by Mary Balogh
“He wants me to go to him,” she said. “Or he will come here for me. I have written back to say that I will not go and that I will not see him if he comes here.” She had her eyes tightly closed.
Peregrine’s hand squeezed her shoulder unconsciously. “Do you love him, Grace?” he asked. Every blood vessel in his body seemed to be throbbing.
“No,” she said. “No, I don’t love him. I hate him.” There was a pause. “But there is something. I think perhaps I belong with him. I think perhaps I don’t belong with you, Perry. I have wanted to do so, but I am afraid that I don’t.”
He could feel the pain of her first sob tearing at her as she put her hands over her face. He could feel it because he shared it. He gripped both her shoulders bruisingly, not even realizing that he did so, and bent his head forward. He could not even pull her against him to comfort her and himself. She did not belong in his arms any longer.
It had happened then, his mind told him quite dispassionately. It had happened at last. It was too late now to unask the question. He had asked it, and she had replied. It had happened.
He whirled around suddenly, grasped a porcelain figurine that happened to be within his reach, and hurled it toward the fireplace. It smashed satisfyingly against the mantel, and the pieces tinkled noisily into the hearth.
“Damn it!” he said between his teeth. “Damn Sandersford. And damn you, Grace.”
He stood facing away from her, his hands in fists at his sides, appalled by the echo of his own words. There was perfect silence behind him. She had stopped sobbing.
He was surprised by the calmness of his own voice a few moments later as he moved forward to nudge together the pieces of porcelain in the hearth with the toe of his boot. “You will be wishing to leave, then?” he asked, and turned to her.
She looked at him with reddened, frightened eyes. “Leave?” she said. “Leave here? You are asking me to, Perry? Oh, God, has it come to this, then? But I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be with Gareth again. I want to be here with you. I want to be safe with you. But I have told you that I do not belong with you any longer. And you hate me now. How could you not? Oh, God, what is happening?”
“Perhaps we are both being hysterical,” he said, turning and walking back to the desk, rearranging the objects lying on its surface, putting some distance between them. “I don’t want you to leave, Grace. And you do not want to go. Not yet, anyway. You seem unsure of your feelings. Stay then until you are.”
“That is unfair to you,” she said.
He laughed rather grimly as he crumpled the sheet of paper on which he had been doodling earlier. “What, then?” he said. “I don’t want you leaving me, Grace, when you are not even sure that you wish to do so and when I do not wish you to go. And I suppose I must be thankful that you have been honest with me. You might have hidden that letter.” He turned to look at her. “Stay with me. Stay at least until you know you can no longer do so. I know you will tell me when the time comes.” Was his voice as cold and abrupt as it sounded to his own ears? he wondered.
“When?” she whispered. “Are you so sure, then, of my final decision? Is it inevitable, Perry? And could you bear to have me stay permanently after all this?”
He smiled suddenly, unexpectedly, and just a little grimly. “Let us not be morbid,” he said. “I think my head is going to explode into a thousand pieces if I don’t get it into the outdoors immediately. Come for a walk with me, Grace. Look, it is trying to snow out there.”
“I can’t, Perry,” she said.
“Yes, you can.” His smile had taken a firmer hold of his face. “We will take a brisk walk along the lane. I must have you with me to make beauty and poetry out of those heavy gray clouds and all the bare branches. No, you are not to cry again. I forbid it. Absolutely. Shall I send someone up for your outdoor things, or will you go yourself?”
“I’ll go,” she said.
So, Peregrine thought, completing the unnecessary task of tidying his desk after Grace had left, life continued on, did it? Tears dried, wounds were bound up, and life continued. Only in grand tragedy did a catastrophe happen in one sweep. In real life it came in a series of small agonies. And perhaps in the end it never came at all. Or perhaps it did. But regardless of the outcome, life continued. Life had to continue.
He glanced uneasily at the porcelain pieces on the hearth and pulled the bell rope to summon a servant.
THE NEWS THAT Grace’s father and brother were coming to stay at Reardon Park with the latter’s wife and daughter created a stir of pleased anticipation in the village of Abbotsford and the surrounding areas. These people had discovered the year before, of course, that Lady Lampman was not as alone in the world as they had once thought but that she did have family members whom she had visited with her husband. But to know that those people were coming was a great salve to their curiosity and a boost to their social expectations, which tended to lag during the winter, once Christmas was over.
The added news that Lord Amberley was to entertain Viscount Sandersford at about the same time added an extra buzz of excitement. Was he an eligible gentleman? Mrs. Morton asked Mrs. Carrington. Mrs. Courtney, present when the question was asked, privately lamented the fact that her Susan was still away at her Aunt Henshaw’s and not like to be home again until April.
The Earl of Amberley himself was surprised by the news of the imminent arrival of an uninvited guest. His acquaintance with Lord Sandersford was of short duration and was not by any means an intimate one. But his sister reminded him that the viscount was a neighbor of Lady Lampman’s brother and had known Lady Lampman herself all his life.
“To be sure,” he said. “I had forgotten. And he had them all out to Hammersmith for a few days, did he not, just before Perry and Lady Lampman came home? I daresay he wants to be a part of this gathering at Reardon Park.”
