Her fingers began opening the letter of their own volition and she paused, wondering at her loss of control. She never read his missives without waiting and, often, arranging some ceremony, some celebration.
But perhaps, she thought, as she looked around at her almost unrecognizable apartment, now was as good as any time for a change.
Dear Nora,
I apologize for breaking what has been my routine and sending this letter early. By now you will have guessed the reason.
I knew immediately your parents were who they said they were and not people sent by newspapermen—that might sound absurd, but it happened more than once during my divorce. You resemble your mother closely, but with your father’s pale complexion and unusually light hair. Your eyes are entirely your own.
But you would have heard all that before, many times, I’m sure. To me such familial resemblances are eerie mysteries and I cannot comprehend seeing my features in another, or theirs in me. I suspect that is part of the reason I was so desperate to have a child: the urge to replicate myself, maybe to feel a connection. I understand that was only part of my obsession.
I hope I did right by sending them to Smith’s. Yes, of course I knew you were there. He told me as much after I read the newspaper column.
Your parents appear to be genuinely affectionate people torn by joy and grief. I don’t believe you are cruel, Nora, so I know you must have had your reasons for cutting them off. I wish, more than you will ever know, that I’d asked about your life during our time together.
I can’t say that I’m surprised to learn you’ve become such a respected painter. I know I should be ashamed of the paintings of yours I kept, but I cannot seem to make myself give them back.
If you want them, I will return them.
I’ll confess something to you, something that stills shames me. But, I’ve realized, as I’ve written these letters, that I feel better after telling you the truth about myself. In my past dealings with everyone—including you—I carefully selected what I wanted others to see, concealing those parts of myself that might expose me as less than what I wanted to appear: a successful man of business. I realize now that vision of myself is limiting. I am a successful businessman, but I hope—and am striving—to be more. Is that a sad admission—a pitiful goal—for a man of almost five-and-forty? Perhaps, but not as pitiful as what I’m about to confess.
My reaction that day in your studio was a complex one. I felt betrayal, pain, anger, fear, insecurity, and a great many other emotions that I continue to think about. The betrayal was painful. But right behind that was the intense pain I felt at having been excluded—no, that’s not correct—at having excluded myself—from that entire part of your life. The sketches you left, dozens and dozens—some of Catherine, some even of Ceddy and the servants, but not a single one of me.
Ah, well. There is the sad truth, Nora. Poor Edward, his feelings were hurt.
I started this letter only to explain why I sent your parents to Smith’s but, as ever, it has come back around to me.
Respectfully,
Edward.
Nora felt tears sliding down her cheeks.
Poor Edward. She understood the pain he felt, must still feel, at such exclusion. More than anything, she wanted to tell him the truth—to take away his anguish, his feeling of rejection. More than anything she wanted to write him, or even go to him.
But then Catherine would loom up in Nora’s mind: a coldly angry Catherine—the way she should have been back then, back when she discovered that her husband and only friend were lovers.
Now, when it should have no longer mattered, it was Catherine who stood between them.
Nora suspected that she always would.
Chapter Forty-Three
October 1870
Edward didn’t write her a letter the next week, or the week after that.
Indeed, it was almost seven months now since his final letter—not the one about her parents, but the one before that—in which he told her he’d not write again until she told him there was some chance for them. That it was up to her if she ever wanted to speak to him again.
Edward looked for letters each day, at first, but he’d become better—or at least less pitiful—as the months passed. The days were not as bad as he’d anticipated and he no longer rushed home from wherever he was to check the post. If she wanted to write, she would write. The days when Nora did everything he told her to do were long over.
He was fortunate in that he could still read and hear about her. He’d seen her name associated with several showings. She’d done a portrait of Smith that was generating quite a furor. Smith had come to him before Edward had read about it.
“She did it without my knowledge. She asked my permission to exhibit it this year, and I didn’t feel like it was my place to say no.”
Edward could tell he was pleased. And why not? Was he jealous? Hell yes he was. He liked to think he’d changed since she’d left, but he doubted he would ever change that much.
“Are you angry with me?” Smith asked him one night some months ago, when he’d come to join Edward for dinner—just the two of them. Edward knew Smith was asking because there had been several articles on the painting; it had made quite a stir. Edward read the articles greedily, drinking up the little bits of information about her in a way he suspected was not normal. Again, he was who he was.
“I envy you,” Edward said. “But I’m not angry.”
And it was the truth, he did envy Smith. But he was glad Nora had ended up with Smith as a protector—the man was exactly who Edward would have chosen to protect her, if it couldn’t be him.
