by Lara Temple
Chapter Twenty
Sophie mounted the steps to the house on Manchester Square. It hadn’t been hard to find it—it was the only house with the knocker covered in faded black crape, an indication of mourning she knew must have been there since Serena’s death. Up close she could see the neglect in the chipping paint and the shuttered windows. These signs of obsessive grief were almost too overwhelming and she hesitated. She was unfashionably early, but she had needed an excuse to escape Aunt Minnie’s oppressive house and clear her head. She knew it was a matter of time before Max came to see her and demand an account for last night and she had to clear her head before she faced him.
He had said he trusted her, but she doubted it. Not after last night. And she couldn’t really blame him. She might say it was sheer bad luck that he had come across her with Wivenhoe again, but if she had been smart, she would have managed that whole situation better. With clarity and authority. She grimaced. Not her strong points. She was a leap-of-faith person and Max... Max was about clarity and authority. And from his frozen fury last night it was clear he believed she had passed the bounds of what he found acceptable. He might still want to bed her, but it was a matter of time before resentment gained the upper hand. Her foolish dream that she could reach the warm, giving inner core she believed...she knew was inside him would remain just that, a dream to tantalise and taunt.
The last thing she wanted to do right now was to listen to Lord Morecombe’s grief about Serena, but she had promised and she clung to a faint hope that if she could clear her head she might think of a way to still make this work. And she couldn’t think in that oppressive, stifling house where the one place she felt comfortable was a room overlaid with memories and images of Max that inevitably made her body flare into expectation. She would sit with Lord Morecombe for half an hour and then she would walk for a while and think.
She wielded the covered knocker with resolution and after a moment the door was opened by a middle-aged but powerfully built footman.
‘I am Miss Trevelyan. I have come to see Lord Morecombe. I know I am early, but—’ She broke off.
He bowed and stepped back.
‘Come in, Miss Trevelyan. His lordship will be pleased to see you.’
She followed him to a musty parlour where he inched open the shutters, letting in a band of weak light, then he bowed and left the room. Dust motes shimmered in the streak of light and she looked around the almost bare room. There wasn’t even a carpet to cover the floorboards which were slightly warped and mottled by ashes around the fireplace. She resisted the urge to either throw back the curtains and windows or leave before this oppressive place dragged her down even deeper into melancholy, but finally the door opened again and Lord Morecombe entered. In this dilapidated setting he looked even more pitiable and she relaxed slightly. It was no great hardship on her part after all.
‘Miss Trevelyan, thank you, thank you for coming,’ he said finally, reaching out to clasp her hand. His own hands were shaking slightly and she smiled reassuringly.
‘Good morning, Lord Morecombe. I apologise for coming so unfashionably early, but...’
‘Not at all, I told you I rarely sleep any more. I am just glad you came.’ The pale, sagging face tried for a smile and failed. After a moment he turned towards the door.
‘Please, come with me. There is something I would like to show you.’
Sophie followed reluctantly. She was so miserable she wondered how on earth she would find sufficient energy to be compassionate. Still, she had chosen to come and she had to complete the gesture, for this poor man’s sake. He led her across the echoing hall to another drawing room. It was even mustier and the air was thick and unpleasant. She was not overly fastidious, but she wished she didn’t have to sit down on one of the dingy chairs. Instead she looked around the room and stopped as she spotted the portrait on the far wall. The room was so dark she had not immediately noticed it, but now it was impossible to look away. She felt Lord Morecombe come and stand beside her, but she could think of nothing to say and just stood and looked up at the painting.
They hadn’t been exaggerating—Serena had indeed been beautiful, her eyes glaring out of the canvas with an avid, demanding arrogance that would have suited a queen. Sophie tried to tell herself that Serena, too, had only been a girl, eighteen, but there was something in that face that was much older. Looking at her, Sophie had never felt so hopeless. There was something in that beauty and the intensity of her story that placed her completely beyond Sophie, taking what she had hoped might be accessible in Max with it. On all levels she realised he was beyond her. She symbolised the worst of what Serena had been—the idiosyncrasy, the wilfulness, the inability to conform, yet without everything that had drawn him to her—her beauty and voluptuousness; that coy, summoning ease men seemed to appreciate so much and which she could never emulate. Serena had left a shadow Sophie could never escape and which Max might never overcome. Even being tied to her by their experiences with Wivenhoe only confirmed the hopelessness of it all. She had known from the beginning she was swimming against the tide with him and, like tackling the waters outside the cove, she was tiring, floundering.
She loved Max so much the thought of leaving him was a deep sharp wound each time she contemplated it, but she did not know if she could continue to live in the gap between who she was and who he obviously wanted her to become. She was used to the people she loved reflecting that gap back to her and though it had sometimes been difficult she had always tried to find it amusing. She knew they loved her anyway. Perhaps that was the difference. Max had no love towards her that might bridge that gap, the kind of mental embrace and leap that came with acceptance and tempered expectations. She had thought the passion they shared could take its place, but, as amazing and overpowering as it was, it wasn’t the same. It didn’t have the same healing power and eventually it, too, would succumb to that chasm.
‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’ Lord Morecombe’s voice broke in on her agonised thoughts, his voice insistent, reverent.
‘Amazingly so,’ Sophie said.
‘He painted this. I would not have kept it, but I thought...it is the only one I have of her. And it is so very like her. He understood her, for better or for worse. It is my fault she is dead,’ he concluded and turned away, his shoulders sagging.
‘Of course it isn’t!’ Sophie protested.
He shook his head and continued.
‘I adored her, you see. I wanted to give her everything. And if she did have tantrums and was...difficult, I thought it was because she lacked a mother’s touch and there was nothing wrong in giving her what she wanted when it seemed to make her happy. Harcourt...the previous Duke, that is...and I had always planned that she and Max would marry. Practically from the cradle. It is important I provide for her, you see, because my estate is fully entailed and once I pass away she will have no more than a small independence and she is quite used to receiving everything she wants. Harcourt is so wealthy they didn’t mind that her dowry was modest. And when Max came down to London from school they seemed quite content to go along with our plans. She was so gay and full of life and enjoying her first Season so much it never occurred to me that they were really quite unsuited.
‘When they clashed the first time it was over something quite silly—I think it was a necklace she wanted me to buy her—and he said something about her keeping to her allowance and she...well, she lost her temper. She can be quite...vocal. She said things. And he just stood there, watching her like an exhibit and I could see he wouldn’t bend and that just made her worse. I told him later, it was only a necklace, and he said that it would always be “only a necklace”. If only he could have been...softer with her. Perhaps they were both too young. We should have waited before we pressed for that engagement, it was just that...she was so vivacious and men were drawn to her and she... I thought it best they be married swiftly.
And then she suggested having the portrait done so I could keep part of her with me when she married. She wanted him to paint it. I don’t know if they had already...even then... My child...my beautiful, lovely, girl...’
Sophie walked up and took his hand and he clung to hers, his skin papery and insubstantial. There was nothing to say and so she just sat by him for a while until he gave her hand a little pat.
‘You have such a warm heart, child. Have tea with me. Please,’ he said, with such a voice of a little boy that she hadn’t the heart to deny him. He wandered off and just as she was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten her he returned, followed by the same footman holding a tray with a surprisingly dainty china tea set.
‘This was my wife’s set and Serena loved it and planned to take it with her. I thought it fitting to bring it out today. Under the circumstances. Here, my dear. What a blessing that you came. I have been wondering what to do about it all. I cannot sleep at night, you see. All these thoughts and memories. She won’t let me sleep. And it is so much worse since I saw the notice in the Gazette about Harcourt and you...’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Sophie said, drinking her tea resolutely, wondering how they had managed to make it so sweet and still so bitter.
‘I know you are, my dear. I find that very touching. I watched you yesterday, caught between the two of them. There was violence there without an act or a word, wasn’t there? It’s a matter of time before they destroy you as well, between them. And that would be dreadful. I watched and I thought...she will end up like my Serena. Torn between those two. They will drag her down, sully her, use her... Have they sullied you as well?’
Sophie stared at him in shock, but could not prevent colour from flooding her cheeks and he gave a queer little groan, dragging his hands over his face.
‘Oh, no, I was right. I knew, watching you, that it was inescapable. My sweet Serena, I won’t fail you this time.’
She put down her empty cup, but to her surprise it missed the table and tumbled on the rug and she stared at the spreading blot on the faded carpet. He didn’t seem to notice. His hands, like birds freed from a cage, fluttered and flickered above his legs. She should leave. She had not realised this about him. She had thought his peculiar comments yesterday were just those of a lonely, tragic man who needed to talk. She had not realised it was more than that.
‘I really must go,’ she said, or thought she did, but all she could hear was his voice, earnest and agonised.
‘She said she needed a potion to rid herself of the babe and what could I do? She insisted and raged until I went and found it. Just one teaspoon mixed with water, they said. She told me Wivenhoe wanted to marry her, did you know? But she wanted more than that. She had always known she was going to be a duchess and the toast of the town and she wasn’t going to give it up for an impoverished baron. She knew Max was no fool and he would soon see she was increasing and he would know she had been unfaithful and throw her over and she wasn’t going to have that. She told me everything, that she had every intention of making Max adore her as much as Wivenhoe did. She wanted the Duchy and the money and both of them at her feet and she didn’t see why she had to compromise.
‘I tried to explain the dangers, but it was no use. One teaspoon, they said, no more. But three days and nothing. So she took more, and more, until there was no more and I could see it was making her ill and I told her it wasn’t meant to be, but she wouldn’t listen and then on the fourth day even though she was in pain she sent for him and went to the house where they met. She wanted him to find something more effective. But it was too late. She never came back and Max and I went looking for her and found her... I should have been strong enough to stop her from destroying herself. To stop them from destroying her. Do you see? She was my baby and I gave her poison. Of course it is my fault. But I won’t let them do the same to you. I will keep you safe.’
