Chapter Thirteen
In the early days of her first marriage, Virginia had been astounded at how often she and Charles disagreed. They had loved each other, after all, and didn’t that mean they ought to have gotten along? Her response, at first, had been to storm away, and keep away for hours, until he either came to apologize or she had calmed sufficiently to seek him out again.
Charles had been the most patient man alive, she felt certain, and was certainly a better person than any man of her acquaintance.
But she had never fled an argument, the way she fled from Lucas. Because she knew Charles loved her. Even at her most immature moments, when her arguments had been akin to a child’s tantrum, Charles had loved her. He would never treat her cruelly or use his position as her husband to exert his will upon her.
She blushed, remembering the child she’d been when she’d first married. How had Charles loved her, given her abominable family and their influence? Her father, the fifth Earl of Vinespar, was an indulgent man to both himself and his offspring. Her elder brother, now the sixth Earl of Vinespar, had grown into a selfish and entitled fool because of it. Her mother was cold and distant, with hardly a kind word to say to anyone of lesser rank than herself.
Virginia slowed her steps, having attained the gallery floor. She needed to calm herself before checking on her sons. Though the house grew darker with the storm and evening’s approach, she could still see enough to pretend to study the paintings.
Her eyes didn’t really see them. But the exercise gave her time to settle her thoughts.
If she were honest, without a handful of kind people in her life, she likely would’ve been more like her rather unpleasant family. She’d had a thoughtful governess who tempered her. She’d spent time with her cousins, Julia and Christine, for weeks at a time before her first season in London. Their mother had been alive then, and even a self-centered child could see how much she was adored by all who knew her. Her Aunt Devon had been kindness itself.
When Charles met her, she hadn’t been entirely spoiled. Somehow, he’d seen her good qualities and had loved her for them.
Wrapping her arms around herself, holding his memory close, Virginia continued down the gallery, her eyes only skimming across the portraits of the earl’s ancestors.
Having experienced little affection as a child, Virginia had been astounded to recognize her feelings for the young Charles Macon as love. When he proposed to her, she had thought it as wonderful as a fairy tale ending. They would live happily to the end of their days.
Their first argument had startled that notion from her mind. It made her smile now. She couldn’t even remember what they had disagreed about and she had felt certain, at the time, that she had been tricked. Her marriage would go the way of her parents’, they would end as polite but indifferent acquaintances after years of bitter exchanges.
Then Charles had sought her out and apologized.
Had anyone ever apologized to her before? Had she ever heard her parents admit to wrong-doing or wrong-feeling before? No. Never. At first, she had thought him insincere. But as their marriage progressed, as she fought against his opinions or decisions, almost testing his resolve, Charles was always quick to make peace between them again.
She paused, her eyes coming back into focus as she thought she glimpsed a familiar face. Yes, there he was, her new husband. Lucas looked nearly ten years younger on the canvas before her, but it was him. His hair was more golden, his smile self-assured, and he was holding hands with the woman at his side. His first countess.
Virginia studied the young woman in the painting, taking note of her delicate structure, her petite frame. She must’ve been eighteen or nineteen, and she had been beautiful. The artist had captured the youthful glow of her skin and a sparkle in her eye that promised laughter and love for the man at her side.
What had the young Lady Abigail Calvert been like? Had her husband treated her with kindness and love? Or had he exerted his authority over a more submissive spirit?
“That’s unfair.”
It was Charles’s voice in her mind, the memory of him gently reproving her when she made too quick a judgment upon one of their neighbors. He had always steered her toward mercy and compassion when she would’ve naturally deemed a person lesser than herself.
Am I being unfair? Her eyes went back to the young man in the painting.
Lucas hadn’t really said anything terrible to her. And she had been speaking to him without the common respect she ought to show her husband, or any person she cared for. He had accused her of berating and scolding him like a child.
The argument against him rose up in her mind. He had taken her children out of the house without telling anyone, possibly endangering Edward, and then acted as though it was Nurse Smythe’s fault. Or had he?
