by Ann Clement
But the curtains were drawn in all the front windows, and Letitia allowed herself a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t stay at Park Lane a minute longer than absolutely necessary. Tonight, however, she would sleep again in her old bed. Putting her life in order would begin tomorrow.
Percy’s groom rolled down the steps and was waiting to help her out of the carriage. Josepha preceded her to the front stairs and tapped on the door.
After a moment, the door opened, and Jasper, her father’s footman, poked his head out, his face freezing in astonishment.
“Good evening, Jasper,” she said. “Has my father returned from Fratton yet?”
His footman’s manners prevailed at last. Jasper stopped gaping and opened the door all the way. The initial shock gave way to a genuine smile he quickly suppressed.
“No, my lady,” he replied, and Letitia felt the weight lift off her shoulders.
“Well,” she said lightly, “it does not signify. Perhaps he shall be back soon.”
“His lordship set his return date for the Saturday after Michaelmas.”
Which fell on the coming Saturday, so she had almost two weeks. Letitia bit back a smile, hoping that Jasper did not notice her relief.
“I shall stay in my old room.” She gave him her gloves and bonnet.
Jasper bowed. “Certainly, my lady,” he said eagerly. “Shall I bring tea while my lady’s bedchamber is being prepared?”
“That would be splendid.” Letitia nodded. “I shall take tea in my old sitting room, if you please. No need to disturb the drawing room until my father’s return. I shan’t be entertaining anyone. Oh, and add another cup for Josepha, if you please.”
Jasper bowed and hastened away. The downstairs would be abuzz in no time, yet Letitia’s spirits became lighter for the first time since she left Bromsholme. It warmed her to know that at least one of the servants remembered her kindly.
But the soothing kindness of his welcome faded away as soon as she remembered why she was here.
How could Percy have dealt her such a blow? The solid steadiness, the safe haven he had become over the last three months proved nothing more than a mirage. A soap bubble that burst on the first obstacle in its way. Why had she allowed herself to think that Percy might love her?
Because she was stupid enough to trust a man. Letitia chided herself for the thousandth time while climbing to the upper floor. As if her experience with Sir Walter Hasting were not enough, not to mention her father. Perhaps Viscount Darnley was not cut from the same cloth, but she wouldn’t bet on it.
She had allowed herself to believe that Percy was different too, and look where trusting him got her. Under a veneer of kindness, Percy was as cold and unjustly judgmental as her father. She could never forgive him for condemning his own child to an uncertain future.
She would never forgive herself for falling in love with Percy. Her naïveté was truly astounding.
Her nerves were so jittery she nearly jumped at the whining sound the hinges made when she opened the door to her old sitting room. The curtains were already pulled back and the scullery maid was hastily building a fire in the fireplace. The sounds of other maids’ activities drifted from her bedchamber.
Letitia gazed through the window at the familiar mass of treetops in Hyde Park. Apparently, like her mother, she was not destined for happiness. She rubbed her face, trying to prevent the pinching in her nose that heralded more tears. How could there be any left after all the crying she had done from the moment her carriage had left Bromsholme?
Last evening, by the time they had stopped for the night at the inn, her eyes were swollen to two narrow slits and her nostrils burned from constant wiping. She felt weak and tired. Her brain and her muscles had become too mushy to protest when Josie set a bowl of soup in front of her and a tankard of ale. She ate and drank like an obedient child and fell asleep almost before Josie pulled the nightshift over her head.
The door whined again, admitting Jasper with the tea tray.
“Mrs. Wardle is asking whether you prefer to eat dinner downstairs or up here, my lady,” he asked while setting the tray.
“Up here. I’d like a bath beforehand, if she can spare some hot water.”
Jasper bowed. “Very well, my lady.”
As soon as he left, she poured herself a cup and walked to the window. Hyde Park was solemn in its autumnal dusk, the last faint rays of sunlight still lingering on the top branches amid their changing colors.
There were so many decisions looming ahead of her for which she was ill prepared. What if she had a son? He would be the rightful heir to the baronetcy. She would have to fight for his birthright. But if she stayed in England, Percy could take the child away from her. No one would stop him. And if she went to America, how was she going to assure her son’s proper upbringing, alone and probably with little money?
Reality began to sink its teeth into her mind. Where did one find out about ships leaving for Boston or Philadelphia? She couldn’t ask her father’s servants, and even less so Percy’s coachman and groom. Did she have enough to pay for the passage? Percy was very generous with her pin money, and as all bills went directly to him anyway, she hardly used it. But some of what she had saved had been already spent on the travel from Norfolk. What if she did not have enough?
She had no idea how much passage to America would cost—and that was only the beginning. There she would need to find a house for herself and Josie, and for the baby that would come in the spring. How long would it take her to earn anything on her own? Miniatures and decoupage might bring some money, but would it be enough?
Her heart raced in panic just thinking about it all. And then she felt the pervasive chill of fear wrapping its ugly tentacles around her heart—what if she couldn’t make a living painting? She had nothing to give to her child. Nothing beyond her love. But her love would not feed him.
