Had she loved him? Or had she felt the same hatred she’d felt for little Edith?
The main question, however, had always been, how like her was he?
He left, closing the door, but thoughts would not be shut away.
For years he’d convinced himself that he was cold, as perhaps she had been cold. He’d thought he lacked the ability to bond closely and warmly, and had no need of it. It seemed strange now, but he’d seen himself as taking care of his family out of logic and duty.
Cyn’s sickness had shattered that illusion.
Walking briskly toward the front of the house, he felt again that shocking pain, remembered the furious rebellion against fate. He’d fought death—with a Malloren all things were possible—and against all odds, he’d won. He, doctors, nurses, and Cyn’s robust constitution, had defeated death.
Never after, however, had he thought he was of a cold, unloving nature.
He’d felt some of the same rage last year when he’d found Brand unconscious, when he’d feared a brain fever or some other fatal condition. On realizing the truth, that rage had turned to the people who had drugged him.
Rosa and Diana.
He felt anger at neither now, but his longing for Diana burned as fiercely. Death, however, was an easier opponent than honor. Despite Diana’s challenge, her battle was already lost, defeated by the madness in his mother’s fierce eyes. No trick of fate had turned her mad. She had been born that way. Honor said that blood must end with him, despite Diana’s grief.
He took his hat, gloves, and crop from Fettler, waiting by the door. He must not think of her as Diana. Opponents in a duel, after all, should never be on first-name terms.
Lady Arradale. To be protected, but never to be loved.
He strode briskly out of the house, mounted his horse, and attended by two armed grooms, rode out of London.
Chapter 21
Diana sat in contemplation of the simple letter from Bey. Idiotic to feel touched almost to tears by it, but it was the first personal letter between them, and it was something tangible of his. She was only just realizing that though she had given him a ring, he had given her no keepsake, no symbol of connection.
It was doubtless deliberate. A symbol, in fact, of his intent to keep them apart. She smiled therefore at the note, which must be a sign that he was vulnerable after all.
And he had laughed in the coach, laughed in free amusement he must rarely allow himself.
It was tempting to hide the note away as a secret treasure, but it was carefully unrevealing, so she left it, folded, on the small escritoire in her room. There, she could see it at a glance whenever she pleased.
It was precious, but it also contained that guarded remark about the possible. He’d intended it as a warning that their marriage was not possible, but it made a useful reminder of her purpose. With her also, she resolved, all things were possible. She just had to find the way.
One thing she must do was investigate the matter of madness in his family. If his mother’s family was full of the odd and the lunatic, then she might have to give up her purpose. She had a duty to her own line, after all, and introducing insanity into it would be wicked. Her opportunities for investigation were limited at the moment, but there must be libraries here. Once she understood the ways of court, she would find a way to spend some time in them.
For the moment, however, she must be completely conventional and definitely not clever, so she picked up one of the light books she had brought with her. One of the ones hardly glanced at on the journey because of Bey’s presence beside her.
She sighed at that, thinking back to her state of mind at the beginning of the journey, when she’d merely been attracted and curious. How strange to have been blind to the powerful fire that burned between them.
He, apparently, had recognized it sooner—
Oh, enough! She must not let herself think about him night and day. She settled to reading Pope, trying not to let eyes and mind keep slipping away to the folded paper and all it represented.
The Rape of the Lock was engaging, and did distract her with its sharp commentary on London and courtly ways. She smiled at one passage about life at court, for though it was a description of the court of Queen Anne fifty years ago, she suspected the same was true today.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;
In various talk th‘ instructive hours they past,
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
One speaks the glory of the British Queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen;
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
At every word a reputation dies.
She paused, a finger in the page. That was a warning, if she needed it, that she must pursue her aims under a hundred eyes, many of them willing to harm her—and Bey—for amusement.
She was suddenly assailed by longing for the north. People there were not always kind, and sometimes there were enemies, but at least there was a rough kind of honesty.
And here she was, in love with a southerner. Even if she managed to break his will, how were they to manage their vast responsibilities? What would happen to the inheritance? She did not want her title swallowed up in his.
Her mind bounced fruitlessly around her problems, so she was quite relieved when a page came to tell her she was commanded to the queen’s drawing room. No mention of the purpose, but she sensed that she faced a battle of some sort.
She touched up her pallor with extra powder, and reminded herself of her chief purpose. She must convince the king and queen of her safe, conventional nature, and avoid any attempt to coerce her into marriage.
She entered the drawing room to find that the king was sitting beside the queen. She’d been right. Her inquisition was to begin. She took a steadying breath and went forward to curtsy.
“Are you comfortable here, Lady Arradale?” the king asked.
“Perfectly, Your Majesty,” Diana lied.
“Good, good. Your situation is one of unusual privilege,” he stated, “but it does not alter the fact that you are, and always will be, a woman. What?”
“Yes, sire,” Diana said, perilously tempted to say “no” and see what he made of that.
