by Mary Balogh
Lord Poole crossed to the window and stared out. “What do you suggest, then?” he asked.
“Oh, God,” Martin said, “how can I say this? Oh, poor Lizzie. Perhaps it was not all her fault, after all. He was her captor, wasn’t he? Who knows that he did not force her—at first anyway? But no, I must stay firm. After all this is over, I’ll go to Kingston with her and help, her see her error and live it down. You have to repudiate her publicly, Poole.”
Lord Poole frowned out of the window.
“The more publicly the better,” Martin said. “At the opera, perhaps. Or better, at Carlton House. Let the truth be known there. Let people understand why you are putting her aside. You will earn a great deal of sympathy from the ladies and respect from the men. You will show that you are a man of firm principle and not to be trifled with. When the Whigs come to power, I imagine that they will look to you for leadership.”
“And she would deserve it too, the slut,” Lord Poole muttered.
Martin sighed.
“I’ll let the rumor of where she really was during those weeks circulate,” Lord Poole said. “And when it comes time to be presented to the queen, I shall refuse to escort her up to the throne. It will be the moment when all eyes will be upon her. And all tongues will have been wagging for an hour or more before it. It will work, by Jove. It will be as good as stripping her naked and whipping her. She will never be able to hold up her head in public again.”
“Oh, God,” Martin said, his voice shaking, “perhaps we should just persuade my stepfather to send her home after all, Poole.”
Lord Poole turned to look at him, a spark of contempt in his eyes.
“You are too good-natured for your own good, Honywood,” he said.
“Especially where your precious stepsister is concerned. No, we will do it this way. She must be punished.”
Martin looked unhappily at him. “Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid she must. Very well, then, Poole, I’ll make sure that Trevelyan does not show his face at Carlton House. Ah, poor Lizzie.”
He left soon afterward. He would call on Trevelyan before the day was out, he thought. All his plans must be laid. A few more days and it would all be over. Lizzie would be his forever.
But he could not put from his mind what Poole had said about stripping her naked and whipping her. Martin had wanted to kill him for that. He gritted his teeth now in fury. He had had to listen to Poole call her a slut and a whore and plan a punishment that would hurt and humiliate more than the stripping and whipping.
And he himself had been forced to put the plan in Poole’s head, Martin thought, turning his hatred for Lord Poole against himself.
He had had no choice. She had left him no choice.
Ah, Lizzie.
His hands opened and closed at his sides as he walked. He must see Trevelyan first, but he knew where he must go after that. He could not wait for the nighttime, and there was no need to do so. Those girls worked day and night when there were customers to pay for them. He could not decide whether he more wanted to have the whip in his own hand and watch the red marks slash across the delicate back of the whore he would hire or to place it in her hand and strip off his own clothes and lie spread-eagled on the bed on his stomach so that he could suffer the painful ecstasy of punishment for what he was being forced to do to Lizzie.
He would make it up to her, he swore to himself, his back prickling in eager anticipation of the needle-sharp pain he would be paying handsomely to feel later. He would spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
Chapter 25
On June 6 the Tsar of Russia and the King of Prussia crossed the English Channel from Boulogne on board H.M.S. Impregnable, accompanied by numerous other heads of state, statesmen, and generals. Prince Metter-nich, Chancellor of the Austrian Empire, was there as were the famous Hetman Platoff of the Don Cossacks, Field Marshal von Blucher, and Prince Hardenberg, Chancellor of Prussia.
They arrived in Dover in the evening and set out for London the following morning. In London itself an excited populace had been gathering in the streets since dawn. All the streets between London Bridge and St. James’s Palace were lined with a multitude of people on foot and with carriages and carts. Not a window of any building along the route was not crowded with heads.
Christopher, with Elizabeth and Christina, did not venture out until mid-morning and consequently found that it was impossible to take a carriage anywhere near the expected route of the procession.
“Anyway,” Christopher said, taking his daughter firmly by the hand as they walked, “who wants to watch such an exciting event from a carriage window?”
Christina was wildly excited. She skipped along the pavement between Christopher and Elizabeth, holding to a hand of each, asking if the King of Prussia would be wearing his crown and if Marshal von Blucher would be waving his sword over his head.
The crowd became denser as they approached the street along which the landaus would pass on their way to St. James’s Palace.
Christopher lifted Christina to his shoulder so that she would have a better view and so that he would not lose her in the crowd, and he drew Elizabeth’s arm through his free one and held it against his side.
“We can only hope that they will not be late arriving,” he said to her.
“When they have to come all the way from Dover,” she said, “it is impossible to predict the exact time of their arrival. I hope they will not be too long.”
“Mama,” Christina sang out from her high perch, “when will they be here?”
It was a question that was often repeated during the next hour and a half. But the expected procession did not come.
Occasionally there were stirrings of excitement among the crowd and even once or twice the beginnings of cheering. But always they were false alarms. Perhaps the sea had been too rough for them to make the crossing the day before, some people began to murmur, though word had arrived in the capital that the Impregnable had come safely to Dover with its precious cargo.
