Rake with a Frozen Heart

by Marguerite Kaye

  Rafe was looking at her with concern. ‘Are you all right? Shall I fetch you some water?’

  She waved him away. ‘No. I’m all right. Please. Just tell me.’

  He sat heavily down on the chair behind the desk upon which was a stack of leather-bound ledgers and picked up a quill. ‘You remember—I told you that Julia and I resumed our marriage three years after we had separated?’

  Henrietta nodded. ‘You said it was for the sake of an heir.’

  ‘It was such a mistake, that reunion, from start to finish. I knew it was wrong. I knew for a fact that I didn’t love her, would never love her. But duty was such an ingrained habit, I didn’t think through at all what bringing a child into the world would actually mean—any more than Julia did, I believe. When she told me she was pregnant…’

  The pen nib bent as he stabbed it on the blotter. ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have taken her back. Julia was—she was—she knew, you see. It was obvious, I suppose, that I went to her bed only out of a sense of duty—no, that’s not fair. I made no attempt to pretend and she— It was not her fault, it was just as bad for her, I presume. I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself very well.’

  ‘Rafe, you are explaining yourself. It’s hard because it’s a horribly painful thing. If you were more—’ she broke off and shrugged ‘—then you would be feeling less. I know how hard it must be for you. I do know, I promise. I’m listening. Just take your time.’

  He grimaced. ‘I’ve never told anyone any of this before, but I needed you to— Anyway, Julia hadn’t really forgiven me for our separation and she thought I hadn’t forgiven her for being unfaithful. The truth is, I didn’t care, which was worse, certainly more hurtful, though I didn’t think about that at the time. I was using her to get what I wanted and she was using me. It was a recipe for disaster. We both knew it. I think we were both starting to recognise it, but it was too late by then. Julia was pregnant.’

  Rafe drew a shaky breath, forcing himself to go on. Across from him, Henrietta sat perfectly still, her face chalk white. For once, he had no idea what she was thinking. ‘The night she told me, I’ll never forget it. I realised, you see, that I didn’t want a child. Not Julia’s child.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘I hadn’t realised what it would mean,’ he said. ‘I was so bloody stupid, I’d thought about an having an heir, but I hadn’t thought about having a baby. I hadn’t thought about being a father. I had no idea. No bloody clue.’

  ‘But, Rafe, today, with the babies in the nursery, you were so gentle with them—the expression on your face when you held them, you looked so moved. I thought—and Rose thought, too—what a perfect father you would make.’

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, you’re wrong. You’re quite wrong. I don’t deserve such a precious gift. I had my chance and I destroyed it, I don’t deserve another. I didn’t realise back then how lucky I was. All I could think about was that I’d fail…between us, Julia and I would fail as parents. I was frightened I wouldn’t be able to love it because Julia was its mother. I’d realised by then what I hadn’t thought of before, that a child would bind us together. I didn’t want to be tied to Julia.’

  ‘Oh, Rafe, I wish you could have— Don’t you see, what you were feeling is not so very unusual. Of course you were frightened, most new parents are, but once the baby was born…

  ‘It wasn’t born. My baby wasn’t born. I told you, I killed it.’

  ‘And I’ve told you, I can’t believe you would do such a thing.’

  ‘But I did, Henrietta. Julia had always been unstable, but her pregnancy made her mood swings much more marked. She hated what the child was doing to her body. She didn’t want it, any more than I did, but she was much more vocal on the subject. I thought it was just the old Julia, trying to manipulate me. I didn’t realise she was so close to the edge. I thought her taunts and her petty accusations were just the same old games. I paid her no heed. I didn’t want to. I didn’t care. I was too racked by my own guilt. Too taken up by my own cares to see that Julia’s fears were real. As our child grew inside her, she became more and more hostile. To me. To the baby. She kept threatening to rid herself of it, to take things— I had to have Mrs Peters watch her.’

