Lady Langstone sat on one of the benches, her head bowed. But from the manner in which her shoulders shook I realized she wasn’t praying. Or, at least, not only praying. I slid into the pew next to her, offering up my own silent prayer for Lord Tavistock, Rory, and the entire family as I waited for her to speak.
She sniffed and then dabbed at her eyes as she inhaled a quivering breath. “I’ve been a good hostess for him, you know. And a good mother. I’ve seen to everything with nary a word of complaint. And what thanks do I receive? A son who sneers at me and a father-in-law who won’t even . . .” She hiccupped on a sob. “Who won’t even see me on his deathbed.” Her voice constricted with tears again as she broke off.
I moved closer, silently offering her what comfort she would take.
“I’ve given them everything,” she murmured breathlessly. “I could have remarried, you know. Even to this day, I still receive offers. Instead, I chose to devote myself to my sons and the Tavistock estate. Fool, I’ve been.” She snapped open her handkerchief and then folded it again and again, as if she could straighten her tangle of emotions like she could the piece of cloth.
“I can’t blame you for feeling hurt and angry,” I replied. “I would be, too. But perhaps Lord Tavistock will ask to see you later.”
She scoffed.
“Perhaps he merely felt an urgency to speak to his grandsons first.”
She shook her head. “Lord Tavistock has never been fond of me. He approved of my marriage to his son well enough because I came from a good family and I comported myself perfectly. My parents made certain of that,” she added almost under her breath. “But he has never liked me. Not with anything that comes close to the affection he showed his own daughters, particularly Emma.” She spat Gage’s mother’s name as if she’d just bitten into something sour.
“Why did you dislike her so?” I had to ask, not understanding this extreme animosity to her sister-in-law.
“Because she always did as she very well pleased, regardless of anyone else’s feelings, and yet no one else seemed to see that. Or if they did, they never reproved her for it.” She gestured toward the door. “Even her own son, who suffered the most because of it, still believes she was this blameless, perfect woman ruled by elements out of her control. Her poisoning at the hands of her maid only underlined that image.”
“Well that was certainly out of her control.”
“Was it?” she challenged. “She brought that incompetent girl with her from Plymouth and kept her on rather than let her go. She could have given her a good reference. One that would have helped her easily find a position elsewhere. But she didn’t, because it suited her to be coddled and thought generous. When she first moved back here, her illness was never terrible enough to prevent her from doing the things she wanted to—attending dinner parties and local soirees, or traveling on shopping excursions to Plymouth and Exeter. It wasn’t until later, I suppose when her maid had begun dosing her with poison, that it truly afflicted her in any way. Unless she was deluding herself as well, she would have noted the change.”
I had no idea if any of this was true or simply the vitriol of a spiteful, resentful woman, but it said much about the state of affairs here at Langstone when Gage was growing up.
“You were jealous of the others’ blind devotion to her,” I remarked lightly, coming to the crux of the matter.
“Of course I was. She insisted on marrying Stephen Gage, despite her family’s wishes. Got herself with child just to insure it would happen. Only to realize after she moved to Plymouth what life would really be like as the wife of an officer of the Royal Navy while the country was at war. This was before Gage made his fortune. She lasted all of three years before she came crawling home, blaming her illness when the truth was she simply couldn’t stand it anymore. I suppose she also recognized what that life would mean for her son—shipped off to sea at a tender age,” she begrudgingly admitted. “But that was only a secondary consideration.” She scowled, clenching her hands in her skirts. “She did all this and more, and yet Lord Tavistock still adored her.” She sounded as if she just couldn’t fathom such a thing. Such unconditional love.
I felt a pulse of sympathy for her. “I take it your parents were not like that.”
She stared blankly ahead. “One did as one was told, to perfection. And if you were lucky, they told you they were pleased.”
I wanted to ask her about her marriage to Emma’s brother, whether he had loved her, but I didn’t dare. There were certain things an acquaintance didn’t encroach upon, and that was one. However, there was one thing I was willing to risk broaching.
“But I suppose Emma Gage got her just deserts when her husband attempted to initiate a relationship with you? You must have relished informing her of his infidelity.”
Lady Langstone’s mouth pressed into a thin line and I wondered if she would actually tell me the truth or continue to choke it down like bitter medicine. Then she exhaled, almost in resignation. “No. I never told her. Because . . .” She turned to look at me as if facing her own execution. “Stephen Gage wasn’t the only one who wrote letters.”
“But I thought you despised him?”
“I did.” She frowned. “Or it was more I despised the fact that Emma had married someone of such a lower rank and little fortune and not been ostracized for it. But Stephen Gage was a very attractive man and extremely charming, even to one such as me.” She stared down at her lap where she fiddled with her handkerchief. “And I was lonely. It was after my husband died, and I felt so very . . . unwanted at times here. At first, I was shocked by his flirtation. But then I began to flirt back, and I enjoyed it.” She blushed either in remembrance or shame. “I knew it was wrong, but . . .” She shrugged.
