"Your husband is a bastard, you know," he said, shifting the mood.
"Yes, he's out chasing Miss Elston around the garden, I believe."
"No, I meant that he really is a bastard, aside from that. The former Duke of Bryson was unable to father children." Clara gave a shocked laugh, staring at him. "I thought you might like to fling it at him from time to time, to get his attention," he grinned at her.
"I see you've forsworn discretion as well as the possibility of illicit liaisons," she said. "Thank you for that tidbit. I won't ask if you have any more of them hidden away."
"Perhaps I'll sell them," he mused. "It would make quite a profit. Shall we go find the illustrious duke? I'll make him squirm with talk about the South Seas."
"It's kind of you to offer, though I'm not sure what that means," she said, stepping back from his offered arm. Her smile faded away to a more serious look. "You mean it, don't you, Stephen? That there will never be anything between us, I mean. Not even friendship. Not really."
He looked down at her bowed head, remembering how much he had wanted her, how inconsolable he'd been when she'd left him. But it was nothing to what he felt for his wife. Without Clara, he had been lonely. Without Helen, his heart would not be alive. Yet if Clara had never taught him what it meant to open his heart, he would never have known how to love Helen so fully.
He put a hand under her chin to make her look at him. "No, not even friends." He could not allow that, knowing it would make her hope for more. He watched the hope die in her eyes. "I think it would be best if we forgot whatever was between us."
She nodded, and he saw the reluctance in it. "I will not indulge myself anymore in dreams of what I cannot have," she said, tears filling her eyes. "But I will always regret that I did not choose you. And I won't forget," she said fervently. "I won't."
She leaned up on her toes, softly pressing her lips briefly to his. He knew it was coming, but did nothing to stop it, recognizing it as a fond farewell. She drew away even before he thought of stepping back, looking up at him with a sad smile.
"For goodbye," she whispered to him.
He could let her have that, a kiss goodbye for all the warmth she had given him in that cold and lonely time. It was she who now lived in wintry isolation, and he could not save her from it. He chucked her under the chin and gave her his charming grin, the one that always produced a smile. "Naughty of you," he chided. "Flirting with a married man."
He reached for her arm to escort her out to the other guests in the garden, thinking how strange it was that they had come to this parting, strange how easy and natural it was, and looked up to see his wife standing at the door, staring at them.
She was gone before he could wrench himself away from the guilty shock of the moment. He shouted abuse at himself inside his head after he finally gathered himself to follow her. He had just stood there, long after she was gone, looking guilty as sin and clutching Clara's arm in reflex. As if she could protect him from whatever Helen had seen or heard.
She was nowhere in the hall, nor on the stairs. It was almost as if she'd vanished into thin air, as he'd always feared she would. One misstep and she would go – walk away and keep walking to a place he could not follow. He was caught in a diabolical dream, turning everywhere to find her gone, just out of his grasp, leaving only the image of her face in that last moment: disbelief and confusion, turned to sudden embarrassment before she hastily made her exit.
He forced himself to follow his reasoning mind upstairs to their room instead of tearing out the front door to chase after the image of her leaving. She could not go. He would not let her. What could he say to make her understand that it was nothing? Upset, he thought as he strode to their room. Of course she would be upset, but she would see reason. He would make her see it.
He opened the door to see her maid fastening the buttons on the traveling gown Helen now wore. So quickly. She had managed it so quickly, without a moment's hesitation.
The door closed behind him with a sharp thud, but she looked up at him without surprise, smoothing her skirts as the maid finished her task.
"There you are," she stated calmly. "You're always there, aren't you, Stephen?" She turned to the maid. "Thank you, Gladys. I will finish here, if you'll talk to the coachman."
The girl scurried out the door. Helen turned immediately to the bed where her case was laid out and reached for the nearest dress, quickly folding it and packing it away. She was reaching for another when he finally found his voice amid the panic.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm not sure yet. I may call on some friends I have neglected," she answered vaguely, all the while gathering her belongings and neatly packing them away. "I trust you'll make my excuses to our hosts."
He leaned back against the door, trying to believe this was only a little argument, silly jealousy that he could dispel with the right words. "I will not. If you wish to leave, I'll accompany you."
"There is no need." Still she spoke in that maddeningly calm tone. "I don't believe you'll be welcome wherever it is I decide to go."
He chose to misunderstand her. "I thought we agreed that if we were not welcome somewhere together, then we would not go there at all."
She looked at him over her shoulder briefly before going back to her work. "Yes, well, we said many things. We agreed that you would not hide the truth from me." Her voice for a moment lost its certainty, began to waver. "You were not to hide the truth of what you are. Do you remember that?"
He saw the fire swallow Clara's letters, bright yellow flames consuming everything he'd thought he'd wanted. "I remember."
"It seems only right to me that if you do not keep your promises, then neither should I be held to mine," she answered, placing the last garment on the top of the pile.