  ‘My God, Rafe, I can’t believe—’

  ‘Don’t. Don’t say anything. Just let me finish.’ Rafe stared sightlessly down at the desk blotter, lost in the nightmare of his past. ‘It was at Woodfield Manor. We were alone there but for the servants. Julia didn’t want anyone to see her in what she called her bloated state. We were on the second floor, looking at the old nursery. Julia was in one of her moods. I hope it’s a girl, she said. More likely it’s a monster, sprung from your loins. On and on she went, until she’d worked herself up into such a rage. I’ve never seen the like, and still I didn’t realise…’

  He pushed his chair back and went over to the little window. With his back to her, he continued, his speech rushed now, words tumbling from him in his anxiety to have done with them. ‘She said she wished she was dead. She said the agony of childbirth was too much for her to bear. She said it would kill her. She said she’d rather kill herself than bear it. She was always threatening to kill herself. I didn’t think she meant it. I told her she could do as she wished. She went over to the window. I can still see it now. It seemed to happen so slowly, though it was all over in seconds. She threw the casement open—and then she jumped. She just jumped. So quickly, without a word, not even a sound as she fell—it was as if she had never been in the room. I didn’t move. Not until I heard the cry from below. Molly Peters’s husband it was who found her.’

  He swayed and Henrietta jumped to her feet, staggering with the weight of him as he fell into her arms. ‘I couldn’t stop her, but I didn’t try to,’ Rafe said. ‘I drove her to it. I didn’t love her. I didn’t try to make her happy. I didn’t want her. I didn’t want our baby. I killed her. I killed them both.’

  ‘Rafe, oh God, Rafe. I can’t believe—I had no idea you had been through such torments. Must still be going through them. It is awful. Awful. I can’t begin to comprehend how awful.’

  The scene he had so vividly described replayed over and over in Henrietta’s head as she struggled with the enormity of Rafe’s totally unexpected confession. She was aghast. Absolutely horrified. ‘I just can’t believe— God, what you must have gone through.’

  ‘My suffering is deserved.’

  ‘At least Julia’s is over,’ Henrietta whispered, more to herself than to Rafe, in an effort to make sense of what he had told her. ‘Such a very unhappy person she sounds. She must have been a little deranged by her pregnancy. She would not have been responsible for her actions. Poor woman. Poor, poor little baby. Oh, Rafe, if only you’d had the opportunity, you would have loved the child, I know you would have. I could not doubt that, after seeing you today.’

  Rafe grasped her by the shoulders, forcing himself to meet her eyes, caring not for the fact that his own were suspiciously bright. ‘Henrietta, can’t you see? Nothing I can do, no amount of babies and mothers saved, will make up for the child I lost. I thought they would. That’s why I built this place. I thought it would help, but it didn’t.’

  He pushed her away. Henrietta slumped back down on her seat, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet. Her head was aching. She had no idea what to say. Rafe’s face was a blank—his confession had clearly flayed him clean of emotion. She shook her head, as if doing so would clear the fog of confusion that shrouded her mind. She had to try to make sense of things. She needed to, for both their sakes. ‘But you have atoned,’ she said slowly. ‘You continue to atone. St Nicholas’s is obviously making an enormous difference. Without it, I don’t doubt any number of those babies would not have made it into the world.’

  All true, but it wasn’t the point. She needed to explain, because he quite obviously didn’t understand it all himself. Guilt. That’s what he was feeling. That’s what drove him. Of course it was. So simple and yet so utterly complex. She felt lik
e sobbing. Instead she forced herself to speak, though she had a horrible suspicion that the end of her speech would signal her own downfall.

  ‘You’re tearing yourself apart, Rafe.’ Her voice was too much of a whisper. She swallowed. Throat dry. She coughed. ‘Guilt. It’s guilt. What happened is awful. Horrible. I simply don’t have the words. You are not blameless, but you are nowhere near as much at fault as you believe. Julia and the baby are dead, and nothing you can do will bring them back. Maybe there was nothing you could have done to prevent them suffering in the first place. I don’t know, no one knows that, but I do know there is no point at all in continuing to torment yourself. You are allowing what happened to destroy you.’

  Rafe made a bitter sound, like a demon laughing. ‘I don’t deserve anything else, Henrietta. I don’t care about myself. What I’m trying to do is stop myself destroying you, too.’