It hadn’t helped the matter, of course, when she’d become flustered in his presence. But he’d been dripping wet and nearly as muddied as the children, with smears of earth across his cheek and on his knees. What had they done? Rolled in a mire?
Her lips twitched at that thought. Truly, it had been distracting and amusing to try and converse with a peer who had a wide streak of mud across his jaw. So, she’d been a daft fool and stepped forward to clean it off herself when it was obvious he’d taken no notice of it.
Stepping close to him, being near a man of his looks and charm, had startled dormant feelings from her, reminding her just how lonely she had been.
Her husband had only been gone three and a half months.
Virginia shook her head in disgust. What sort of woman was she to admire another when she still had nearly a year of mourning ahead of her?
The gallery no longer held any interest or peace for her. She turned and went down the hall, at a rapid pace, making for the stairs. It was time to see to her sons.
¤
Virginia applied the poultice to Edward’s chest, listening to him cough painfully, the sound almost like a bark. His throat already ached and his chest jerked painfully with each wave of coughs. When he’d calmed, tears in his eyes, she held a cup of willow-bark tea and honey for him to sip.
Nurse Smythe sat near the door, her eyes tired and her shoulders drooping. Virginia had tried to send the woman to bed. They had already moved Phillip to a guest chamber downstairs, the new nursery maid with him, so he wouldn’t be disturbed by his brother’s coughing. The coughing was enough to keep Phillip awake, but it also distressed the older boy. Virginia could well imagine why. His father’s consumption had first manifested itself in excessive coughing. But Nurse Smythe stayed, a look of guilt in her eyes.
“If I’d not nodded off, I could’ve told his lordship how Master Edward is,” she had said plaintively. “Or they’d never’ve gone outside to begin with.”
“It is not your fault,” Virginia had soothed. “It isn’t anyone’s fault.”
But if she had the earl before her, she might very well say something she would have to apologize for later. Edward’s body was not very strong. He was only four years old. Croup shook him to his very core and the lack of sleep made him miserable for days. In the past, once they calmed the cough enough for him to sleep, he could be restful for hours only to start up again, just before the dawn.
Edward put his hand against the cup and pushed it away. “I don’t like it. It tastes like mud—” He started coughing again.
“You didn’t mind the taste of mud earlier today,” Virginia reminded him, forcing a smile. “You had it all over your face and I’m quite certain you swallowed at least a teacupful.”
His little face scowled up at her, his brown eyes flashing. Her heart gave a little jerk when she realized how much he resembled his father. Of course, Edward’s stubbornness came entirely from her.
“It tastes like grass mixed with mud,” he said firmly. Then he was coughing again, his shoulders shaking. His throat sounded ragged already.
“Sounds like a truly miserable concoction.”
Virginia’s body stiffe
ned and she closed her eyes. What was he doing up in the nursery? She looked over her shoulder to see Lucas standing in the doorway, his clothing in some disarray as though it had been donned hastily. No self-respecting valet would’ve allowed his lord to look like that.
Edward shifted and when Virginia turned to admonish him to sit still, she saw that his whole face had brightened. Even his sleepy eyes suddenly appeared more awake.
“It is miserable. And I shan’t drink it.” Then he turned and coughed into his shoulder.
Sighing, Virginia lowed the cup in her hands.
Lucas approached the bed and knelt beside it, at her knee, his eyes only on Edward. “That’s a shame. I imagine it’s supposed to be good for you.”
Edward’s bottom lip went out. “I don’t like it.”
“That’s usually how we feel about things that are good for us. I myself have a very difficult time with mustard plasters.”
What was this line of conversation supposed to achieve? Virginia very nearly opened her mouth to ask, but Edward began to lift up his shirt. “I have a poultice. It smells good, though.” Virginia had added just a few drops of rose oil to the herbal treatment, thinking she rather detested its scents herself.
