by Carrie Brock
Angelica leaned forward to pull Nicki into her arms. “You were everything to her, Nicole, but you must understand how a woman's heart works. Your mother loved this man very much. That love dwelt in a different place from the love she had for you and for Mina. Her despair was so strong, it overwhelmed her. She truly believed she would only continue to hurt the ones she loved most by remaining in the world.”
Somehow, her soft scent and soothing voice reached deep into the dark recesses of Nicki's grief and misery. But Nicki fought the kindness, hanging on to her sorrow and her guilt, for they were all she had left of the mother she had loved. “Losing her was like dying myself. How could she not know how much I loved her, how much I wanted her to go on living?”
Angelica took Nicki's shoulders, forcing their gazes to meet and hold. “That is what you wanted. What of her? Now that you are a woman, can you not put yourself in her place? If you were to lose Blake, would you not feel as though your heart was withering inside you? Could you spare a thought for your father or Mina, or Shelby, with such pain filling your entire being?”
Nicki thought of Blake and the anguish she had felt when she had learned of his betrayal. Yes, she could understand such a feeling only too well. But it did not lessen her grief.
“I wish I had known of this long ago. We have wasted too much time as enemies. I love your father very much, Nicole. I have since I was a small child. Can you not forgive me for that?”
“It has nothing to do with forgiving you. I—I have not been fair. It was my father I blamed, but I loved him too much. Better to transfer all my anger to you.”
“You were a little girl, not responsible for their happiness. None of what happened was your fault.”
Blake had once said the same thing, but they did not understand how much she had loved Marguerite. Her mother was perfect in every way. She was everything that Nicki wanted to be, but would never be. “I worry so much that . . . if I could not make my own mother love me enough to stay with me . . .”
“I will hear no more of that nonsense! You are a precious, delightful girl. If I have been hard on you it is because I feared you would get into trouble and be hurt—as I was.”
“But I am nothing like you. Mina has always been your favorite because she is a lady, as you are. I could never be what you expected.”
Angelica lifted Nicki's chin. “Mina is Marguerite made over and I have worried over her for that very reason. But you . . .”
“I am like my father.”
“No. You are like me, so very much like me when I was a girl that it frightens me. You have a strength, a resiliency, but you lack self-control.”
“Like my father.”
“No, like me.”
“But you are the perfect lady!”
Angelica stared into Nicki's eyes for a moment. She took a long, deep breath. “I want to tell you a story about a girl, younger than you are now, though very much like you. She loved life and skipped blithely along without a thought to the consequences of her actions. She loved a man, but he was pledged to another. The man loved her as well and though they longed to be together, their parents would not hear of it. So they stole what moments they could. Then the day came when the man was married to the other and the meetings stopped.” Angelica brushed the tears away from her eyes, but her face had taken on a glow.
“Several weeks later, the girl learned she was with child . . . his child. She was terrified. Suddenly, she must account for something she had done, and pay the price for her willfulness. She told her mother about the baby. Her mother told her father. Decisions were made without her involvement. They would remain in the country. Her mother's health was poor, and that excuse was given to their friends and acquaintances. When the baby was born it would be sent away and the girl would never see it again. A marriage with a respectable widower was arranged, to occur several months after the birth.”
In a cocoon of black velvet, Nicki listened to her stepmother's words. A tightness entered her chest. She sensed a building momentum, as though Angelica were about to reveal something Nicki did not wish to hear, could not bear to hear.
“The girl had more spunk than that.” Angelica continued. “She knew she must pay for her actions, and she agreed to the marriage. But she would not have her child sent away to strangers. She spoke to the father of the baby and his wife. An agreement was reached.” Angelica rubbed her eyes as though she could wipe away the rawness of her emotions. “The girl's parents agreed that when the child was born, it would go to the father and his new wife to be raised as their own. Time passed. The girl grew attached to the baby inside her. When the little girl was born, she held her for several minutes and she gave her a name. As she handed the infant over to her new mother, she said, ‘Her name shall be Nicole.’”
Disbelief washed over Nicki in horrifying, pounding waves. Yet she knew, perhaps had somehow always known. The girl was Angelica and the baby had been her. Angelica had turned her over to Marguerite.
“This is a fairy tale!”
“Perhaps so—because the girl later married the father and became the mother to her own child as she had always wanted to be.”
“Stop speaking of yourself as if this all happened to a stranger!”
Angelica stood still, the twisting of her hands the only sign of the extent of her distress. “It is the only way I have been able to live with what occurred! You say I have been hard on you, well perhaps I have. I could not allow you to follow in my footsteps. I thought my heart had been cleaved from my breast when Jonathon married Marguerite, but that pain was nothing compared to what it cost me to hand you over to them.”
Nicki's hands clenched into fists so tightly the nails bit into her palms. She welcomed the external hurt. “She never let on—never treated me any differently than she treated Mina.”