  The new twist in his logic threw her. ‘Me?’

  ‘I would make you miserable. I have given up the right to be happy. I’ve given up the right to love. I gave those things away when I killed my wife and child.’ His voice cracked. ‘I can’t offer you those things, even if I wanted to, and you won’t accept less—why should you? Now do you understand?’

  Henrietta got to her feet, pushing her way past Rafe over to the window, where she pressed her forehead against the glass. Her skin was burning, though she felt freezing. The dread that had been lurking in the shadows of her traumatised mind began to edge its way towards centre stage. She wanted so desperately to help him. She wanted with all her heart to help him, but she could not surrender her soul to him, and that is what she would be doing if she gave in now, if she did not walk away. ‘Your giving up the right to happiness is your true penance, isn’t it?’ Her voice seemed drained of all emotion. Already, she felt defeated, too tired to continue, though she knew she had to, must, or she would be lost. ‘Is that what you are saying?’

  Rafe nodded.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see it now.’ And how much she wished she were blind, for what she saw was the end, the inevitable, inescapable conclusion she must reach. She spoke with the slow, weary precision of a judge delivering the death sentence. ‘I wish with all my heart that I could ease the pain you must feel every day. I cannot imagine what it must be like. I wish you could see, Rafe, I truly wish that you could see that you are not wholly at fault, that there is a time for repenting and a time for taking what you have been given and making the best of it.’ She paused for breath. It was painful. ‘Do you really think this endless flaying of yourself serves any real purpose? Have you not acknowledged your faults, have you not changed? Is it not time that you forgave yourself?’ Her voice was pleading now, though she knew she was advocating the impossible.

  ‘How can I?’

  He was too entrenched in his guilt, too far gone for her to reach. She could cast him the rope, but if he would not pull himself to safety, unless she released him, she, too, would drown. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ Henrietta said with infinite sadness. ‘I’m sorry. I wish with all my heart that I could but I can’t, and so it seems then we must both be condemned to a lifetime of unhappiness.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought you’d have realised by now,’ she said wearily. ‘I love you. I’m in love with you.’ The words she had so longed to speak fell flat and empty, like her heart. ‘I can’t ever be happy without you, so you see, by punishing yourself you are punishing me.’

  ‘Henrietta! Don’t say that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say it again,’ she said, unable to keep the trace of bitter hurt from her voice, ‘I know perfectly well my love means nothing to you, but it’s precious to me, and I won’t let you destroy it.’

  ‘That’s not what I said. I meant— Henrietta, I meant— I just—’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t take any more. I just can’t. I wish I could help you. I wish you would help yourself. I wish that we wanted the same things. Oh God, Rafe, you have no idea how much I wish that, but I can’t have what I want, and you can’t give me what I want, and I can’t live with what you can offer so—can’t you see how hopeless it all is?’ Her voice broke. She had no hope left. She was too empty even to feel the pain. Her limbs felt heavy, borne down with the dreadful things Rafe had told her. Her heart lay like a leaden weight in her chest. She jammed her bonnet on to her head. Tears burned behind her lids like acid. ‘Please, just take me home.’

  ‘Henrietta.’ She looked defeated. He had never seen her look defeated before. He didn’t want it to end like this. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like the clean break he had planned. He didn’t want—oh God, he didn’t know what he wanted. But Henrietta was already opening the door, descending the stairs, clutching at the polished banister for support. Henrietta was walking away and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop her. He had nothing left to say, after all. But it felt wrong, wrong, wrong.

  * * *

  The drive back, away from the docks, crossing the river by the new Waterloo Bridge, from a cityscape of oppressive squalor to opulent excess, had been accompanied by silence. At Berkeley Square, Henrietta got out of the phaeton without saying goodbye. She could not bear to look at him, lest she break down. She so desperately didn’t want to break down. She made her way quickly to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, relieved to hear that Aunt Gwendolyn had gone out and would go straight on to dinner with Emily Cowper’s gathering of Canningites.