But she felt isolated and unloved, and here was her chance to perhaps take some of that affection Emma received with so little effort, and perhaps even less appreciation.
“We began to exchange letters. Webley acted as our go-between when Gage was here. And she mailed my letters and collected the ones he sent to an abandoned cottage at the edge of the estate after he’d gone back to sea.”
“How long did this go on?”
“The better part of seven months. And then . . . and then he returned to Langstone on his next leave.”
“Is that when you met in the emerald chamber?” I ventured to ask.
She blinked at me in surprise. Perhaps I shouldn’t have revealed I knew as much. I could see a dozen questions forming in her mind, but she didn’t ask them. Perhaps because she didn’t wish to know.
“Yes. He convinced me we should meet. Before that we hadn’t . . . I hadn’t . . .” She cleared her throat. “He said he wanted more than words from me, so I agreed to meet him.” She paused. “I suppose you already know about the secret passage?”
I nodded.
Her voice dropped practically to a whisper, perhaps because we sat in the chapel. It must have felt rather like a confession. “Well, he entered that way, finding me waiting for him, as requested, though I had half a mind not to come.” She clasped her hands together, the knuckles turning white. “I should have listened to my conscience, for when he arrived, he threw the entire affair in my face.” Her cheeks burned with remembered indignation. “It had all been a ruse, retribution for my treatment of his wife.”
Shock radiated through me, for I’d not foreseen such an explanation for Lord Gage’s actions. In my defense, Lord Gage had never given me any reason to think well of him. So imagining him as a philandering husband had fit my already negatively formed opinion of him. But apparently I was wrong. Apparently he had loved his wife, though I was sure guilt over his continual absence might have also played some part.
Nevertheless, to enact his revenge in such a cruel, protracted way, and on a woman who was so vulnerable? It was difficult to fathom such malice. Lady Langstone had certainly deserved a stern set down, but not t
hat.
She must have sensed my uneasiness, for she met my gaze solemnly. “You should understand just what sort of man your father-in-law is. If you have his loyalty, then you have nothing to fear. But otherwise . . .”
She didn’t need to finish that sentence, for I already felt the chill of the possibilities.
We turned to stare at the altar, perhaps both reeling from the implications of our conversation.
“There’s one more thing that confuses me,” I murmured.
“His letters?” she guessed. “Why did I keep them?”
“Yes.”
“For leverage. He told me he would be keeping mine to ensure I remained civil to his wife, and so that if I ever showed anyone his letters he would have a counter.”
“And then Alfred found them,” I surmised.
“Yes.” Her gaze turned wary. “Are you going to tell Lord Gage about them?”
“I’m not going to tell him anything,” I admitted with full honesty.
She exhaled in relief, and then straightened again. “What about Sebastian?”
I considered what, if anything, I should reveal to her that Gage already knew. It seemed unnecessarily unkind to tell her he already suspected the affair. I fully expected she assumed my claim during our last conversation had been a bluff. However, I did think Gage should know the truth about what he’d seen all those years ago. He needed to know his father had not been conducting an affaire de coeur with his aunt under his mother’s very nose. But perhaps, in this case, a bit of deceit was in order.
“Are you going to quit treating him like he’s the scourge of the earth?” I countered. “After all, he’s done nothing to offend you except draw breath.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. I was surprised to hear genuine remorse in her voice. “I can treat him better. I will.”
I met her gaze, letting her know I would hold her to that. “Then Gage never need know,” I replied, crossing my fingers behind my back.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Somehow it seemed appropriate that today of all days Gage should finally decide to visit his mother’s grave. Even though I knew it had been his grandfather’s worsening illness and whatever words he’d imparted to him this morning that drove him here, and not the fact it was his birthday. But whatever the rightness, my breath constricted and my heart clenched at the sight of him kneeling before the ornate grave marker topped with a cross.
Upon leaving the dowager in the chapel, I’d returned to our bedchamber, thinking to find Gage there. However, Anderley told me Gage had changed into his riding boots, though he’d not said where he intended to go. Given the distressing events of the morning, as well as the fact that he wouldn’t need his riding boots to visit the woodworking shed, I had a fairly good idea where I would find him.
The leaden skies of early morning had lightened somewhat, but not enough to make the heavily shadowed churchyard appear any cheerier. And not enough to clearly illuminate Gage’s expression, though I imagined it well enough from his slumped posture and bowed head. The air was ripe with the scents of moss and damp earth, and thick with the lingering sense of time lost. I waited a dozen feet away under the heavy branches of a yew tree, worrying the train of my charcoal gray riding habit between my fingers. My eyes stung as I struggled to suppress my answering emotions. It didn’t matter that my own mother was buried hundreds of miles away. She was still with me, at least in my memories.
When finally Gage lifted his head, I decided this meant he was ready for me to approach, though he never looked at me. Stepping up next to him, I turned to face his mother’s grave and the stark letters of her name carved in granite. He clutched his hat between both of his hands, spinning the brim round and round between his fingers.