"No." He shook off the lethargic disbelief that held him, seeking for something to crack the solid wall of ice she so easily erected. "No, you cannot believe that I feel that way about Clara. Listen to me." He reached for her arm as she latched the case. "I don't know what you saw, what you think you saw–"
"It doesn't matter," she said quietly, looking down at where his hand gripped her. "I saw how much you care for each other. I won't stand in the way of it. You should have what you want."
"I want you," he said, an edge of despair on his words. "It was farewell. Only that."
She was still beneath his hand, and he felt it – the little tremor inside her that heralded her acquiescence. He lowered his head, following instinct, tasting the corner of her mouth. "How could I want anything other than you?" he asked huskily. "Sweet wife... I love you. Only you."
Almost, her mouth turned to his. Almost. But she reached up and pushed herself away from him. "Stop it," she said faintly. Her hands went up to her ears as if to block out his words while she stepped further back from him. "Stop! I will not listen to pretty words and explanations." She gave a little moan and shook her head, dropping her hands, composing herself in the blink of an eye. "I'm leaving."
He nearly choked at the calm determination in her stance, but asked the question he dreaded, and steeled himself for the answer. "Are you leaving this house, or leaving me altogether?"
She didn't speak, only looked at him. It was answer enough.
"Only because of this?"
Her eyes lowered slowly, roaming across his shirtfront, considering. "It's not just one thing," she said finally, and he knew it for the truth, knew it was not some petty misunderstanding that pulled her away from him. Her words were the familiar sound of someone isolating him completely. He recognized it with sickening clarity, felt the solitude close in around him like an old and hated companion.
But he fought against it, refusing to be cut out. He could not let her slip away like everything else in his life.
"What, then?" Whatever it was, whatever the obstacle in his path to her, he would cut it down. He must.
"Alex sent you to me because of a business deal," she said flatly. "You never told me
."
He stared at her in blank incomprehension, unwilling to believe that she could leave him over so insignificant a detail. It was like fighting a shadow – there was no way to change what had gone on before, and no way dispel the darkness it cast between them. He clenched his jaw, furious with her stubborn reasoning.
"Does it matter so much that you will dishonor the vows you made? Can't you see–"
"I see that I have been blind," she exploded, suddenly vehement. "I see that I am a silly girl, believing in you, believing in this romantic little world you made for me, and I will not believe it anymore! I knew better. I was taught long ago, and I let myself forget." She pressed her fist to her mouth as though to suppress her emotion. "Silly girl, silly girl. I let myself love you..." she moaned, turning the words he had longed to hear into a lament, leaving a charred ruin where his heart once stood whole.
Her instant of grief was swiftly controlled. Of course, her damned control, what a master of restraint she was. Her voice was ice once more. "And who are you to preach to me about dishonoring our vows? Who will I find in your arms next? How many other parts of yourself have you hidden from me?" She walked to the bureau and picked up her gloves.
"I have told myself time and again that it was fate that would not let my past die out." She looked at him, her dark eyes as fathomless as the sea, cold depths he could not enter. "But it was you, Stephen. It came back with you. Because you brought him back, right into our home." She nodded at his sign of denial, relentless. "I could have told you he would come, but I don't even know if that would have stopped you. I don't know anything anymore."
He watched her move toward the door, fear closing like a fist around his throat. He made a gesture as though to stop her, too small to withstand the force of her will.
"I would have killed him, you know." Already she was gone from him, her voice sounding from miles away, an infinite distance in the calmness with which she spoke. "I would have. I was an instant from it. You would have given me that to live with as well."
It was all his worst fears come to life: her back turning to him, her hand reaching for the door, her step sure and unwavering. He could not let it happen. He swallowed the guilt that washed over him, guilt that had been drowning him since he'd found Henley with her, and forced himself to move before it was too late. He pushed closed the door she had begun to open, slamming it shut as he took her by the arms.
"I won't lose you," he said. He held her fast as she tried to squirm away. "I won't let you leave, do you understand?"
She stopped trying to escape, staring at the door behind him, refusing to meet his gaze. "What will you do to stop me? Beat me bloody, maybe." Her breaths were quick and shallow. Her eyes watered. "Or take a leaf from Henley's book, and throw me on the bed."
He let go as if she burned him. She meant it. She stood like a statue of fear and courage, the two opposing emotions captured in her bloodless face, her rigid body. It called to mind an image of her that had haunted him, of what it must have been like when she was trapped and defenseless, so long ago when he was not there to protect her.
"You really believe that of me," he said, amazed.
She blinked. "I don't know what to believe of you."
And that, he understood, was the point of it.
They stood apart, unmoving until the knock came at the door. "The carriage is ready, mum," came the maid's voice.
There was no way to fight it, no weapon to defend against her fear of him. Let her go. Words were all he had, and they were not enough. Nothing could stand against her will – so strong, so invulnerable – and he was nothing to it. To her.
He watched in silence as they took her case – small, so small to contain so great a weight, the whole of their shared life. Watched as she stepped out the door, the beautiful plainness of her face in profile to him, as she pulled on her gloves and looked at him with her eyes wide open.