“A woman’s mind is different,” he continued. “It cannot understand the subjects and subtleties which engage the minds of men.”
After a stunned pause, Diana hastily said, “Indeed, sire.”
She was not to be questioned, but lectured. Then he pulled some papers out of his pocket and consulted them. By the stars, he’d brought notes!
He looked up at her, earnest and young. “It is well known that women cannot learn Latin or Greek, Lady Arradale, and if they try it damages their brains. Those subjects, however, shape the logical mind. Therefore, women cannot decide great matters, for they would act on emotion not logic. For that reason, it is against God’s law for women to speak on matters of importance. Consider Corinthians: ”It is a shocking thing that a woman should address the congregation.“ What?”
Diana fought a temptation to spout excellent Greek and tried to look pious. “I see, sire.”
He nodded. “So you also see, I am sure, that your notion of attending Parliament like a man was folly.”
“Yes, sire,” she said, for indeed it had been. Bey had been correct in seeing it as a childish thing. She couldn’t help thinking that without it, however, she would not have come south, would not have spent that journey with him, would not have been there to protect him, would not—
She hastily pulled her attention back, for the king was continuing. Remember your purpose here, Diana.
“… women are blessed with the natural kindness and gentleness suited to their role as wife and mother,” he said. “This, however, deprives them of the harshness, resolution, and physical strength necessary for their safety, meaning that they must be under the protection of men. Did not the great doctor Hippocrate
s write: ‘Women by nature are less courageous and weaker than men”?“
Diana almost fell into the surely unintentional trap of saying that indeed he did—of showing that she knew classical literature. She impulsively decided that a minor argument might make her meekness more believable. “If you will permit, Your Majesty,” she said demurely, “women are generally physically weak, but I would argue that they can be courageous when defending their children.”
It worked. He nodded sharply with approval. “You show a true womanly wisdom, Countess. Care of her offspring must be a woman’s first concern. But this is part of the whole, what? If a woman is too physically active, if she seeks to develop manly strength, she will die in childbed, or bear monsters. What? What?”
Diana longed to ask: How is it then that peasant women labor in the fields, carry huge loads, and work dawn till dusk, and still bear children as well or perhaps better than languishing ladies?
She kept her eyes down, and the words inside. At least her meekness was having the desired effect. From abrasive, the king’s tone became positively mellow as he continued, “If a woman has concerns outside the home, clearly she must neglect her proper duties to her family. Xenophon wrote: ”The gods created woman for the domestic functions, the man for all others.“ You see, Lady Arradale,” he said, looking at her with well-meaning earnestness, “these truths were established even in ancient times, never to be altered.”
She suddenly burned to make a passionate declaration of women’s rights and abilities—in four languages besides English! Or to demand a pistol and show just how helpless she was. She could even point out that these were pagan beliefs, not Christian, but she remembered her lessons and said, “It does seem so, Your Majesty.”
He beamed. “Good, good. Women are happiest in their natural setting—enjoying the gentle and domestic arts, ministering to their husband, and caring for their children. As my dear queen does.” He patted the beaming queen’s hand. “We wish only to see you so blessed, Lady Arradale.”
“I thank you, sire.”
And thank heavens for the rigorous training Bey had given her in the coach. It had not quite covered this, for he too must have expected an inquisition rather than a lecture, but it made it possible for her to mouth the correct inanities.
And had ended with that kiss.
With that night…
“… you will soon be a wife, and happier for it, Lady Arradale, what?”
With a jerk, Diana tried to capture what she’d missed. Still thinking of that night at the White Goose, she said, “I pray for it most earnestly, Your Majesty.”
He stared a little at her fervor, but then nodded. “Excellent, excellent! We are most pleased that you will submit to our choice.”
Her heart thumped, then galloped. She’d just agreed to that?
“Now,” he continued, all smiles, “I understand that you play well. A lady who excels at such a suitable talent is clearly not the unnatural creature we thought. Will you oblige us with more music?”
Diana escaped to the keyboard, close to fainting with panic. Stupid, stupid, stupid, to have slid into distraction! Sentimental mushy-mindedness when she’d needed to be all cool reason.
And now, disaster! She’d failed them both.
She was tempted to pour out her fury at herself on the poor keyboard, but she played instead a very calm, conventional piece, seeking calm and clear thought.
How to get out of this?
Having agreed to accept the king’s choice, it would be even harder to escape without giving grave offense.
Perhaps she could claim to have changed her mind.
No, that would never work.
Perhaps she could appear to be truly seeking a man to love. Delay at least.
She grimaced as she played. She was going to have to tell Bey about this, and he’d be justifiably disappointed in her.
Plague take it all. She’d keep her wits about her from now on, but she feared that she’d made a serious mistake, and at first test. He’d been correct in thinking that she wasn’t equipped to face this world, though she knew it would have been a great deal easier if she’d been as indifferent to him as she’d once pretended to be.