“I see. And what is the poultice supposed to do for you?” The earl’s tired eyes shot very briefly to Virginia’s before going back to Edward.
Edward began to explain. “Doctor Hastings, he’s Cousin Nathaniel now, but he said it would help if my chest was warm. It’s warm, it keeps the cough from wanting to come out so much. But what really hurts is my—” A cough interrupted him, escaping in another raspy bark.
“Your what?” the earl asked when Edward finished, as though not at all disgusted by the horrible sound.
“My throat. It hurts. And I’m tired.” Edward’s shoulders slumped and he leaned back against his pillows again.
“I see. What is the tea supposed to do?”
Edward dropped his eyes and looked down at his hands, grasping at the wrinkles in his blanket. Then he looked from Lucas to Virginia.
“It’s s’posed to help my throat.”
“Ah.” Lucas began to nod and reached out to give Edward’s legs beneath the blanket a pat. “Then hadn’t you better drink it? It seems your mother is trying to help, not poison you with mud-water.”
“Mud and grass,” Edward muttered, his eyebrows furrowing. But he held his hands out to his mother, reaching for the teacup.
Virginia held the cup with him, helping him to steady it, and did her very best not to look at the earl. Would he appear triumphant? Smug? How did he know just what to say to make her sons cooperate and why was she lacking the intuition to do the same? Although relieved that Edward drank the tea, with no more protest than a wrinkled nose, she felt defeated.
“Thank you, Mama,” her son whispered, handing her back the cup. He curled up on his pillow and coughed into his fist one more time. But he closed his eyes. “Can I have the sachet?”
Nurse Smythe bustled forward and Virginia moved out of the way so she could tuck a little pouch of dried lavender beneath the boy’s pillow. “I can watch him now, my lady,” Nurse Smythe said, her eyes softer. “I can come and get you if he worsens.”
Lucas pushed himself up from the ground and then his hand appeared before her, offering to lift her from her place on the bed. She bent first to kiss Edward on the forehead, then took Lucas’s hand.
“Good night, darling,” she said to her son.
“Good night, Mama. Good night, my lord.”
“Good night, Edward. I hope you sleep better now.” Lucas took her from the room, lifting a candle he must’ve put on the table when he entered.
A clock chimed the hour from somewhere downstairs. It had to be midnight.
When Lucas closed the nursery door behind them, Virginia could hold her words in no longer. But she didn’t wish to offer a rebuke.
“I’m sorry.”
He turned, lifting the candle. The light illuminated his face, showing her the confused tilt of his eyebrows and the frown on his face. “You’re sorry? Whatever for?”
She closed her eyes, willing the right words to come forward. It would be easier to admit her wrong-doing without looking at him. She was, after all, terribly out of practice at making apologies.
“I am sorry for this evening, when I spoke without regard of who was listening or how my tone must sound. While I do not wish to make excuses, I would like you to understand. I have a great deal of respect for your position. I will forever be grateful for your offer of marriage. But a mother’s heart is often fierce in its expressions of feeling, whether good or bad. I let my worry for the boys get the better of me. I’ll do my best not to let it happen again. And I—”
“Virginia.” He spoke at the same instant his hand touched her shoulder and her eyes popped open, meeting his. In the dark hall, with only a small flame to give light, his eyes were a dark shade of gray that reminded her of storm clouds. But they were gentle, not fierce. “I must apologize as well. I spoke critically and defensively. I am sorry for that. It will take me time to get used to being a father. I don’t have the years of knowledge and practice that you do. Please forgive me for upsetting the household and worrying you.”
She stared up at him, her body gradually relaxing when she realized his sincerity in speaking. “Thank you. If you will be patient with me, I will be the same with you.”
“That’s a fine pact, I think.” One corner of his mouth turned upward. “But come, it’s late. We had better make certain Phillip has gone to sleep.”
She walked next to him down the hallway. After a few steps, Virginia remembered she only wore a robe over her nightgown. She hastily tightened the sash at her waist and folded her arms over her chest.