The door hinge’s dissatisfaction with life made itself known again. Letitia glanced over her shoulder.
“There is a cup for you on the tray, Josie,” she said. “Did you go downstairs?”
“I did.” Josepha walked over to the tea table and poured tea. “Everyone sends their best wishes.”
“Thank you, Josie. I’m sure your mother was very glad to see you.”
Josepha nodded. “Eliza asked about you, of course.”
“Did you tell her, Josie?”
“No. Everyone came to the kitchen at once. I told them we might stay here for a few days before you resumed your journey.” She stopped, walked to the slightly open door to the bedchamber and closed it.
Letitia sat in one of the armchairs.
“Tomorrow, we will find this Mr. Welch. I hope he’s a better sort than my father’s solicitor.”
Josepha ran her thumb over the image of a trilling nightingale on the saucer, her brow creased, the usual smile gone.
“Are you sure this scheme of yours will work?” she asked. “Your husband is not a vengeful man. After what you told me yesterday, it still pains me to think about the hurt his first wife inflicted on him. It does not justify his behavior toward you, to be sure. However, I am willing to wager he’s already come to his senses and wants to make amends.”
“The only amends I want is the acknowledgment that the child is his. Don’t expect me to return to Bromsholme.”
“You are his wife.”
Indeed. A wife, but not a person in her own right as far as the law was concerned.
“He doesn’t trust me, Josie.” Her voice cracked despite her effort to sound unconcerned. “I thought we were friends, not just lovers, but I was so wrong.” She blinked rapidly when the burning behind her eyelids returned with full force. “I cannot live in fear that whatever I do might be turned into a proof of my fallibility.”
Josepha sighed. “This is a madcap undertaking, this going to America,” she grumbled. “Your aunt
in Wiltshire would be delighted if you stayed with her.”
“Aunt Lydia?” Letitia asked. She had thought about it. “If Percy acknowledges the child and agrees to a separation, you and I could move in with her. But I cannot add to her burdens now. How much can a rector’s widow spare, even if he once had a good living? No, my savings would dwindle soon to nothing, without any chance to replenish them. I prefer to go to America without delay.”
She could not admit to Josie, and least of all to herself, how this decision frightened her.
It kept her tossing in bed long after Josie bid her good-night, despite feeling exhausted. Yes, Aunt Lydia would welcome her with open arms, but she would also never defy a husband’s authority and would find it troubling that Letitia insisted on leaving Percy.
He held so much power over her life, given him by law. And he still held hostage her heart, which she had given him so willingly. No, Letitia amended that last thought. He had stolen it from her. Charmed it out with his kindness, his liberality, his wisdom and later with his kisses and with every night they spent together, piece by piece, until there remained only emptiness inside her, because he had not given her his heart in return.
She had almost made up her mind to throw out her latest sketchbook. It would remind her too forcefully about all those evenings he had spent posing or when they had sat in his library, reading, laughing, talking about anything and everything, and invariably ending up in his bed. Those evenings were firmly in her past.
Best not to think about them at all.
She immediately saw Percy sitting at his desk, his back to the fireplace, his dark head bent over some paperwork before he joined her on the sofa, taking the sketchbook from her hand and setting it aside, or at the library table, going over more old watercolors of Wycombe Oaks interiors, his arms around her waist, his cheek resting on her hair.
Damn him.
Only two days ago, she had been in heaven. They couldn’t satiate their hunger for each other after ten days of separation. She had told him she loved him. He… Well, she hadn’t let him finish when he began to speak, so sure of his intentions. Now she wished she had.
Why did he believe Sarah, that conniving woman who had sowed the seeds of distrust in his heart? Especially after he had learned firsthand how untruthful Sarah could be?
God, how was she going to bring up their child alone?
How was she going to live alone?
She turned to her other side, and a lock of hair fell over her face. She brushed it away with irritation. Percy loved her hair so short, and she had basked in his openly admiring gaze.
The burning behind her eyelids returned. How insignificant her hair was in this whole affair.
He liked to twine it around his fingers and play with it, to hold it to one side so he could kiss her behind her ear. Another thing that would never happen again. Just like she would never again fall asleep by his side.
She curled up, pulling the blankets tightly around herself. Her old bed was narrower than Percy’s stately piece at Bromsholme and it reminded her more of a yawning, empty cave than cozy softness and comfort.
Letitia turned again, but her old mattress had morphed into a bed of thorns since she left London in June. Not a single comfortable spot to rest on it.
She threw off the covers and climbed out. The logs in the fireplace, glowing red, pulsed with heat and sent an occasional spark into the chimney. She lit a candle, put on her robe, took the shawl hanging over the chair’s back and left the room.
Her father’s study appeared the same as always. At least she could not tell the difference with the night’s shadows swallowing most of the room. Letitia had never been a frequent visitor here. The study was her father’s favorite room and a place of business. She used to sneak in and study the beautiful painting when he was not in London.
Today, the dust covers on the furniture were a reassuring sign of his absence. Letitia had planned to come in here in the morning to see the familiar portrait again, now that she knew who the sitter really was, but since she could not fall asleep, there was no harm in doing it at night.