He watched as she calmly said, "Goodbye," and he refused to say the word. From the window, he watched as she stepped into the carriage, as she never looked back, as it carried her away and left him alone in the familiar emptiness.
Chapter 18
Emily was so good about it, thinking an unexpected visitor on her doorstep come for an indefinite stay was a perfect delight. Her face when she greeted Helen was full of happy welcome, the more so because her darling Tisby was off at sea again.
Helen didn't avoid Bartle because she knew Stephen could find her there, but because she knew what she would have to endure: Marie-Anne's censure, the gentle curiosity of the villagers, and worst of all the memories of him that dwelled there. With Emily she could live in silence for a while; conversation could never be as detailed or probing when it must be written out, and Emily's open fascination with nearly any topic made it easy to divert discussion away from whatever Helen wished to keep to herself.
Will you stay through the summer? Emily wrote one afternoon when Helen had been there for nearly a month.
I don't know, Helen wrote back. She stared at the ink on the page. She had wanted to use the silence of this house to gather her thoughts, to contemplate what came next in her marriage. Instead, she slept too much, lazily dozing the mornings away, only ever forcing herself out of bed when inevitably she began to imagine the warm pressure of Stephen's body curled against her back, the feel of his knees behind hers so real she thought she would weep.
She could leave at any time, if she would only decide where to go or what to do.
I don't want to overstay my welcome, she began, but Emily stopped her pen from scratching further and gave her a look that plainly said Helen was not in danger of being asked to leave anytime soon.
Still, she must think of it. It was strange to find the world open to her once more. It was so different than when she had left before, in so many ways. There was no fear of going hungry. There was no hatred or injustice to propel her through the day. And worst of all, worse than anything, there was no Maggie to tell her if she was right or wrong. No Maggie to say there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. There was only the dull ache, the inability to stop loving him.
Until yesterday, she had worried that he would seek her out. He could find her easily, if he bothered to spare a thought for her, and apparently he had. He'd sent her solicitor to her, to discuss the terms of their separation, if an informal arrangement was her preference or if she wanted a legal separation. And, quite carefully, to hint at the question of divorce.
She had stared numbly at the kindly old solicitor who had tried to hide his concern for her, his disapproval. Divorce. She'd had no thought of it, but it was the only way if he truly wanted to be free to marry again. She blinked back tears and told the solicitor that she would not stand in the way of it. His reputation had been so damaged by marrying her, yet he was willing to suffer the scandal of divorce to be completely rid of her. I am difficult. She hugged her arms around herself. Of course he would want to be free of me. I weep and cringe and push him away and beg him to stay and I insult him and leave him.
He wanted a wife who would stay by his side. And she wanted to forget Clara's lips on his, the smile he had given her. Such a smile. And the exquisite Clara was the center of it, with her golden hair and stunning beauty and her obvious, deep affection for Stephen.
A light tapping alerted her to Emily's impatience. She had written something.
Yesterday. It was bad news?
Emily frowned at her when Helen did not pick up the pen to respond. Try as she might, she couldn't divert the topic. Emily wanted to know, and Helen supposed she should tell her something.
Not good news. Though maybe it was good news, that he would not insist on her return. She had left him, after all. Had wanted to leave, and still did not want to go back.
You've left him, haven't you?
Helen didn't bother denying it. Emily was deaf, not stupid. She nodded.
Why?
What could she say? That he would be happier without her, though he didn't know it yet. That he
was mistaken to have married her. That even the smallest of lies from him crushed her, suffocated her, turned her into someone she could not bear to be.
But all of that was the easy surface things, the shape and not the substance. It was something better to tell herself than the deeper truth. Maggie would know. Maggie would understand it, as she always had. Maggie was not an illusion of goodness, and she would know what Helen meant when she said that she was afraid of being happy with him, afraid of what might come of it. But Maggie was gone back to Ireland.
She dipped the pen. I'm not strong enough for that life.
Emily looked at the words, trying to make sense of them. But there was no sense in it, none at all. It had nothing to do with being rational. It was what Helen's life had taught her, that the best and most wonderful of people could turn out to be the devil himself. That the more bright and promising someone was, the more carefully one must guard against them and beware of the lie that they were sure to be. And with Stephen, she was weaker than she had ever been, turning and turning away from all the warnings of what he might be.
Emily at last looked up from the paper, giving Helen a determined look before writing.
The strongest people in this world never believe they are strong, she wrote. You are strong enough for any life, if you want it. Do you want it? Want that life?
Helen watched the pen tap insistently on the words for emphasis. Tap, tap, tap! Each time the pen struck was like a pinprick to her heart, puncturing the numbness she'd wrapped around herself for weeks.
The words blurred on the page until she could only see the blood on Stephen's hands reaching for her, until she could feel nothing but his head against hers, holding her in her grief as she revealed her fear that she was nothing, would never be anything.
An ordinary life. With him. And she was too terrified to have it.
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