“She accused my sister of slandering Lord Harlan and proposed sending the baby to Philadelphia for everyone’s convenience.”
“Why, that’s dreadful. But don’t worry, we’ll—”
“She said you were spreading the rumors.”
She stared at him. He could not be serious. “Me? Julian, of course not.”
“She told Margaret that she warned you, and you ignored her. Margaret said she called on you before the ball.”
All at once, she remembered Gillian’s threat. You will regret this.
She inhaled, trying not to panic. “She did call on me. And I did tell her that I suspected Lord Harlan had a child. But only because there have been rumors for years. I urged her to ask him before she weds, for her own peace of mind. That’s it.”
He tore his hands out of her grip and went pacing back and forth, like an angry animal trapped in a cage.
“I’d love to believe you, Constance, but you are the only person outside my immediate family who is aware of this connection. I told you last night and suddenly Gillian appears with some wild plan, saying you came to her with stories? Quite the coincidence.”
Her sympathy began to curdle into anger. Was he addled?
“Julian, I did not mention Margaret. I didn’t know about Margaret. I had heard whispers about Lady Jessica Ashe. I told Gillian to ask Lord Harlan. Did you not consider that he could have told her about Anne?”
He tossed his head, like the notion was somehow more ridiculous than the idea of her running across town the day before her wedding to gossip about her future husband’s most painful family secret.
“Why would he do that, Constance? When he has done everything possible to disavow his paternity and keep their connection hidden? And why would you say anything to Gillian? Why must you constantly interfere in matters that don’t concern you?”
“Because she needed to know.”
“My sister is unstrung, worried her child will be snatched and her name will be destroyed. My mother is beside herself. And Stoke has yet another reason to ruin us.” He paced back and forth.
“Julian, if you’d like me to intercede with Gillian on Anne’s behalf, I will gladly speak to her but—”
He glared at her. “Don’t even think about it. Dear God, why can’t you ever let things be? Why did I think that you could?”
She stared at him, aghast at the unfairness of his accusation.
Aghast, but alas—not shocked.
Certainty rose up in her. A knowledge that had been there all along.
Love is a system of behaviors.
She’d thought he had forgiven her.
He hadn’t.
She drew in a breath. “You know exactly why. I wrote to Gillian, weeks ago, to warn her about Lord Harlan’s character when I learned they were engaged. I am not the least ashamed of what I did nor sorry for it. And you have no right to be angry at me. I know you think I can be careless. But it is not fair or reasonable of you to hold me responsible for this. I did nothing wrong.”
He sighed and leaned against the glass doors, his chest rising, not looking at her.
“You should apologize to me,” she said flatly. “I insist.”
He put his face in his hands. When he finally removed his fingers, his eyes were red.
“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. He was hoarse. “You’re right. If you say you haven’t done it, I believe you.”
But his body told a different story. His body, which she had come to finally know so well the night before, did not look like he believed her. He was tense and agitated and his eyes did not meet hers.
He looked plainly like a man who did not trust her.
Even after last night … he didn’t trust her.
I’m scared that you’ll regret this. That I’ll do something to hurt you or make some mistake and you’ll feel trapped with me.
Constance, I won’t.
She sat down and folded her hands in her lap, where they would not be tempted to launch the teapot at the brick wall for the pleasure of watching it shatter.
“I see,” she said quietly.
“Fuck,” he muttered. She looked up. He was staring at her, as if in disbelief.
“Fuck. Constance … I’m sorry.” He knocked his head back against the brick wall. “You’re right. I’m upset—I wasn’t fully thinking. Of course, you’re right. Forgive me.”
He looked rattled. Shocked at himself. Guilty.
Which was, she supposed, a minor consolation.
She breathed in deeply and squeezed her own fingers to remain composed.
He came toward her. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “Truly.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He smacked the garden wall with his fist and groaned. She had never seen him look so devastated.
“Constance, I have to go find Stoke and take care of this before it gets worse.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“I’ll return tonight and make this up to you. Somehow.”
She straightened her spine. “There’s no need. I promised to spend the night with Poppy and Archer in Hammersmith. They wish to give me a sentimental farewell.”
He came and knelt in front of her and put his forehead to her knees. “We should talk about this,” he said miserably. “Before tomorrow.”
She sighed. “We will have two full days in a carriage to Cheshire with nothing to do but converse. You may render yourself prostrate then.”
She stroked his hair. “Don’t fret. I understand. Go do what you must. I’m sure your sister is in hysterics, and one can scarcely blame her.”
He looked up at her and his eyes were wet. “I don’t want to go. But I must.”
“Yes. You must,” she agreed.
“I love you,” he said.
And she believed his declaration.
But she also saw that he had not forgiven her. That he did not trust her.
And that it was possible—very likely—that he never truly would.
Love and hate, after all, were so closely intertwined that the sharp edge of one could sometimes be mistaken for the other. She had grown up negotiating the delicate balance of being adored and unwanted. She could not endure a lifetime of it.