Sophie shook her head and tried to rise, to leave, but nothing happened. She had become very small and her body very large, quite light, and he was shimmering, like a flickering candle, no, a moth, a big grey moth, yes...watching her... She had to leave, find Max. She needed Max.
‘Do you feel it already?’ he asked curiously. ‘It’s only laudanum, my dear. It is very bitter but I put lots of sugar in the tea. Still, it feels quite pleasant, doesn’t it? I know, it is the only way I can sleep. You needn’t worry, I will keep you safe from them. That was why I had to be certain you wouldn’t tell Harcourt. They won’t find you. They can’t hurt you any more.’
She wondered why she was still sitting there. Except that it seemed strange to think of moving. Something someone else might do, but she was not sure how. You must stand up, she told herself forcefully and made an effort to push off the chair. To her surprise she found herself on her hands and knees, her eyesight clouding over and her ears buzzing. Lord Morecombe’s voice washed over her, increasingly distant.
‘Don’t worry. I will keep you safe. Just relax, my child.’
Sophie tried to shove herself to her feet, but the effort only drained the last light from her vision and she barely felt the blow as her cheek made contact with the carpet.
Chapter Twenty-One
Max looked up. He had no idea how he had ridden that far, or why. The clouds hung low and sullen and there was very little traffic entering Richmond Park. Max checked his horse, feeling like a fool. The memory of the time they had recently spent together on King Henry’s Mound was vivid but already unreal, as if it had happened to someone else. He turned his horse back towards London. The thought of seeing the park, grey and gloomy and lonely, was too painful. Nothing about the city would ever be the same, he realised. How had she overlaid so much of his world with her presence in such a short period of time? She had torn him down and built him up again with herself now rooted in his foundation. He felt dispossessed, stripped of the exclusive control that had been such an obvious part of his life. She had taken a charcoal sketch and slathered it with paint, thick and vivid and uncompromisingly alive.
And in return he had tried to force her into a mould that was totally unworthy of her. Meeting every attempt to reach him and every invitation to show human emotion with rejection or suspicion. He hadn’t been brave enough ten years ago to call a halt to a disastrous alliance and he was still a coward or he would have admitted to himself that he needed her. He had never known what it was like to need someone at a level that was basic to his life, as important as his own existence. And he had never thought of someone else’s joy as precious, but hers was. At some level he had known it from the very beginning. Even the stupid gesture of sending her that collar and leash had been driven by some instinctive response to her wistfulness and her thirst for life.
She was so much better than him, so much more alive and real. She deserved someone who would allow her to flourish and explore herself. Who wouldn’t drag her down like he and her parents did with endless expectations to be something she wasn’t. It was a matter of time before she realised just how limited he was. If he had an ounce of courage he would find a way to offer her her freedom. It was just that he didn’t want to. He had no idea how he was going to redeem himself with her, but he couldn’t let her go. It wasn’t duty, it was sheer selfish need and he felt contemptible that he couldn’t be stronger, for her. But he couldn’t. There had to be some way to fix this.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon by the time he made it back to London and reached Huntley House. He stood on the familiar pavement trying to figure out what to say. The only thing he could think of was to tell her the truth and beg her to let them start over, on her terms. Because the thought that she would leave, that he would never see her again...he couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. She was his. She had given herself to him and he was damned if he would let her go. Somehow he would atone for his mistakes.
He strode up the stairs and the door swung upon almost before
he let go the knocker.
‘Your Grace! You’ve come!’
Max frowned, his senses shifting into alert.
‘What’s wrong, Lambeth? Has something happened?’
‘Miss Trevelyan, she’s gone, sir. She left at ten this morning and didn’t say where she was going. The maid said she was wearing nothing more than a walking dress and spencer and she hadn’t more than a few coins on her, she’s sure of that. And then Lady Cranworth came to call seeing as they had arranged to meet at one o’clock. It is not at all like Miss Sophie to be late or forgetful, Your Grace, so of course I was alarmed. I promised I would send her word when Miss Sophie returned and then I sent James to Reeves to enquire, but she hasn’t been there today. Then I went to speak with Mr Gaskell, begging your pardon, Your Grace, and he said you had ridden out and he didn’t know when you would return. And finally this past hour I even sent James to do the round of the posting houses going points west, but no one matching her description bought a ticket today. I haven’t yet told her ladyship, but I don’t know what else to do, Your Grace... I’m so glad you have come. What should we do?’
Max’s hands fisted as he listened, taking in everything Lambeth said, struggling against the shock and trying to gather his thoughts. Where could she have gone? She had been gone five hours. Five hours in a light dress and with just a few coins.
‘Are you certain that it is all she had with her?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. Sue was with her when she dressed and she said Miss Trevelyan just slipped a couple of coins in her reticule and left. That is all.’
‘Did she say anything? Anything at all?’