“And for that I will be eternally grateful to her. If she had been unkind, I could not have left you with her. But when I came those few times for visits, you were so happy and loved her so very much. I knew I could never take you from her. She had become your mother in every respect. But that did not mean that I did not want to watch you grow or that I did not long to be with you.”
Nicki buried her face in her hands. It was suddenly all so clear. Marguerite had not treated her any differently than Mina because she had not cared that Papa loved another. She had not cared because she had never loved him. “Why tell me now? You could have told me long ago!”
“Jonathon wanted to tell you after we were married, but I saw the way you idolized Marguerite. I could not bear to take that from you.”
Nicki closed her eyes. Little incidents she had so resented became suddenly clear: the way Angelica stepped in after her marriage to her father—so eager to become mother to his children; her kindness and concern for Mina, which Nicki had always viewed with skepticism, was now cast in a new light. Angelica had returned a favor to Marguerite by loving Mina as Marguerite had loved Nicki. But there was a difference that lent Angelica's treatment of Mina a gentleness. Angelica loved Mina's father.
She squeezed her eyelids closed more tightly and fought the scream that threatened to explode from the deepest recesses of her soul. For as long as she could remember Nicki had feared giving in to this pain. Its intensity was such that she knew she could never control it—never make it stop.
“Nicole, I have loved you from the moment I learned you were growing inside me. I loved you too much to send you away to strangers. I had to be able to know you were well and happy.”
Nicki nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words.
Angelica's hands on her shoulders drew her near. Nicki struggled to escape the hold, fought against it. The dark chasm of madness yawned before her—ever threatening because there would be no end once she began to fall.
“Stop it, Nicole! Stop hiding. You loved Marguerite and I think you must know how much you meant to her. I told you the truth for two reasons. The first is that, selfishly, I wanted you to know. But secondly, and more impor
tant, you needed to realize that you were not responsible for her unhappiness. If anything, you gave her something to live for. But she had a hole deep inside her no one could fill. Not even you. No matter how much you wanted to.”
The chasm loomed closer, but Angelica's voice surrounded her. With a sob Nicki went into her waiting arms. A heavy blackness descended over her—swirled and caught at her, dragging her into its dizzying vortex. Hot tears rolled down her face, and the breath in her lungs disappeared into the nothingness. She could not breathe.
She felt Angelica's hold tighten, became aware of sobs shaking the woman's slender frame. “Oh, God, my baby.”
A warmth trickled down through the coldness surrounding Nicki, and she felt herself lifted from the edge of the void and carried back toward the light. It could not be possible that she remembered being held as a newborn, but there was a rightness about this—a comfort and security she had never experienced with Marguerite. Somehow she had always felt she must be the one to give love, but now it felt good to receive it. She took a deep breath and pulled away, but her hands reached out to clasp Angelica's tightly.
“I owe you an apology. I . . . I just did not know.”
Angelica offered a watery smile. “How could you? You were just a child dealing with grown-ups and their complicated emotions. You acted in the only way you knew—you took the responsibility onto yourself. It never belonged there.”
“I know that now—thanks to you.”
Angelica sighed, her gaze searched Nicki's face. “I hope we can be friends.”
“As we are to be neighbors, perhaps we can start there. I . . . I think I shall like having you for a mother—now that I think I understand you better.”
“I have been so afraid you would make the same mistakes I made that I did not take the time to give you what you needed. I was too new at being a mother. I hope I have done better with Shelby.”
“I am truly sorry for all that happened to you. The pain you must have felt . . .”
“Since I married Jonathon, all that had nearly been erased. I was happy in my marriage, but it pained me that I did not know how to get close to you. Perhaps that can now become a part of the past as well.”
Nicki pressed Angelica's cold hands. “I promise to let it go, if you will.”
Angelica nodded wordlessly, her tears springing afresh. Nicki met her gaze in silent understanding. Without a word, she picked up Marguerite's note from the dressing table and held it over the candle. As the aged paper caught the flame, Nicki dropped it into the tiny porcelain music box given to her by Marguerite on her ninth birthday. The flame caught the lining, hungrily destroying the velvet. In moments nothing remained but pale white ashes. Nicki's heart lightened. She snapped the lid shut.
She returned her attention to Angelica. “In a few hours, I must go to Blake and make amends. I . . . I have dealt him quite a blow. I must prove to him how much I truly love him.”
Angelica nodded again. “You must first get some rest. We cannot have a bride with swollen eyes and dark circles beneath them.”
With one last shared smile, Angelica rose and left the room. Nicki rested her elbows on the top of the dressing table and dropped her face to her hands.
She dared not tell Angelica she would go to Blake now to make her peace. No matter that she knew Angelica had flaunted propriety as a youth. The woman would not allow her daughter the same carelessness. She could not risk her child suffering as she had.
Somehow, the thought made Nicki smile. One day, would she lecture her own daughter about the danger of climbing trees and riding without a hat? Probably. It seemed that was the way of love.
Chapter 22
. . .