Perhaps there had been some delay at Dover. Perhaps they were to stay there for the day to be feted. After all half the army was down there to greet them.
“When are they going to be here?” The tone of Christina’s voice had become plaintive.
And then Elizabeth sagged against Christopher’s side and when he looked quickly down at her, it was to find her with chalk-white face and half-closed eyes. He set Christina down on the ground in a hurry and wrapped both arms about her mother.
“Elizabeth?” he said. Christina was clinging to her skirt and gazing up.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, drawing a deep breath, “how foolish of me. It is what comes of standing so long in one place and in such a crowd. I am so sorry.”
But Christopher had turned to move back out of the crowds.
“The lydy ‘as fainted, poor lamb,” a buxom woman declared shrilly and a path formed for them to withdraw.
“I’ll be all right,” Elizabeth said. “I feel very foolish.”
“I think,” Christopher said, keeping one arm firmly about her waist and looking down apologetically at their daughter, “that the delay might go on all day, Christina. Shall we give up? These visitors are going to be in London for a few weeks. We will have another chance to see them, when we can be more sure of the time they will appear.”
Christina looked woebegone. “Yes, sir,” she said. “That will be all right.”
He rubbed two knuckles across her chin. “I’ll take you and your mama back to the Pulteney with me,” he said, “and we will have tea and cakes even though it is scarcely past midday. Will that be good?”
She brightened somewhat.
“You don’t need to hold me up, Christopher,” Elizabeth said. “It was just a momentary wave of faintness. I am quite well now.”
So they resumed their former positions, one on each side of Christina, holding her hands. This time she was not skipping. As they approached the Pulteney along Piccadilly, a plain landau drew up outs
ide the hotel, and even as they watched, waiters rushed out to form a line across the pavement and a tall young man stepped out of the landau, smiling. He looked up to a first-floor window and waved.
“Good Lord,” Christopher said, “that is the Grand Duchess Catherine in the window. He must be her brother.”
“The Tsar?” Elizabeth said.
“The Tsar of Russia?” Christina shrieked. “That is him, Mama?”
“I think it must be, sweetheart,” Elizabeth said as the young man turned and seemed to include them in his smile and his wave before hurrying between the lines of waiters into the hotel. “But what is he doing here, Christopher?”
“Escaping, I do believe,” Christopher said. “He must have heard about the unruly mob and entered London by a different route. And he is calling upon his sister before proceeding to St. James’s.”
Christina was jumping up and down on the spot. “We have seen him,” she said. “We are the only ones except that gentleman down the street. All those people are waiting and we are the ones who have seen him. And he smiled at me. Mama, he smiled at me.”
“Yes, sweetheart.” Elizabeth was laughing. “So he did. How fortunate that we decided to leave when we did and that Lord Trevelyan brought us here.”
“We are going inside the same building as the Tsar of Russia?”
Christina asked, awed.
“We are indeed,” Christopher said as they turned into the doorway between the stone pillars on either side.
The Tsar had gone upstairs already to greet his sister. But all was fuss and frenzy downstairs. Christopher found his way barred by the manager, who appeared not even to recognize him for the moment.
“Trevelyan,” Christopher said.
“Ah, yes, of course, my lord.” The manager bowed deeply to him.
“And the ladies, my lord? The Tsar of Russia has just arrived here, my lord, as you may be aware.”
“The ladies are my wife and daughter,” Christopher said.
The manager doubtless knew enough about the British aristocracy to know that the Earl of Trevelyan did not currently have a wife or daughter, but his mind was severely preoccupied. He bowed again, murmured “Of course, my lord,” once more, bowed to Elizabeth and to Christina, and let them pass. Soon they were in Christopher’s sitting room, standing at the windows, watching swarms of people converge on the Pulteney. Somehow word had spread already that the guest most eagerly awaited had arrived at the Pulteney.
“Within a few minutes,” Christopher said, “the hotel is going to be like a fortress under siege. I think we came home just in time.”
Only by sending Antoine downstairs did Christopher succeed in having tea and cakes brought up to his sitting room within a half hour. Even so the refreshments were unnecessary to raise Christina’s spirits. She was far more interested in darting to the windows to watch the cheering crowds than in eating cakes. One deafening roar followed by sustained and frantic cheering must have heralded the appearance of the Tsar on the balcony, Christopher explained to the child. But it would not be wise to go outside to see. They might never get back inside again.
Christina did not want to go outside. She was very happy to be inside the same building as the Tsar of Russia. She was puffed up with importance. Christina giggled suddenly as she returned from the window and resumed her seat. She set one hand over her mouth and her eyes danced at Christopher. “Do you remember what you said?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “Said? When?”
“Downstairs,” she said, “to that man.” She raised her shoulders and wrinkled her nose. “You said Mama and I were your wife and your daughter. That was funny.” She giggled into her hand again.
“And so I did,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth, watching him, suddenly alert, felt her heart leap and begin to thump uncomfortably.
“Your papa died?” he asked. “In Canada?”
Christina nodded, her giggles fading.
No, Elizabeth begged him with her eyes, not yet, Christopher. I am not ready yet. But he was not looking at her.
