by Mary Balogh
“Fox comes here well recommended,” Luke said. “But he cannot do a better job than you have done, Ash. Any time you want to come back . . . But no matter. I will miss you too—my only brother.” They had grown close again in the months since Joy’s birth.
‘There was another brother,” Ashley said. “Have you even been to see his grave, Luke?”
“No,” Luke said curtly, “and ’tis not a topic I wish to pursue, Ash.”
“There is something you should know,” Ashley said abruptly. “Mama said ’twas something no one should ever know except her and Henrietta and me. But it has troubled me, especially now that I am leaving. You have the right to know.”
Luke turned his horse again and proceeded down the far side of the hill. “If it concerns George,” he said, “I have no wish to know.”
Ashley came after him. “He killed himself,” he said.
Luke stopped so abruptly that his horse reared and it took a few moments to bring it under control. By the time he had done so, his face was deathly pale. “What?”
“He fell on a knife,” Ashley said, looking equally pale. “Deliberately. Fortunately—I suppose it was fortunate—there was some cholera in the village and we put it about that it was of that he died. He would not have been given a Christian burial if the truth had been known, Luke.”
Luke felt that buzzing in the head he had felt once before. “But why?” he asked.
“He could never forgive himself, I suppose,” Ashley said. “He loved you. He sent you money once, did he not, and you sent it back? He drank for two weeks without stopping after that. Even Papa could do nothing with him.”
God!
“She got what she wanted,” Ashley said. “Can you see her clearly enough by now, Luke, to know that it was all her doing? She put him through hell. He could do nothing right. She even blamed him for the death of the child. They hated each other. I think she perhaps had feelings for you, Luke, but you were only a second son and George was available. Ironic, is it not? He used to take her to London and she had affairs and flaunted her lovers before him. I heard about it when I was at university. And then he killed himself.”
“God, Ash.” Luke rode onward, neither knowing nor caring which direction he took.
“He wronged you,” Ashley said, “but as I live, Luke, he suffered for it a thousandfold.”
I sent back the money, Luke thought, unconsciously increasing his horse’s pace to a canter. I sent back the money. I sent back his peace offering.
“Perhaps I should not have told you.” Ashley sounded miserable. “But you did have another brother, Luke. And I loved him.”
And now Luke was about to lose the other brother too. Not so cruelly or so permanently. But it would be a loss. He eased back on the reins and looked across at Ashley. “You did right, Ash,” he said. “Thank you.”
Ashley shrugged. “Let me ask something of you,” he said. “I am going to be in the devil of an emotional mood tomorrow morning. I want to leave as if I were running an errand into the village. I do not want you and Anna on the terrace hugging and crying all over me and waving me on my way.”
Somehow they were close to the stables. Ashley must have been steering their course.
“I’ll stay out of the way, then,” Luke said reluctantly. “And I will ask Anna to do likewise.”
Ashley breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said, grinning. “I’ll write, Luke.”
“See that you do,” his brother said, leading the way into the stables. “Orders from the head of the family, Ash.”
• • •
It had not been easy to say good night to Ashley just as if it were any other night and not to wring his hand as if to crush every bone in it or hug him closely as if to break ribs. Luke had been away from his family for ten years and had neither expected nor wanted to come back to them. And yet now, knowing that his brother was going far away for an indeterminate number of years, he mourned those last years. Ten years, or some of them anyway, in which he might have known his brother.
Anna did not have as much fortitude. After excusing herself early from the drawing room in order to go up to the nursery to give Joy her night feed, and after bidding Ashley her usual warm and cheerful good night, she had turned back at the door, rushed back across the room to him, and given him all the hugs and shed over him all the tears he had hoped to avoid in the morning.
Ashley had emerged from the embrace looking sheepish and damp-eyed.
Luke breakfasted early and left the house before Ashley came down. He had had a sleepless night and had even wandered into his own bedchamber so as not to wake Anna. He had renounced his family, all of them, and had lived with deadened emotions for ten peaceful years. Now they were back, his family and his emotions. He loved Doris and Ashley. He was still hurt by his mother’s rejection—he would admit it now. He still hated his father and George.
George. George had thrown himself on a knife and killed himself.
Luke left the house early, saddled his horse himself, and rode slowly and reluctantly to the only place he could go. He had a visit to pay, a long overdue visit.
He had always liked to wander in the churchyard as a boy. It had fascinated him to know that his own ancestors from generations back and those of the neighbors and villagers he knew were buried there. It had not been a morbid fascination. He had felt all the mystery and wonder of the continuation of life.
But he had come this time to see two particular graves, ones he had not seen before. He stopped at his father’s first. His father had been a stern man. There had been love in him too—love for his boys and his girl. But clearly there had been limits to that love. Luke had passed those limits. The twenty-year-old Luke had been bitter about his father’s rejection. The thirty-one-year-old Luke finally found it more understandable. He had tried to shoot his brother—or so it would have seemed—and had very nearly succeeded.
Luke wondered if his father had felt any regrets during the final five years of his life.