Blake brooded as he stared into the flames of the fire. He took a long swallow of claret. Neither the heat of the fire nor the burning of the liquor in his throat could reach the chill emanating from inside him. He had lost her. In the space of an evening he had lost Nicole—and he had done nothing to hold on to her. Weak protestations. What were they but excuses? He had known what she had wanted to hear.
His eyes burned, and he rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. It was late, but there would be no sleep for him now. Loneliness yawned before him, more horrifying because he had opened his arms and welcomed it—embraced it like a pet who has been lost then found.
Sweet, trusting Nicole. So generous with the love that welled from her like a continuous spring of fresh, clear water. He craved that love. Gone was the child's need for the return of his mother, or the approval of his father. Blake wanted the love and devotion of one woman, and he had been unable to hold on to it—because he had not been able to tell Nicole he loved her.
Toasting the air with his glass, he swallowed the last of the dark liquid. Brave soul, to admit his feelings to himself here in the privacy of his study. Nicole said he should know the price of silence. God, she could see right into his heart, past all the carefully maintained aloofness, the anger and hate, the deception.
No one else had ever cared enough to brave his disdain and delve beneath the layers to reach what lay at the core of him. He had taken her for granted, smiled in patronizing amusement at her antics. But Nicole's outrageousness stemmed from a courage and strength of will he could not help but admire. She had offered him honesty and he had returned her trust with subterfuge.
She said he would have his answer soon. His hand tightened on the empty glass. He knew what her answer would be. Nicole, so honest herself, could never condone what she considered his duplicity. After all, what had he given her that was worth risking more pain?
Tonight her eyes had held an expression of such disillusionment when he told her he cared for her, that he wanted the marriage. She saw through him. In the face of her accusations he continued to maintain his distance—refused to offer anything of himself—and had most likely lost his chance for a future with her.
He stared at the toe of his boot, in his mind seeing Nicole's bright smile, eyes that mirrored her every emotion—and then the starkness in her gaze this evening, the tightness of her mouth. Ringing inside of him were her words, an echo through the emptiness: I gave you my heart—risked everything I hold most dear. And you gave only what was safe.
He sat up, pressed the cool glass to his temple. Nicole possessed wisdom beyond her years. He had been a damn fool. What truly mattered? Revenge? Knowing Jonathon Langley and his family, Blake could only regret his past actions. Pride? Cowering here in the darkness with a bottle of claret seemed a paltry reward for maintaining his dignity.
The silence of the house pounded against his ears—quiet, though filled to bursting with people. Loneliness taunted him, teased him that he would always know only this hollow yearning. Even in the midst of a crowd he would be alone. His own fault. Nicole had given him ample opportunities to admit his feelings, to let go of the past—and he had rebuffed her at every turn.
With a deep sigh, he set the empty snifter on the floor. Since his return to England, Blake had learned of his mother's demise and realized his father's affection for him. Shining above all those discoveries was the love of a girl who had stumbled through his window one night searching for a hero. And she believed that hero existed inside of him.
More importantly perhaps, she made him believe it.
Out of the darkness of his soul blazed a crisp, clean light. To admit his love for Nicole was not to lose anything, for she had already given him back much of what he had lost. And more than that, she had brought to him a joy and an anticipation for the future he had never thought to experience. To allow that gift to go unrecognized would be the final death sentence for him.
Blake stood; pushed his hands through his hair. She had to listen to him. After hearing him out she could make her choice, but she would make it with the knowledge of his true feelings. If he still lost her, at least he would know he had put up a fight. Nicole Langley was just too great a prize to let slip away.
When he turned, a movement across the room caught his attention. A
slender figure stood silhouetted between open French doors. His heart gave a leap. For the briefest instant, Blake thought the drink had gone to his head.
“See how respectable you have made me? Not only am I fully clothed, but I decided to use the door.”
Slowly, he moved around the bulky chair, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not too respectable, I hope. I thought you perfect as you were.”
Nicole stepped into the room and reached up to push back the hood of her cloak. The dim light from the lamp on the desk touched her face and transformed her from wraith to flesh and blood.
She avoided his gaze and chose a path farthest from him to reach the fire. As she held her hands out to the blaze, Blake saw her fingers tremble.
With a sense of foreboding beating through his veins, he moved to close the doors. He took a fortifying breath and turned to Nicole. The fire snapped. She flinched in reaction. Her demeanor disturbed him. He studied her delicate profile, searched for the source of his angst. A wisp of pale hair brushed her cheek. She pushed it away absently. The familiar gesture set him somewhat more at ease. Blake ran his fingers through his own hair. Never had he been so nervous, not even when he first had stepped on American soil penniless and friendless.
He released his breath as he strode to the wing chair he had vacated moments before. He walked behind it and rested his elbows on the tall back. As though sensing his approach, she risked a furtive glance in his direction, still avoiding his eyes.
That was it. Up to this point, Nicole had never been fearful of him, yet now she stood like a terrified doe poised for flight.
“Blake, I . . . I came to tell you how sorry I am.”
If she had told him she was the queen of England, Blake could not have been more surprised. “And what have you to be sorry for, little Nicole?”