“Go, my darling,” she said into his hair. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He rose and took her hand. “Constance, I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “I know.”
And she did know.
And she was sorry too.
Because neither knowing of his sorrow nor sharing it could change what she must do.
Margaret was waiting on the stairs when Apthorp returned.
“Julian, you’re back. I was so worried.”
She was calmer now, though she still looked as pale and shaky as she had when he’d discovered her in the staircase at midday, wailing.
“I went to visit Lord Harlan Stoke.”
At Lord Harlan’s name her face went rigid.
“The matter is settled,” he said quickly. “He won’t bother us again.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he no longer has a reason to. Come, let’s talk in the study.”
“Of course.”
She sat down on a sofa, posture ramrod straight as usual, hands folded in her lap. Such a lady, his sister. So flawlessly correct. So rigid. As though she could not afford a single mistake after the one that had cost her so dearly. It broke his heart.
“Constance had heard that Stoke has by-blows, and urged Miss Bastian to inquire. Stoke denied it, and evidently Miss Bastian became suspicious and found a letter from you in his things. That’s how she learned about Anne. She came here without telling him. He has spoken to her now, and we have agreed that it is best for all parties that no one know of the connection. Stoke was … not exactly a model of gentlemanly conduct, but he was at least apologetic for causing you alarm. He assured me you can expect no further trouble.”
Margaret sank back with relief. He wa
s glad, but he felt more miserable than he could recall feeling in all his life. He’d gone from Stoke’s back to the Rosecrofts’ to apologize once more to Constance, but she’d already left for Hammersmith and it was growing late. He could not let his sister wait in agony, imagining the worst. But he felt the guilt of his accusation coating him like scum on a putrid lake.
“Oh, thank God. I was so worried,” Margaret said.
“He also said he intends to settle funds on Anne after his wedding, if you will accept it.”
“I don’t want his money. I have never wanted his money.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
She took in a shaky breath. “But I will accept it for my daughter.”
“You needn’t. I will ensure she has a dowry.”
She was grim. “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Julian. Not a greater one than I’ve been already.”
He reached out and took her hand. “You aren’t a burden.”
She shook her head. “You are kind. But not honest.”
Honest. No. Perhaps he hadn’t been. “You’re right. I don’t think I ever said what I needed to say to you, all those years ago.”
She looked up. “And what is that?”
“That I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. That I couldn’t just bloody sort it out. That if our father had lived … That I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. It was my duty to protect you and I didn’t.”
She frowned at him. “Julian, if you blame yourself for what happened, you shouldn’t.”
But she didn’t know the truth. That he’d been relieved to be in London. He’d been happy learning politics, drawing up his waterway scheme, entertaining lovers on Charlotte Street—enjoying his freedom from the endless, tedious anxieties at home. He’d told himself he needed to be here to work, to meet his responsibilities. But more than money, Margaret had needed him at home.
“I could have spent more time in Cheshire, looking after you. I failed you when you needed me the most. I’d give anything to change it.”
“That simply isn’t true. You were off in London attempting to repair the damage Papa left. That was and is your duty; you are an earl. I had Mama to look after me and I had my own conscience. Falling in love may have been foolish of me, but it was my mistake, not yours.”
He stared at her. “I hate that you went through that.”
She smiled. “You needn’t, Julian. I don’t regret the past. I will never forgive Harlan for abandoning my daughter, but I would not trade Anne for all the world.”
“Nor would I,” his mother’s voice said from across the room.
He turned around, and saw she was sitting in a chair in the corner, sewing.
She rose and came to sit beside him and his sister. “We have all of us suffered since your father’s death—none more than dear Margaret—but we are comfortable. We have a happy home. You’ve borne too much, son, and it’s wearing on you. And that is my fault, for leaning on you too heavily when your father died.”
“Neither of you leaned on me. It was my responsibility—”
“No,” his mother said. “You were a child. You are still scarcely more than a child.”
“I am five and twenty,” he corrected her, fully indignant now.
“Exactly,” she said crisply. “And you’ve acted like a man double that in years for the past decade. It’s time you stop trying to find happiness for us and find it for yourself.”
“On that subject,” Margaret said. “I adore Lady Constance. And I have decided to take her advice. I hope you will not mind, but I had Mama write to Mr. Lane Day and extend an invitation for him to visit us this summer. I find him extremely pleasant.” She paused and grinned at him. “And I believe he feels the same way about me.”
He smiled. Lane Day was a gentle, serious soul—exactly right for Margaret. And if they were to marry, they might look after the estate, freeing him to spend more time in London with Constance.
“Cornish is a good man. I will leave him to your capable hands.”
“I hope you will be too busy sweeping Lady Constance off her feet to worry about who is sweeping Margaret off hers,” his mother said.
He winced. “I’m going to have to do better at that. My temper …” He shook his head. “I need to be better.”
“Oh, darling,” his mother sighed. “It’s not that you need to be better. It’s that you need to let everyone else be.”