  She left word with her maid that she did not want to be disturbed until morning. Then she discarded her gown and crawled into bed in her undergarments. Burrowing her head under the pillow, she waited on the tears, but they would not fall. They seared her eyes and lids, but they would not fall. She was icy cold, shivering under the mound of blankets. She was bereft of words and thoughts. Emptied of emotion, she lay, listening to the clock ticking and her heart beating, though it felt like every beat signalled another small, excruciatingly painful, death.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rafe drove back to Mount Street, barely aware of having made the journey, narrowly avoiding numerous collisions along the way. Handing over the reins of his phaeton, he demanded of his bemused groom that a fresh horse be sent round immediately. Pacing the front steps, clutching his riding crop in one hand and his beaver hat in the other, his frown was forbiddingly deep. An acquaintance, on the brink of doffing his hat and passing the time of day, instead traversed to the other side of the street, averting his gaze. He had seen that look on Rafe St Alban’s face once before and did not care to repeat the experience, nor witness the consequences. The crossing boy who habitually earned a sixpence from him chose to hide behind the pillar of the house next door. Careless of the fact that he was quite inappropriately dressed for riding, Rafe mounted, dismissing his groom curtly, urged the chestnut into a canter that would have been dangerous, were he not such an accomplished horseman, and made for Hyde Park.

  It was relatively quiet at this time of day. Ignoring the prohibition, Rafe loosed his hold on the frisky horse and gave his mount free rein. The gallop took both their breaths away, as well as that of several outraged onlookers. Finally pulling up, both horse and man panting heavily, Rafe found he felt no better for it.

  What the devil was wrong with him? What the devil had gone wrong? He’d wanted her to understand. She’d understood too well. This infuriating thought carried him round another circuit of the park, this time taken at something very slightly less than neck or nothing.

  A clean break, he’d thought. But the break felt jagged, as if it would never heal. Not an ending, but something much bleaker. A black mood settled on Rafe, darker than any he had known for a long time. The future looked not grim, but impenetrable. The past equally foggy, clogged as it was now by Henrietta’s insights. He felt as if she had taken a well-thumbed book and rewritten it.

  Another circuit, at a slow canter this time, was completed before he turned back through the gates. He made his way back to Mount Street, his horse streaming with s
weat. The problem with Henrietta—one of the problems with Henrietta—was that she never lied. Never.

  * * *

  Doubt, that most stealthy of creatures, had sidled into his mind, sowing the seeds of questions he didn’t want to ask, let alone answer. Sitting in his favourite wingback chair in the ground-floor library, surrounded by the ancient tomes his ancestors had acquired with a view to populating the polished walnut shelves rather than their own minds, Rafe fought to reassemble the past in the image he had for so long held deep in his heart, but it was like trying to force the wrong pieces of a dissected puzzle back into place. Distorted. Mangled. A different picture was emerging.

  Had he ever loved Julia? He’d thought so at the time, but now—no. Infatuated he might have been, but not in love. How could he be so sure? He didn’t know, but he was.

  His butler had set out a silver tray of decanters upon the desk. Rafe poured himself a small glass of Madeira, but set it aside after one sip. He needed to think and needed a clear head in order to do so. Guilt. Looking back to those early days of his marriage, he recognised its presence like a shadow. Guilt because he knew he did not love Julia enough. Guilt when he inevitably failed to make her happy.

  Guilt, guilt and more guilt for his failure, and then his failing to care enough to try harder. It had not helped, his upbringing with its enormous sense of obligation. He had been raised to be the bearer of burdens. He felt guilty when Julia’s unfaithfulness gave him the excuse he was looking for to separate. And he’d felt guilty enough about that to try again. Guilt it was that had driven him to the reconciliation, guilt fed this time by his grandmother, whose ceaseless sponsorship of the claims of the title to an heir he had allowed to sway him. And guilt every time he had forced himself to go to Julia’s bed, going through the motions, the pretext of desire, making no attempt to sweeten the pill for her—his own petty punishment. And the ultimate guilt: his rejection of his own child. The two deaths that had resulted from that.