There were no flowers planted before her grave, but then there were few in the entire graveyard. The overshadowing trees didn’t allow enough sunlight through their branches for them to grow. However, the grave had evidently been carefully maintained, and I supposed he had Lord Tavistock to thank for that.
“When Mother died,” he began softly, “I was so furious. Furious with Father. Furious with them all.” He heaved a sigh. “But later, I realized I was mostly furious with myself.”
“Oh, Gage,” I murmured, my heart breaking to hear the pain, the self-recrimination in his voice. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t do more to protect her, to shield her. And this was before I ever knew she’d been poisoned.”
“But darling, you were so young. Just eighteen upon her death. You take too much on yourself.”
“I know that now,” he admitted. “But at the time, I was just so angry, so overwhelmed by it all. All I could do was lash out.”
“You were grieving, with no one to help you through it. Your father was away at sea—not that he would have been very consoling had he been there. But at least you wouldn’t have been on your own.” I studied his face, and reflected on all the things that had been mentioned in passing during the last few weeks, all the things I hadn’t understood. “Is that what happened at her funeral? You lashed out?”
He nodded. “I . . . I didn’t behave in a very becoming manner.”
“Well, I imagine not. It was your mother’s funeral, after all.” I found it difficult to imagine the amount of composure such a thing would take. Having been only eight years old, I’d been deemed too young to attend my mother’s funeral, as had my ten-year-old brother. But we’d snuck away from our governess to visit her grave just a few days later and stood immobile before it for hours, unable to fully contemplate or accept our loss. If our father hadn’t found us and taken us away, I’m not sure we would’ve ever torn ourselves from the spot.
“Yes, but . . .” He faltered as if he didn’t know how to put his recollections into words or if he even wanted to.
“Tell me,” I coaxed him, hoping this time he would trust me.
He closed his eyes and exhaled a ragged breath. “The entire event was one long torment. I was already struggling to maintain my composure. I’d traveled by coach for days from Cambridge in order to escort my mother’s casket. I’d barely slept since her death.”
His face tightened in remembered pain, and I couldn’t help but wonder why his cousins, who would’ve also been up at university, had not ridden with him. What a lonely final vigil.
“And then . . . I heard Alfred and Rory whispering with one another, jesting about how perhaps she should’ve been buried in a plot in a Royal Navy graveyard. And then . . . and then they made some rather crude insinuations.”
“That’s horrid!” I gasped. The insensitivity, the cruelty.
“I . . . I swung around in the middle of the rector speaking words over her grave and told them to shut their mouths.” He shifted his feet. “Though I used rather more vulgar language than that. Then Rory tried to justify his comments by saying they were only thinking of my father. How he was unlikely to be buried in the family plot next to his wife.”
“Oh my,” I replied, guessing how this stray comment would have ignited Gage’s smoldering temper already made raw from grief and lack of sleep.
He grimaced. “Yes. In the end, I had to be escorted from the graveyard before I pummeled my cousins before my mother’s open grave.”
“Oh, Sebastian.” I threaded my arm through his, pressing my body to his side to offer him what comfort I could. “No wonder you never wanted to come back.”
“I visited her grave alone the next morning and then left for good.”
“Until now.”
His expression was bleak. “Yes.”
We stood silently side by side, sharing our warmth as we gazed down at the cold grave. The only sound to break the hush of the churchyard was a small bird of some kind, tweeting from the upper branches of one of the trees.
“Tell me about her,” I murmured, feeling the weight of her memory pulling Gage into the grave
with her. Perhaps if he shared them, perhaps if he released some of them into the sunlight, the load might be lighter. When he didn’t respond, I decided he might be at a loss for where to begin. “What were some of her favorite things? Her favorite food, for instance? Or color? What made her smile?”
“She . . . she loved strawberries,” he began tentatively, gaining strength and momentum as he talked. “With cream. She . . . she used to say she could eat them at every meal. Her favorite color was violet. And that was her favorite flower, too. Father never realized that. He always brought her grander bouquets. But she loved the shy violets that grew in the tiny garden behind our cottage the most.” His brow furrowed momentarily at his mention of the cottage, but then he pressed on. “She loved to receive the post. I think because it brought letters from Father and friends both far and near. But when days would go by without even a short note she would grow sad. So sometimes I would write her a letter and post it, just so she would have something to open. That always made her smile.” He paused. “Or when she was really sad, I would do this silly dance for her. She claimed I began doing it the moment I could walk.”
I smiled at the image of Gage dancing just to make his mother happy and at the pink cresting his cheeks at such an admission. Arching up onto my toes, I pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. There was a light dusting of stubble there from the hasty shaving he’d performed earlier that morning.
He glanced down at me in surprise. “What was that for?”
“Nothing. Everything. For reminding me how much I love you.”
His lips pressed together and his eyes grew suspiciously bright. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he pulled me to his side and tucked my head against his chest, jostling my bonnet. I heard the telltale sniff of someone fighting tears, but I didn’t speak. If he didn’t wish to be seen openly weeping in a graveyard, I couldn’t blame him. So I held him just as tightly and waited for his grip to loosen.
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