Father, he said silently. But there were no words. Only a suddenly remembered image of his father teaching him, with endless patience, to ride his first pony. Papa.
There was a small grave for the stillborn child. He had even been named: Lucas.
Luke stared at the little headstone for a long time, perhaps afraid to take that one more step to the side that would bring him to the other, most recent family grave. But he finally took the step.
George. Dead at the age of two-and-thirty. Killed by his own hand. Because he could not forgive himself. Because his brother would not forgive him. Because his brother had returned the money.
Hurt and bewildered and angry and proud, Luke had sent the money back and the paper on which only his brother’s signature had been scrawled.
A peace offering.
A love offering.
Scorned and rejected.
In all the selfishness of youth, Luke thought now, he had believed that only he suffered—he and Henrietta. And so he had rejected the love offering. And love itself. He had killed all love in himself and torn out his own heart so that no one would be able to hurt him ever again.
And yet he had hurt someone else so deeply that he had killed himself. He had hurt his brother. He had killed George after all.
He hunched his shoulders as the cold breeze knifed between his shoulder blades. He had not brought a cloak. It looked as if it might rain at any moment. Everything around him looked suitably gray and gloomy.
“George,” he said aloud. “George.” Forgive me. I have forgiven you. Forgive me. Forgive me. “I love you.”
Love came in pain, in unalloyed pain, and was not turned back. Luke went down on one knee and rested one hand on the top of the gravestone and the other on the earth over where his brother’s remains lay.
“Forgive me.” Tears plopped unheeded onto the grass.
“Forgive me.” And then he rested his forehead on the hand that held the gravestone, and he wept with deeply painful, racking sobs.
A long time passed before he got slowly to his feet and turned again in the direction of home, leading his horse, not riding it. No one had disturbed him though more than one person, the rector included, had seen him.
• • •
Ashley had told her yesterday that he was leaving today. He had set his hands on her shoulders after doing so, smiled cheerfully at her, told her to be a good girl, and gone striding away. It had been a very brief meeting. He had been riding all afternoon with Luke.
Emily did not want to see him today. She would not be able to bear seeing him actually leave. And yet when she had eaten her breakfast—or rather when she had not eaten it—she could feel nothing but panic. Had he left? Was he gone already? Gone forever and she had not seen him go?
She sat at her window and tried to draw calmness from the sight of the lawns and trees outside. But it was a gray and gloomy day. And perhaps even now he was at the door and entering the carriage that would take him away.
She would never see him again.
Her nurse would come for her soon and take her to the nursery, where she would try to interest her in some needlework or painting. She could not do any stitching today or any painting either. Not when her heart was breaking. She leapt up, ran into her dressing room for a cloak, flung it about her shoulders, and ran from the room while there was still time.
If there was still time.
But there were trunks and boxes in the hall. No carriage at the door. No sign of Ashley. He would be at breakfast. He had not left yet. But she could not go to him. She did not want to see him today. Oh, yes, she did. She must see him. But she did not want him to see her.
She ran outside and down the steps onto the upper terrace of the formal gardens. She ran fleet-footed through the gardens, across the wide lawn, over the bridge, and down the driveway, until she stopped, gasping for breath, among the trees. She set her back against one tree trunk so that she could see the driveway but not be seen. But all she would see was the carriage. It was unlikely that he would be looking through the window, and if he were he might see her. She did not want him to see her.
She wished her cloak was not red. Why had she not thought of bringing a different one?
She was shivering with cold by the time she heard the carriage approach. Not that she heard it, of course. But she was far more aware of vibrations than other people seemed to be. She knew the carriage was coming before it came into sight. And panic hit her. He was leaving forever and all she would see was the carriage. She leaned forward, desperate for one last sight of him.
But the carriage rolled on by and she saw nothing. And then it slowed and stopped and the door opened and Ashley jumped to the driveway and turned back to where she was standing, clutching the tree trunk behind her back.
He came to stand in front of her, very close to her, before he said anything. There was a sadness in his eyes.
“Little fawn,” he said.
But if he said any more she did not hear it. Her vision blurred.
His weight came against her, pressing her against the tree, though he did not immediately touch her with his hands. When she looked up at him, she saw that his head was thrown back and his eyes were tightly shut. And then he lowered his head and looked into her eyes, only inches away.
His mouth, when it touched hers, was warm and soft and wonderful. And it stayed against hers for a while. She pushed her own lips back against his for comfort.
He framed her face with his hands, one of them still, the other smoothing back her hair. “I will be back, little fawn,” he said. “I will be back to teach you to read and write and to teach you a language you can use.”
All I want to be able to say is I love you. I’ll always love you. Forever and ever I will love you.
“Ah,” he said. “Those eyes. Those eyes, Emmy. I’ll be back. I’ll not forget you. I’ll carry you here.” He stood away from her and touched a hand to his heart.
And then he was gone.
Some time after she had closed her eyes, the carriage was gone too. She felt the vibrations again.