“What if he did not die?” Christopher asked. “What if your mama thought he died and told you that he did but he was alive and came home to you?”
Christina’s head tipped to one side as she looked back at him. “My papa died,” she said. “There was a fire and he died rescuing a little girl. But she was safe.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes as Christopher finally looked across at her. She had wanted Christina to think of her father as a hero. It seemed a foolish and embarrassing lie now.
“So was he safe,” he said. “He disappeared into the smoke, but he did not die.”
Christina’s eyes widened as she digested the meaning of the words.
“You knew Papa?” she asked. “You were there?”
“Yes, I was there, Christina,” he said. His voice was very gentle.
Every word cut like a knife into Elizabeth’s heart. “I was in Canada and then I came home. I came to see your mama, who used to be my wife. I did not know until a very short while ago that there was a little daughter called Christina. I wanted to meet her as soon as I knew. And I found that she has dark hair and blue eyes, like me, and that her name is Christina, like mine.”
Christina was watching him with open mouth. Then she got hastily to her feet, rushed to Elizabeth, scrambled onto her lap, and hid her face against her mother’s bosom. Christopher’s eyes, Elizabeth noticed, were suspiciously bright. Her heart felt as if it would tear in two.
“Lord Trevelyan is your papa, sweetheart,” she said.
“No!” Christina wailed. “Papa is dead.”
Elizabeth found that her gaze was on Christopher, whose face was as chalky white as her own had felt earlier when she had almost fainted.
“He did not die after all, sweetheart,” she said. “And he has come home.”
Christina was sobbing. She cried noisily for a minute or two, while Elizabeth rocked her in her arms and Christopher sat as if turned to stone.
“Why did you say he was dead?” The voice was shaky and accusing.
“I thought he was,” Elizabeth said, hating herself for the lie. But how could the whole truth be explained to a six-year-old child?
“Why didn’t you say?” Christina raised her head at last and looked up with red and hostile eyes. “You said he was Lord Trevelyan.”
“We thought you should get to know him and like him first, sweetheart,” Elizabeth said weakly, “before we told you that he is your papa.”
“And why didn’t he come to Grandpapa’s if he is my papa?”
Christina asked. “Why did he come here?”
“We were not expecting him, Christina,” she said. “We thought he was dead. I was about to marry Lord Poole.”
“I hate Lord Poole,” Christina said vehemently.
Elizabeth did not reprove her as she normally would. There was a silence that neither she nor Christopher seemed willing to break.
The cheering outside seemed very loud again.
Christina turned her accusing stare suddenly on Christopher.
“Why did you go away and leave me?” she asked him. “All the other boys and girls I know have papas. You didn’t like me, did you? You hate me, don’t you?”
He turned paler if that were possible. “Sweetheart,” Elizabeth said before he could answer, “Lord Trev—Papa did not know about you. He did not know he had a little girl. He would have liked you if he had known. He would have come home sooner.”
“I love you,” Christopher said, his voice low and not quite steady.
“Since I have known about you and met you, Christina, you have been the light of my life.”
“Oh, I have not!” she said fiercely. “I am not the light of anyone’s life except Mama’s. I am a nuisance. Nobody loves me except Mama.” She hesitated, forced by honesty not to give in entirely to self-pity. “And I think Uncle John.”
He came across the room then and slooped down on his haunches beside
Elizabeth’s chair. “I love you, Christina,” he said. “You are my little girl and Mama’s. My own little girl.” He reached out his hands to her but made no attempt to touch her. He looked at her pleadingly.
Elizabeth was biting her upper lip so hard that she tasted blood.
She should never have listened to them. Oh, she should have listened to her own heart and conscience. She should have written to him even if she had not known where to send the letter. She could have written to his father or to Nancy. They would have sent it on to him.
She should have let him know about Christina. But she could not blame them either, her father and Martin. It was she who was to blame. She was Christina’s mother and had been his wife.
Christina sat staring at him, her lower lip protruding in a pout.
Then she reached out one finger, poked it against his chest, and withdrew it again. “You’ll go back to Canada again,” she said.
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m always going to be your papa, Christina. I want to take you down to Penhallow some time. I want you to see the beach and paddle in the water.”
“But you won’t build me a castle in the sand,” Christina said.
“The biggest one there ever was,” he said. “I promise.”
Elizabeth sat very still. It was a wicked thing she had done. Purely spiteful and wicked. No matter what he had done to her, she had had no right to retaliate as she had. She had returned evil for evil.
And then Christina reached out with both hands and touched his shoulders and she leaned forward tentatively until his hands came to rest at her waist and he lifted her from Elizabeth’s lap and into his arms. He stood up, hugging her to him. She set her arms about his neck and her cheek against his.
“I’d rather have you for a papa than Lord Poole,” she whispered against his ear. But Elizabeth heard every word.
“Would you?” he said.
“Yes,” Christina said. “Because you are my real papa and you like me. Don’t you?”
“I love you, sweetheart,” he said, and he turned away with her and walked across to the window. Elizabeth knew that he did so because he was crying and did not want her to see. She stayed where she was.