoming yet another worthless drain on the Hartlebury estate. And it wasn’t Hart’s fault he thought that was what Robin wanted, because God knew he’d spent a month claiming that he only did bad things because he needed money. Hart knew him to be mercenary and grasping and a fortune hunter, so he would never be able to give him his full trust, and it was no more than Robin deserved.
Hart had tried, even then. He’d offered Robin the security he’d always craved. It wasn’t his fault Robin wanted something quite different from him.
A note arrived from Hart around noon, assuring him that Giles Verney was no threat to any of them. That should have been a balm to his worn nerves but there was no summons, no request for a meeting, no indication of what next. Had Hart decided this was too dangerous, or Robin too demanding? Suppose he’d decided to take Verney’s side against Marianne?
“Oh, stop it,” he told himself aloud, and went out to buy some food.
He went to visit Alice that afternoon. He hadn’t seen her in a few days and rather wanted to know what Marianne had said to her; he also felt slightly worried about her plans, and his promise.
When he gave his name to Mrs. Blaine’s butler, he was kept kicking his heels for a few minutes, then Alice emerged with her maid, and suggested a walk in tones that implied command. Evidently they needed to talk.
“I saw Marianne earlier,” she said as they came into the park. “She looked rather... Is she happy?”
“About Tachbrook?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “She will make a wonderful marchioness. I have no idea what it entails but I am sure she will be very good at it.”
“So am I. I did wonder if she might make another decision.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“I did, and I thought she looked sad, but it is her choice.”
“In the end it has to be.”
Alice didn’t pursue the subject, to his relief. There wasn’t a great deal else to say.
“Have you any news?” he asked.
“On my studies? Nothing new. Mama has thought about coming with me but that would involve being separated from Georgey for far too long, and to be honest, I think the idea terrifies her. She likes her home and her friends and her comforts. She’s had so much unhappiness in her life and she wanted more than anything to be settled, and now here I am, upheaving it all, if that is a word. She asked me again if I could not find a tutor in this country.”
“Could you?”
“I don’t want to. I want Heidelberg.” She made a face. “I don’t suppose we might get married after all?”
Robin wondered what to say, and decided on honesty. “I know I promised you. But the thing is, I gave Hart my word I wouldn’t do it.”
She turned to him, looking startled and hurt. “What? You promised me first!”
Robin couldn’t even remember which way round it had been. He had promised too much to too many people. “I know, but he’s right. He’s a capable man with good sense, your mother listens to him, and he wants you to have this. Give him a chance to make it work, please. It would be much better.”
She sighed. “I suppose so. I’m just so desperate to get on. Dr. Trelawney wants to leave by the end of May, for the weather, so we must be settled very quickly if I am to go with him. Never mind.” She shot him a smile. “I’m glad you’re friends with Uncle Hart now. I didn’t expect that.”
“Nor did I,” Robin admitted. “We didn’t get off on the right foot, but that was my fault. He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is. Most people don’t see it because he says the wrong things or growls at them, but they don’t understand. He had a dreadful time growing up, you know.”
“He mentioned that.”
“Did he? I’m surprised. Mama doesn’t talk about it often. It’s one reason why she is so kind to me, of course. She remembers what it was like to have a mother who was not kind and didn’t care. It makes me feel terribly ungrateful that I’d like her—not to care less—”
“To do it from a greater distance?”
“Well. Yes.”
“It sounds like all of you went through rather a lot,” Robin suggested.
“Their mother was horrible,” she said heatedly. “Uncle Hart had to say no to her, and be told he was cruel and uncaring while Mama was ugly and useless— How could a parent say those things? I am a sad disappointment to Mama in many ways—”
“You
are not.”
“None that count. That’s my point. We may not always be in harmony, but I have never, ever thought she didn’t love me, not for a moment. Whereas it sounds as though theirs hated them. I cannot imagine how it feels to have one’s own mother hate one.”
“My mother loved me,” Robin said. “But she loved my stepfather more, or at least she chose him over us, and he didn’t like us at all.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Very sorry. I had a stepfather too, and it was not pleasant.”