“He is very handsome,” Madeline said. “Should I fall in love with him, do you suppose, Edmund? Or is he a little old for me?”
“Heaven help us,” her brother said. “You fall in love often enough when we are in London, Madeline. Can you not wait until we return there before doing so again?”
“Oh, I suppose, so,” she said with a laugh. “Besides, I don’t believe I could bring myself to fall in love with a gentleman beyond the age of thirty. And Lord Sandersford must be closer to forty. What a strange man he must be, though, to invite himself to the home of a virtual stranger.”
“I am quite sure he knows of my friendship with Perry,” Lord Amberley said. “And I am very pleased to be able to oblige Perry.”
The Countess of Amberley began to organize a dinner party in honor of her son’s guest and Sir Peregrine’s, and Mrs. Morton had to pay a call on both Mrs. Cartwright and Mrs. Carrington before she could decide whether to give a card party or a charades party. She finally decided on a combination of both.
Everyone agreed that the end of February was the very best time to be expecting visitors in the neighborhood. The winter had made everyone dreary, and spring had only just begun to show a few tantalizing signs that it was on the way. Lady Lampman and Sir Peregrine had told them after church that there were a few brave snowdrops blooming already at Reardon Park. But then everyone knew that the Lady Lampman had only to look at a patch of bare soil to persuade a flower to grow there. It hardly seemed fair, Mrs. Courtney commented cheerfully to her spouse during the carriage ride home.
IT WAS STRANGE, Grace thought, how life went on. No matter how bad things became, provided one survived at all, one somehow picked up the pieces of the disaster and went on living. She had proved it in the past. Gareth’s leaving. The scandal of her pregnancy. Gareth’s letter announcing his marriage. Her son’s death. The dreadful quarrel between Paul and their father. Her leaving with him. Life had continued. She had felt dead for nine years, had even welcomed the land of the half-dead. But she had lived on, and she had eventually come back to full life.
And now she was surviving again. Barely surviving, sh
e sometimes felt, but living on nonetheless. She was still with Perry. Somehow she was still with him. And not just living in the same house with him. They talked to each other, read together, walked together, watched together for signs of spring. They treated each other with a wary sort of courtesy. No, perhaps with more than just courtesy.
It was true that they no longer lived as man and wife. She had waited in their bedchamber the night after Gareth’s letter came, the night after Perry’s terrible outburst, shivering, to tell him that she could no longer share the room with him, not at least until she could offer him her undivided loyalty. But she had waited all night. He had not come then or any night since.
She missed him dreadfully. And she wanted him. But she could make no move toward him until she was quite sure of herself beyond any doubt at all. She was quite sure that she loved him and always would. But then, she had known that for a long time. It was herself she was unsure of. She was not quite sure that she belonged with him, that she deserved him, that she had anything of value to offer their marriage. She was almost sure, but not quite.
And was their reconciliation entirely up to her, anyway? Would Perry take her back even if she asked? She had been terribly disloyal to their marriage. And he had been furiously angry during that one short outburst when he had thrown the figurine. Could she expect that he would willingly forgive her to the extent of returning to their bed again?
She was glad that her family was coming. Their presence would be a distraction for both Perry and herself. And she had a feeling too that if ever she was going to straighten out her life finally, it was not only Perry with whom she had to deal but them too. And she missed her father. Having seen him again the year before, she realized how much of both their lives they had wasted apart from each other.
She felt sick on the afternoon when Lord Amberley paid a call on them and announced with a smile that Lord Sandersford was to be his guest for a few days at the end of the month. She did not dare look at Perry.
“Sandersford is your father’s neighbor, Lady Lampman?” the earl asked politely.
“Yes,” she said. “We grew up together.”
“You will be happy to have both your family and a neighbor close to you again, then,” he said.
“Yes.” She called on the calmness of manner that had seen her through nine years with Paul.
“I thought you were on your way back to London soon, Edmund,” Peregrine said. His voice sounded quite normal.
“Yes,” Lord Amberley said. “Mama and Madeline are eager to be on the way. Dominic left two weeks ago. But we can wait until our guest leaves. I will be quite happy to have him, I do assure you.”
Grace felt sick. And yet almost relieved at the same time. There had been a sense of waiting for the past two months. Nothing was over. Nothing had been settled. Now something would happen once and for all. And the confidence was growing in her that this time she was going to free herself from the power Gareth had exerted over her in one form or another for much of her life. This time she was going to take the initiative. And this time she would win.
Her only hope was to fight now, years and years too late. But, no, it was not too late. She was thirty-seven years old, but she was not dead yet or anywhere close to death, she hoped. She had a great deal of living yet to do and a great deal to live for. Oh, a very great deal.
On the whole, she was glad that Gareth was coming to Amberley Court. Even though Perry looked white and tense in the days between Lord Amberley’s visit and the arrival of her family. Even though he looked at her with haunted eyes. Yes, she was glad. Soon she would be able to offer him her undivided loyalty, if he was willing to accept it. Her love too, if he wanted it. The look on his face made her hope. But she would not think of that yet.
Not until she was quite, quite sure of herself.