“Phillip?” she asked.
Lucas nodded and she saw him glance at her from the corner of his eyes. “He woke me—or rather, he insisted that I be woken. I must’ve barely fallen asleep when a knock at my door brought me out of it. When I threw it open, expecting the house must be on fire from the urgency of the knock, Phillip and the nursery maid stood there.”
“Oh, dear.” Virginia winced and lowered her eyes to the floor. “I apologize. I’m afraid Edward’s cough disturbs him.”
“He said he was worried it might be more than croup.” Lucas paused and looked down at her, holding the candle between them. She met his eyes again and saw in them a deep concern and compassion she had not expected. Why was he not irritated at the way they had disturbed his whole life and turned it upside-down? After their interaction in the greenhouse, she’d expected less understanding and more censure.
Obviously, she didn’t know him very well yet.
“Your husband died of consumption?”
Virginia did not miss the way he referred to Charles. Not her late husband. Not her first husband. Just her husband. She felt a burning sensation just behind her eyes. She must be more tired than she thought.
“Yes. And he coughed a great deal.” She didn’t close her eyes now. If she did, she would see Charles’s face as it had looked at the end. Pale, gaunt, not at all like the vibrant, handsome man she’d married. She didn’t like remembering him that way.
“I see. Phillip wouldn’t do well with coughing then. Is that why you sent him downstairs, instead of to one of the spare rooms on this floor?” He gestured to the doors behind them, across from the nursery.
Virginia nodded. “He doesn’t sleep at all, even after Edward falls asleep. I didn’t realize it until last time, just a few weeks before we met. But he sat up all night, listening. I thought moving him downstairs would let him sleep.” Her voice broke on the last word and she raised a hand to cover her mouth, preventing a sob from escaping.
Why was she crying? She was too tired to cry. She had cried too much in the months before her husband’s death, in the days and weeks after. She had told herself she couldn’t cry anymore, that she had to be strong and firm.
But now that she’d started, she couldn’t s
eem to stop.
She lifted her other hand to cover the first, as though she could stuff the sobs back into her throat. But they came and all she could do was try to keep them quiet, try to keep anyone from hearing. Meeting Lucas’s eyes, knowing he must think her insane or ridiculous, she tried to apologize with hers. But it was too much.
Lucas’s eyes had gone wide and he turned from her.
She didn’t blame him. She must be a frightful sight—
His arms came around her and cradled her against his chest. She looked over his shoulder. He had only turned to put the candle down on a shelf behind them.
And he held her.
No one had held her since before her husband died. Her cousins had given her a gentle embrace now and again, but it was nothing like this. Nothing like being cradled close, nothing like being enveloped in a comforting, strong embrace meant to hold her together as much as it was meant to shield her.
Virginia dropped her face against his shoulder and cried the harder for his kindness. After the way she spoke to him, judged him, she didn’t deserve his sympathy.
Her tears went from being akin to a watering pot to an all-out thunderstorm, rivaling the downpour from that very afternoon. Again and again she tried to stop, tried to get hold of herself, but then she would feel the arms around her tighten and it would begin anew.
Why were there always more tears? Why hadn’t she left them behind her in Bath when she made her escape from Mr. Macon? Why hadn’t she left them at Christine’s home when she came to this one as a wife?
After a time, her sobs quieted, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She became aware of Lucas speaking. How long had he been talking? She listened, feeling the rumble of his deep voice in his chest.
“Cry as much as you need to,” he was saying, his voice gentle, barely audible. “I am here. I understand. It hurts, but it will heal. Crying is only part of that healing.”
Virginia lifted her head from his shoulder, looking up, meaning to apologize or thank him or both, when she saw the most astounding thing. With his back to the candle, it was difficult to make out the details of his face, but she saw the unmistakable glint of tears in his eyes. She didn’t say a word. For a long moment, they only stared at each other.
The Earl and His Lady_A Regency Romance Page 11