“Hart told me. Not a nice man?”
“No. Mama married him after my father died and he was dreadful. Hateful.” She gave a little twitch, like a horse shuddering flies off its coat. “He didn’t want Mama to keep me. He said I was not permitted to call her Mama because she was not my mother and I was not part of the family. I have never seen Mama so angry and there was the most appalling argument, which only ended when Uncle Hart came round and held him against the wall by the neck.”
“Did that help?”
“Well, he stopped pretending to be fond of Mama after that, so she could stop pretending to believe him. He kept away from us and just spent her money. She and Uncle Hart were working on the terms of a separation when he was thrown from his horse. Which was a blessed relief and I shan’t say otherwise, but poor Mama felt—still feels—so guilty for how he behaved to me. I’m sure that is why she is so protective of me now, and I really ought not be ungrateful about it. Goodness, people are complicated. But you can see why poor Mama wants a little peace, and why Uncle Hart is so prone to growling. He had a great deal to growl about, and he has worked so hard to help the family and worried so much about us.”
“It doesn’t sound as if anyone has worried much about him.”
Alice gave him a swift, startled look. “Should we? Is something wrong?”
“Not wrong,” Robin said, cursing his too-ready tongue. “Just—well, he carries everyone’s burdens.”
“Oh, but he wants to,” Alice said, with absolute assurance. “He’s one of those people who does things, which is lucky because he’s dreadful at saying things. If you listen to him and Mama speak they sound like the merest acquaintances, but she was the only person who ever cared about him when he was a boy, and he has spent his whole life working on her behalf, even though he was horribly ridiculed for going into trade. He doesn’t remember her birthday or bring her silks, or ever do thoughtful things like that. He just works to make her safe and happy, because that’s how he loves people. I suppose it’s one reason he’s never married,” she added thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine him bringing a lady flowers or paying pretty compliments. Although, if I had a husband, I think I’d prefer one who did things rather than one who just said them, but I don’t suppose I’m very good at that sort of thing either. Are you certain nothing’s wrong? Because he has been preoccupied, and you know Mama and I would do anything to help him.”
“I’m sure you would,” Robin said faintly. “I’m glad you have each other. And if you know he does things for people he loves, then you know very well he will help you. Perhaps he’s a little busy right now.”
ROBIN FELT RATHER BETTER for that conversation, if also quite a lot stupider. Maybe Hart was right about his lack of wiles: he certainly couldn’t pride himself on his cunning understanding of human nature, given how badly he’d failed to see what was in front of him. He probably ought to marry Alice after all, or at least hire her to manage his correspondence: she had more sense than he suspected he ever would.
Less inspiring was the absence of any further communication from Hart. He kicked his heels waiting, for a note or for Marianne to come home. The second happened before the first.
“Have you stopped sulking yet?” she greeted him.
Robin decided to ignore that. “Hart spoke to Verney. He says—well, see for yourself.”
“I don’t need to. I have spoken to him. To Giles.”
“When?”
“This afternoon. It’s over. I told him the whole truth.”
“What?”
“I felt I owed it to him. As I expected, he was grateful for his escape.”
“Did he say that?” I will kill him. I will stab the fucker. I will end him.
“No, of course not. He said all that was reasonable, didn’t upbraid me, and wished me well in my marriage. So there we are.”
There they were indeed. Of course love didn’t conquer all. It never did, not for long. It had no strength against the massed armies of reputation and birth and privilege and what people would think. One would be a fool to risk all for love, rather than protecting oneself.
Verney was a cowardly, sentiment-spewing tosspot, all the same.
He exhaled his fury. Marianne didn’t need to hear that her lover had never valued more than her face and his fantasy of what lay behind it. “Well, we will take an absence of retaliation and be thankful. What now?”
“Now? I am going to Lady Colefax’s soiree as Lord Tachbrook’s affianced bride.”
She looked beautiful and remote, all feelings hidden behind stony eyes. She’d looked like that when they had left home without saying goodbye.
“Have a good time,” he said.
“I suppose you’re seeing Hartlebury?”