When would she have to tell him? Though she hated that thought, she longed to see him again.
Where was he? Was he thinking of her as much as she was thinking of him? Or were his defenses so strong he could block all awareness of what they had?
Hard riding could keep a mind focused and off impossible treasures. After three hours, and three changes of horses, Rothgar arrived at his estate. He went first to break the news to Ella Miller’s mother and sister, then took them with him when he went to tell Ella of her husband’s death. Then he went on to give the news to Miller’s parents and return with them to the widow.
Eventually he could leave the grieving family comforted a little by the fact that Thomas had died bravely and quickly. They also knew that Ella and her children would always have the cottage and a comfortable income. Not much substitute for a man, but all a mortal could give.
Proof if he needed it, that he was not God, and not in control of the machine. With a Malloren, all things were not possible, or Miller would be with his wife and family now.
He rode his horse around to the stables, then walked up past the kitchen gardens and into the formal grounds, suddenly aware of the emptiness of the huge, magnificent building before him.
What was he to do with himself here for the rest of his life? Collect Anglo-Saxon fragments and sort through petitions? Live mostly in London, trying to improve and correct the chaotic political machine, every effort subject to the whim of a young monarch?
Looking at the ranks of windows, glinting gold and empty in the sun, he knew what he wanted. He wanted to spend most of his time here, and fill this house again with a family, a happy family.
No.
This yearning would pass, and the chaotic political machine would keep him very busy.
His unexpected arrival at the Abbey caused a flurry, and as always there were matters to be taken care of. Doctor Marshall, curator of the Anglo-Saxon artifacts, wanted to discuss new acquisitions. His land steward wished to review matters previously dealt with in letters. His house steward tried to present designs for a slightly different livery. Rothgar sent the latter off with a sharp comment and briefly regretted it, but only briefly. Petty time wasting. Elf had managed such things and he was feeling the loss of her more and more.
The truth was, he thought wryly, he needed a wife. Since he would not marry, he needed someone to act as his chatelaine and hostess. On sudden impulse he wrote a brief list of the spinsters and widows among his relatives, women who might be pleased to take the position. It was the practical solution and affirmed his course.
Despite will, however, it brought Lady Arradale back to his mind, along with thought of the king’s determination to marry her off. Logic told him she wouldn’t be being dragged to the altar at this very moment, but it was suddenly intolerable not to be close at hand.
He had planned to spend the night here, but now he glanced out of the window. The sun was already kissing the treetops, and the idea of more hours in the saddle made him groan, but it was possible.
He ordered fresh horses and a light meal, produced quickly, but recognized a wavering of his will. She was in no danger. He just wanted to breathe the same air…
He rose abruptly and went upstairs. He did not go to his suite of rooms, but up another flight to the children’s floor. Ten years now since these rooms had gone to sleep, when Cyn and Elf had moved to the lower floor to take their places in the adult world.
He walked into the nursery, unused for even longer, waiting like a dormant plant for the next generation of babies. A generation that would not come. Bryght’s children would be born and raised at Candleford, and unless he himself was careless enough to die too soon, come here only as adults.
He set one ornate cradle rocking, the crunch of the rockers eerie in the deserte
d room. In fact, Brand’s Jenny had slept in it a month or so ago. This floor had blossomed briefly to life then, with Bryght’s Francis, and Hilda’s children.
He set the other cradle rocking—an extra one had been made when the twins were born—remembering how much larger everything had seemed when he’d been a three-year-old, hovering fascinated over his new baby sister. She’d been tiny and wondrous, with delicate fingers and those huge, intent eyes which had seemed to look at him and recognize him.
Brother.
Mine.
People had always said he couldn’t remember, but he remembered enough.
He remembered his mother, coming up from her bed that day instead of having the baby brought to her, still in her scarlet bedgown, her dark hair loose down her back. Dismissing the servants, but letting him stay. He’d always wondered why. But then, he didn’t think she’d planned to do what she did. He’d give a great deal to know what she had planned when she came upstairs.
She’d picked up little Edith and walked with her, murmuring words he hadn’t been able to hear. They hadn’t sounded comforting. Not like the nurse’s soothing, loving murmurs.
He remembered being worried.
Perhaps the baby had felt that way too, or perhaps his mother had held her too tightly. Edith had begun to cry, and it had rapidly built into the wavering squawk of the angry, frightened newborn. Ever since, that uniquely desperate sound had struck panic into him—a desperate need to act, to do something.
His mother had sat with the screaming, red-faced baby and quite calmly—he’d never forget the calm—closed her hand around little Edith’s throat. The silence had been shocking.
He’d run over, crying, “No!” He’d tried to drag his mother’s hand away. She’d looked at him blankly and buffeted him across the room with the full strength of her free hand.
He’d crawled to the door, blindly terrified, quiet as a mouse, then run screaming, hurtling past gawking servants, with only one thought. To get to his father, who could surely put all this right.
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