ALL THE EXPECTED visitors arrived before the end of February. Grace’s family, who came first, were all in the best of health. Lord Pawley was even walking without his cane and seemed quite content to sit most of the time in a room with his family rather than keep to his own room. Priscilla was her usual exuberant self and had almost eight months’ worth of news to divulge to her uncle and aunt.
It was several days later before word reached Reardon Park that Lord Sandersford had arrived at Amberley Court. But Ethel clearly knew that he was coming. She took the first opportunity of their being alone together to raise the matter with Grace.
“I should not have accepted that letter to send to you,” she said. “It was quite against my better judgment to do so, and I have never been able to summon the courage to confess to Martin. I sent it eventually only in the hope of saving you from just such an encounter as this, Grace. Or maybe you have invited him. Maybe you welcome his coming. I don’t know. I just wish I had not got involved.”
“You must not blame yourself,” Grace said. “And you must not be afraid for me or for Perry.”
Ethel looked both dubious and troubled, but Grace would say no more. She followed Peregrine to his dressing room after the rector brought them the news that Lord Amberley’s visitor had arrived. She stood inside the door while he looked at her in some surprise and dismissed his valet.
“Perry,” she said as soon as they were alone, “I wish you to invite Lord Sandersford to tea one afternoon. Preferably tomorrow. Will you?”
He looked at her cold, set face and did not smile. “Yes, if you wish, Grace,” he said. “I shall invite Edmund and the countess too. I will suggest tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” she said.
They looked at each other for a few moments longer, and then she turned to leave because there really was nothing more to say.
And they did not see each other alone again until late the following afternoon. In the morning Grace went into Abbotsford with Ethel while Peregrine took Martin and Priscilla to call on the Mortons.
The arrival in the afternoon of Lord Amberley, his mother, and their guest, and the added presence of Mr. Courtney and his daughter, Susan, who had returned early from her aunt’s, made the whole situation somewhat more comfortable, Grace found after curtsying to Gareth and motioning him to a chair close to her own. She could better ignore the tense look on her husband’s face, a look that she knew was mirrored on her own, the disapproving frowns of her father and Martin, and the anxious, guilt-ridden glances of Ethel.
She waited until Susan and Priscilla were in the midst of an excited exchange of views on fashion and everyone else seemed to be fully engaged in conversation before rising to her feet.
“May I show you our garden, Lord Sandersford?” she asked politely. “I am afraid there is not a great deal of color yet, but the daffodils are in bud.”
He rose to his feet, a smile on his handsome face.
Grace was fully aware of his great height, the breadth of his shoulders, the aura of masculinity that had always surrounded Gareth from as far back as she could remember.
“I would be delighted, ma’am,” he said.
She did not look at Peregrine. She held her shawl tightly about her as they went outside and walked past the flower beds and down into the orchard.
“I thought you might make it difficult for me,” he said. “I thought you might refuse to see me at first.”
“No,” she said. “I have been looking forward to your coming, Gareth.” She looked up into his handsome, smiling face. “I have a number of things that I wish to say to you.”
“There is only one that I wish to hear,” he said. “When will you come away with me, Grace? Immediately? There is no point in further delay, you know.”
“I will not be going with you,” she said, “ever. And for one simple reason, Gareth. I have no wish to do so. No, perhaps there is another reason even more important. I have no need to go away with you. You see, I have finally forgiven myself for the past and I have no further need to punish myself with you.”
He laughed. “What is this?” he said. “You have been feeling guilty, Grace? You have been punishing yourself
with me? Whatever do you mean?”
“I sinned against all the moral laws of our society and church when I gave myself to you,” she said. “My father’s faith in me was broken when he knew I was with child. I brought great shame and embarrassment to him and Martin. I caused a dreadful rift between Papa and Paul. And Paul died without any reconciliation between them. I gave birth to an illegitimate child and he died at a time when I was not taking care of him. I was sleeping that afternoon, having persuaded myself that I had a headache as a result of a fancied insult from Ethel. And after Paul’s death I took an easy route to securing my future by marrying a man ten years my junior, who offered out of the kindness of his heart. That is a great deal of guilt for one human being to carry around, Gareth.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “We were in love; what we did was not wrong. And everyone else on your list made a free decision, Grace. You are not responsible for other people’s actions.”
“We were not in love,” she said quietly. “You used the wrong pronoun, Gareth. I was in love. You have never loved. You do not know the meaning of the word. I fed your self-love when we were young by worshipping you and allowing you to dominate me. I satisfied your appetite for the last few weeks you were at home until you could get away and meet more desirable females. And wealthier ladies. You did not love me. And you never had the least intention of marrying me.”
“That is not true,” he said. “You know it is not true, Grace. Ours is the love of a lifetime. It is still more powerful than any other emotion in our lives. You are afraid to admit the truth.”
“No,” she said. “At last I am not afraid to admit it, Gareth. It has always been easier to believe that we shared a great love. But I was a fool and a dupe, and I can only feel enormous relief that you were not just a little more honorable than you were. I would have married you and now I would either be living a life of great misery or be so thoroughly convinced that your selfish, amoral attitude to life was right that I would have lost all sense of right and wrong.”