Percy’s mother, immortalized on the canvas by Sir Joshua Reynolds’s masterful hand, gazed at her in the dark with the same serene smile with which she had always greeted her in the daylight.
Her mother called the enigmatically smiling young woman her father’s cousin, unfortunate to die young. But why, if her father was related to Percy’s mother, had there never been even a mention of the Hanburys until he had arranged her marriage?
The taller peaks formed by the dust covers on the desk and other tables betrayed the location of candleholders. Letitia uncovered and lit them all. The shadows receded, and Lady Hanbury smiled with more warmth at her from her place on the wall.
Letitia pulled up an armchair and turned it around to face the painting, then peeled off the dust cover.
“Good evening, Mother,” she said, sitting down. “You are my mother now too. You may laugh at me if you wish. I have admired your portrait for so many years, and yet, how would I know that one day I too would become Lady Hanbury? I can tell you all about your son. He is no longer the little boy you left behind. He is a grown man. And he married me. And I…well, I wish he loved me a little. Because I am afraid to have a child all alone. What if I die, like you? Who will take care of the baby then?”
Her throat became so tight she feared she might choke on the lump that filled it completely. There were not enough muscles in her face to stop the tears from coming. She wiped at them with her hand and sat quietly for a moment.
“Do you want to know about your son?” she whispered at last, watching the immobile smile of her mother-in-law. “He has grown into a beautiful man, you know. I think I can say so with some authority because I paint. I painted him as Endymion. He used to bring me flowers from the garden almost every morning. And we used to spend evenings together. Sometimes he read aloud to me. I thought he was happy. And I wanted Wycombe Oaks to become the most beautiful home he had ever seen.”
The tears poured, no matter how hard she tried to keep them at bay.
“You see”—the last word had an unnaturally high pitch while she started crying in earnest—“Percy married me to get Wycombe Oaks back. Your husband sold it to my father after you died. This is why you are here now. Although I wish you were at Bromsholme, because you really belong with your son, even if my father was your cousin. Percy has another portrait of you in the Bromsholme library, but he should have this one too. If I were Sir George, I would never let anyone take your portrait away from me. Did he love you? My father never loved my mother.”
Lady Hanbury smiled at her with equal parts of happiness and enigmatic indifference. It would be silly to expect any reaction from a portrait, of course.
She sighed and studied in silence the woman whose face had become so familiar through another portrait, the one over the mantel in the Bromsholme library.
“You should be in Bromsholme with your son,” she repeated. “I wish I could at least make a copy for Percy, but”—she sighed and her face crumpled—“I shall not be going back to him. He plans to divorce me…”
The tears returned with full force. She touched her stomach, but it was as flat as ever, just, perhaps, a little harder under her fingers.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “You must believe me that I really have not done anything to earn Percy’s wrath. Please believe me. I shall go mad if no one does. My father, of course, never would, but I shall not tell him anything. He hates me for not being a son. And Percy…I cannot stay with him when his heart and mind are against me.”
That was really the crux of the matter. His lack of trust in her integrity.
“Well”—she let out a deep breath—“most people would think me mad, talking to a painting. But you are not just any painting. You are the picture of my mother-in-law. And you seem happy. I hope you were.”
Letitia dug into her robe pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose. Her head fell back against the armchair’s soft support. Her eyes, puffy from crying, were too swollen to keep them open, so Letitia let her heavy eyelids fall closed, just for a moment. Her head swirled, exhaustion weighing her down like a heavy blanket. The room, with its flickering candles, drifted away…
Next, she was somehow in front of her mother-in-law, who stood relaxed under an old oak, smiling at her and leaning against the trunk with one elbow atop a gnarly bulge where once a side branch must have grown. Her other hand rested on the head of an enormous Irish wolfhound sitting quietly by her side, his muzzle turned upward and his attention on his mistress. Mrs. Perkins had said his name was Duke.
The dog turned his head toward Letitia and blinked under his shaggy eyebrows. His tail thumped on the ground. Then he turned around, alarmed. Two young people were walking across the rolling lawn in the background—a tall, young woman with straight, black hair let loose down her back and a man whose face Letitia could not see because he was angled toward the woman. They were holding hands and laughing.
Lady Hanbury followed the dog’s gaze and frowned. She and Duke moved in pursuit of the pair, leaving Letitia behind. Then Percy, decked in his highwayman’s coat, came galloping after them all. But even though he was on horseback and the two young people on foot, he could not draw close to them. They kept eluding him and disappearing as soon as he seemed to get near.
They all were now inside a house, and she realized it was Wycombe Oaks. Percy was no longer mounted. He followed the laughing couple in and out of the rooms, but they always got ahead of him, laughing with glee whenever they saw him.
And there was her father too, standing at the end of the long gallery, in front of her mother-in-law’s portrait, dangling a piece of paper in his hand menacingly.
Percy abandoned his pursuit of the merry couple and ran toward her father. To her surprise, Letitia realized she must have been following him somehow, because she was just behind his back.