Emily stood where she was for many long minutes until she pushed herself away from the tree and began to run recklessly, heedlessly through the woods, faster and faster, as if all the fiends of hell were at her heels.
• • •
Anna was in the nursery playing with Joy when Luke came in. The baby, who had been insisting to her mother for half an hour or more that she was just not in a jovial mood this morning, smiled brightly as soon as she set eyes on her father.
“Rascal,” Anna said to her.
“She has your smile,” Luke said, setting a hand on Anna’s shoulder.
“When she decides to use it,” Anna said. “Little imp.” She turned her head to look into his face. He was pale. He looked almost as if he had been crying. “What is it?” she asked. “You saw Ashley after all this morning? It was very hard to stay up here, I must confess. It seemed unnatural to let him go without a proper farewell.”
“Ash is very young,” he said. “Too young to want to be seen shedding tears, Anna. No, I did not see him today though I have been told that he has gone. I’ll miss him.”
“I know.” She smiled at him.
His hand tightened on her shoulder. “Invite me to your sitting room?” he asked.
She never had since he had told her it would be her private domain, though she had often wanted him there, just the two of them together. She handed him the baby, who smiled at him again, and rang for the nurse. When the woman came and took charge of the baby, Anna led the way to her sitting room.
“What is it?” She seated herself beside him on a sofa and took one of his hands in both of hers. She was surprised—and rather horrified—to see tears spring to his eyes.
“I have been visiting my other brother,” he said, leaning his head back against the cushions and turning it so that he could look into her face. “I went to the churchyard to see George’s grave.”
“Ah,” Anna said quietly. “I am glad, Luke.” And she could see from his face that there had been some reconciliation, absurd as that sounded when his brother was dead. But she knew that Luke had needed this, that he had needed to have all his family back after years of bitter estrangement.
“He killed himself, Anna.” He closed his eyes while she turned cold, and then he told her everything Ashley and Doris had told him between them. He finished with what she knew was the most painful fact of all. “He sent me that money as a sign that he still loved me, that he was sorry for what he had done to me. And I sent it back. I rejected him. I failed to kill him with that bullet—did you know that I aimed for a tree six feet to one side of him and hit him one inch from the heart?—but I killed him by returning that money.”
“No, Luke.” She lifted his hand to her cheek and held it there. It was so rare to see her husband weak and vulnerable. “Of course you did not kill him. You must not think that. Both of you suffered dreadfully. You had the strength to come through it. He did not. He might have written a letter to send with the money. He might have gone to Paris looking for you. You cannot blame yourself for what he did or did not do. And if you did reject him once, then he had rejected you too. Unfortunately, people do that to each other. People hurt each other, especially those closest to each other. And some people lack the inner strength to endure that others have. They cannot help it, perhaps. My f-father appeared strong to me all my life until he discovered that Mama had consumption, and then he fell all to pieces. Many people blamed him. It would have been easy to have stopped loving him.”
“I loved George, Anna,” he said. “He was always everything I ever wanted to be. He was my idol.”
“He loved you too, Luke,” she said. “To the end, else he would not have suffered so
much. He would not want you to suffer now. He would not want to know that he had hurt you in death perhaps more than he hurt you in life.”
He turned his head to look at her again. “Love is never the soft and easy emotion it is sometimes made out to be,” he said. “I should be able to have him back so that we could make our peace with each other, but he is dead. Love hurts, Anna.”
“Yes.” She turned her head to kiss the lace at his wrist.
“Anna.” He was looking closely at her. “Has Henrietta always been your friend?”
She considered answering vaguely. But she knew that he was struggling to put his life together again, to reconcile the past with the present. He needed honesty, on this point at least. “No, not really,” she said. “She has always been at pains to describe her meetings with you and to make me understand how much you and she still love each other. And I have come to believe, perhaps unjustly, that it is deliberate, that she dislikes me. I avoid her company whenever I can.”
“’Tis not true, what she has insinuated, Anna,” he said. “I will confess that I was afraid to come back, afraid that my feelings for her would be revived if I ever saw her again. And after my return I was afraid to be alone with her for the same reason. She maneuvered all our meetings. It did not take me long to understand that what I felt for her was no longer love but pity.”
Anna drew a breath and let it out slowly. She lowered his hand to her lap again.
“Anna,” he asked her, his eyes searching hers, “do you have any regrets about marrying me?”
“No,” she said, closing her eyes. And then she opened them to look at him and spoke more fiercely. “No, none.”
“And I have none,” he said. “You are the best thing that has happened in my life.”
She bit her lip hard. What had he just said about love hurting?
“Is there anything . . . ?” he began almost hesitantly. He started again. “May I be of service to you in any way, Anna?”
How often the most momentous decisions of one’s life have to be made in a moment, she was to think afterward. With no prior warning. With no more than a few seconds of time in which to weigh one’s answer. Why had she not told him? she thought later. He was in a mellow, almost tender mood. He had just told her that she was precious to him. He had just been confessing to her his own terrible mistakes. He would have listened sympathetically to her own confession. He would have set her free.