“Maybe,” Robin said, in lieu of explanation.
“Then the same to you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nothing had come from Hart by seven. Robin ate at a coffee-house for a fraction of the price of dining at his club. He felt no temptation to go out and play afterwards. He didn’t want to gamble, or to talk. He wanted not to feel this horrible sensation of alone.
That was childish. Marianne had her ambitions to pursue; Hart had a family, and obligations, and a number of delightful things like name, reputation, and friends that he must yesterday have feared losing because of Robin. They both had better things to do.
Fine. He’d marry Alice, move to Heidelberg with her, and watch her become the foremost woman mathematician of Europe. Or he’d stay here and win at the tables. He would do something and he would be very well indeed, even if it felt like all his happiness was tied up in a thick-thighed man who hid his fears and his hopes and his heart behind a scowl.
Because even if Marianne and Hart could not, in the end, be his, neither of them had let him down, and that was important. Marianne had always been staunch. Hart was caring and kind and he’d stayed when Robin had needed him to. That was enough. Or if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t improve his situation by whining about it.
He went back to his dismal empty rooms in that spirit of dignified resignation, saw a heavy-set man hovering outside the door, and sprinted the rest of the way.
Hart turned swiftly at the sound of his footsteps and a smile broke across his face, real and joyous and open, before it was replaced by nerves. Robin skidded to a halt, looking up, heart thundering with, yes, the exercise. Definitely that.
“Robin,” Hart said. “I just called for you. You were out.”
“I’m back.”
They were staring at each other in the street like gapeseeds. Robin cleared his throat. “Will you come in or shall we state the obvious out here a little longer?”
“Uh. If I may. If you’re ready—willing—to talk?”
Robin nodded. It seemed a better bargaining position than suggesting Hart shut up and kiss him until he couldn’t feel his lips.
They went up to the rooms. Robin lit a couple of candles and threw some coal on the fire. “I’m sorry. It’s not very comfortable in here. Well, you know that.”
“My back still hurts.” Hart sat in the armchair with the look of disgusted familiarity Robin felt for that misbegotten piece of furniture. “First things first: your sister?”
Robin shrugged. “I don’t know. She seems resigned. She isn’t really speaking to me, possibly because I’m a prating idiot who could have ruined everything, but I expect mostly because there’s nothing to say. Verney has spoken to her and—well. It’s over.”
“I’
m sorry for it, truly. That’s the first thing I wanted to say. You’re right: I didn’t understand, and I didn’t make the effort to do so. I have been a great deal more forgiving of my own sins and failings than those of others, and I didn’t realise it until I came face to face with consequences.”
“That is a terrible thing, to be more sympathetic to oneself than other people,” Robin said. “I expect you’re the only person in England who does that. How is Verney?” He hoped the bastard caught plague, but it seemed only fair to make a concession.
“I spoke to him this morning. It seems he only heard the earlier part of our conversation, thank God. So our friendship is intact, at least.”
A friendship based on Verney not knowing or seeing Hart properly. He deserved a great deal better, but Robin made himself say, “I’m glad.”
“He promised not to repeat what he heard about Marianne. Would it help to know I think he’s made a mistake?”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I would not have before, but you have changed my mind about many things, or made me see them differently. He should have taken a risk, and he plumped for the world he knew. I believe he’ll regret that caution. I told him so.”
Robin blinked. “Really?”
“For all the good it did. In fairness, it would be the stuff of nightmares for Giles’s family if they ran away together. I don’t suppose you have followed the ecclesiastical controversies of the past few years?”
“I’ve been meaning to catch up on that.”
“Suffice to say, it would be a gift to the Archbishop’s enemies, among whom Tachbrook is already numbered, if his son seduced an innocent young lady, or broke up a peer’s engagement, or however it would be seen. The Verneys trade on their rectitude. Well, I am notorious in the family as Giles’s disreputable friend, if that gives you an idea of his virtue.”
“What did you ever do that was disreputable? That people know about, I mean.”
“I had an affair with Evangeline Wintour.”
“You’re brave. I’m amazed she left you your prick.”