She stood and patted him on the head, in a way she hadn’t done since he was a boy. “She has a big heart, your Constance. Trust in her to do right by it.”
“Oh, Mama,” he sighed. “I’ve hurt her. Over and over and over.”
His mother smiled. “Love often hurts. But how fortunate you are that you have a whole lifetime ahead of you to make it up to her. Over and over and over. And I’m sure she will put you to the task.”
Chapter 19
Apthorp stood at the head of the church and wished this part of his wedding day were over. He hadn’t slept all night. At dawn he’d been tempted to borrow a horse and ride to Hammersmith, but his mother had been awake and made him tea, observing he looked wan.
“Nerves on the day of your wedding are nothing out of the ordinary.” She’d smiled at him. “No need to do something rash. Let Constance enjoy her wedding morning with her family. Let’s have breakfast.”
He had not been able to get a single morsel down his throat. He felt impatient and irritable and overhot, like he had a fever.
All he wanted in this world was to see her walk through those doors and smile at him. Maybe then, the prickling of his skin would stop, and he would be able to breathe.
Rationally he knew she would appear at any moment now. And yet he could not stop picturing her eyes as they’d been the day before.
Empty. Like she’d departed from her own body.
The parade of guests finding their seats had begun to ease now, close as it was to the appointed hour of the wedding. He squinted to the back to see if there was any sign yet of his bride.
“Trust Constance to make an entrance,” Rosecroft said in his ear. “Will she sail in on a cloud of trained peacocks? Or perhaps she intends to have the place light up in flares when she arrives.”
He laughed weakly. “Neither would surprise me.”
They waited. The pleasant light filtering in through the windows grew dim. It was humid, turning wet, like it did before a sudden rain.
In the front row the Duchess of Westmead consulted Lord Avondale for a look at his watch, then whispered anxiously in Lady Rosecroft’s ear. Her lips formed the words Where could they be?
The dim light gave way to the soft patter of rain, and Apthorp felt a trickle of sweat fall beneath his neckcloth.
Still, they waited.
The chatter in the room grew louder as the guests began to make conversation in their seats, and the rain gave way to thunder.
And still, interminably, they waited.
The bishop pretended to be absorbed in his Bible. Apthorp shifted from foot to foot. Beside him Rosecroft commenced a grating, nearly inaudible humming.
He felt another bead of sweat prick on his forehead. The day was not particularly warm. The only reason to perspire was in fear that his bride would not materialize.
Don’t be absurd. Of course she will. She’s always late.
And yet his hands, too, began to sweat as the minutes ticked past and “late” became more like “missing.”
Don’t even think it.
But, Christ, he was standing up here before their every last relation and all the towering figures in society he and Constance had spent the past month convincing of their epic, star-crossed love … all of whom were casting their glances away from him and beginning to look queasy as the reality became too difficult to overlook.
The reality being, she had not come.
It was half past ten, one hour beyond the appointed start of the wedding, and she had not come.
Finally, there was movement in the back. Every head
turned in relief, prepared to beam at the bride. But there was no cloud of silk at the doors. Only the Duke of Westmead, looking paler than Apthorp had ever seen him. A tendon in his jaw twitched as he met Apthorp’s eye.
He shook his head from left to right: the universal symbol for no.
No, she was not coming.
The world went black before his eyes. He felt every stare in the room as though it were a burning match. His skin was on fire. He was going to burn alive.
Rosecroft’s hand clapped onto his shoulder and he made himself step forward, march back down the aisle.
The church was absolutely silent.
All he could hear was the sound of his own shameful, ragged breath.
He felt arms around him and heard the sound of doors closing. Lady Rosecroft was embracing him, leading him out of the church.
Westmead grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside a waiting carriage.
“Has something happened to Constance?” he asked weakly. “Is she ill, or—”
He couldn’t bear to say it. He knew. In his heart, he knew.
“She left,” Westmead said in a strangled voice. The duke cleared his throat. “She sent me and the servants running all about the house to search for our mother’s missing locket. She must have had a hackney waiting, because her carriage is still in the stables. I didn’t believe it at first until I realized the damn dog was missing. And then this was delivered.”
He grimly held out a piece of newsprint.
the earl i ruined: a not-quite countess confesses
By Henry Evesham.
Today it can be exclusively reported in SAINTS & SATYRS that Lady Constance Stonewell, engaged to be married to Earl of Apthorp, has been masquerading as Princess Cosima Ballade, writer of a notorious gossip circular, which last month published explosive accusations about her intended husband.
Lady Constance, who was due to marry the earl this morning, has chosen to publish her dramatic confession in these pages. These are her words:
Once upon a time, when I was a girl of fourteen, I fell for a handsome man. You will know him as Lord Golden. Or perhaps, by his real name: the Earl of Apthorp.
He was not particularly fond of me then. (I daresay he is even less so now.)
The Earl I Ruined Page 24