“How was her showing?” Edward asked Smith the last time they’d dined together, earlier this month, trying to sound casual.
Although they spoke of Nora on occasion, it was usually only when Smith introduced the subject.
“She found it stressful—worrying people won’t come, that sort of thing—but her art could not fail to attract crowds and buyers.” Smith answered Edward as if his question were normal, giving him hope that the next time he might ask another question, perhaps even two.
Edward had wanted to go to the showing, but of course he hadn’t. He’d wanted to send an emissary to buy up every single one of her paintings. But he hadn’t done that, either. He’d thought about buying only one, but that had felt wrong, as well—as if he were prying or stealing, even though he’d have paid for it. So he’d merely read about it and tried, unsuccessfully, not to yearn.
Smith had begun to dine with him once a month and Edward found he looked forward to the meals. He still saw the other members of the syndicate often, but Smith, he felt, knew him—or at least as well as any man knew him.
Their growing friendship, if that’s what it was, wasn’t only about Nora. The two of them had decided to establish a trade-school—the type of place that taught useful skills to boys who’d grown up in bad circumstances. There would be apprenticeships, but with more choice than Edward had received. He still didn’t know where Smith came from—or even the man’s name—but he knew Smith’s experiences must have been similar to his.
He found working on the project fulfilling. Was he lonely? Of course. Did he think of Nora? As much as ever. But there were parts of his life he enjoyed. He’d finished his first Dickens and then picked up another book. This one by a woman author, Jane Eyre one of the Brontes, whom he now knew were sisters.
He’d enjoyed the story far more than he’d expected. Young Jane’s experience was similar to his own, although of course he had no wealthy relatives. And Rochester had been almost as big an ass as Edward—they even shared the same Christian name.
He now read regularly, working his way through what he thought of as Nora’s Library.
He’d also taken up wood working again. When they opened their school he was considering offering his carpenter experience if there were any boys interested. He was not a master carpenter, but he knew several and could pass along any promising students.
That was where he’d been tonight—at the new school. It didn’t have students, yet, but they’d begun to fill the small dormitory with furniture and the classrooms with chairs, desks, or tools, as the various subjects dictated.
It could only house forty boys, but he and Smith had purchased the building beside it.
Because Edward never had his servants wait up past nine o’clock there were no Thomases in the foyer. He’d found that he liked to be alone when he came home, free to relax in any part of his house without servants hovering.
He went to his study, which resembled a library more and more as he purchased books of his own. There were still many shelves to fill, but he had time. Lots of time.
He picked up the bundle of post from its tray beside the door and took it to his desk. He wore spectacles all the time now, those with a split in them. It was mortifying—a man of barely three-and-forty—but he’d decided to prize utility over vanity. His face had never been much to look at, in any case.
One envelope caught his eyes: it had foreign postmarks and something about the loopy script looked familiar. It took him far longer than it should have to recognize his former wife’s handwriting. But then, he’d never really known much about her.
He stood and poured a drink, fearing he might need one, taking it and the letter to his favorite chair beside the fire.
Taking a deep draught, he broke the seal:
Edward,
Here I am doing a thing I never thought I’d do: write you a letter.”
Edward snorted and took a sip of brandy. “You and me, both, Kitten.”
Smith told me he’d never tell anyone—not you or Nora—about my involvement with Nora’s troubles last year. I say troubles, when I should speak the truth: her rape and subsequent public humiliation.
I’ll tell you what I told him: I never knew that Derek would do that to her when I told him about her past. I was using him, it was true, to expose her secret—to humiliate her, which, I knew would hurt you. I could say it was really to hurt you, but I wanted you both to feel pain.
While I only expected Derek to take the information I gave him to a newspaperman—which he did—I should have guessed he was the type to take out his revenge in a more physical manner.
I don’t know if he told you, and it doesn’t really matter, but Smith told me to leave England or he could not be responsible for what he did to me.”
Edward hadn’t known. He lifted his half-full glass “Well done, Smith.”
“I would have left anyhow after hearing what Derek did. I’d like to claim I wasn’t in my right mind—that I was addled by drink—but I knew what I was doing by starting down that path.
As the saying goes, ‘A man who desires revenge should dig two graves.’
The months that followed my removal to the Continent were, quite honestly, almost the end of me. While I could blame you and Nora for setting me on the path to ruin, I could only blame myself for not getting off it.
I’m not telling you this to make you sorry for me; I’m telling you this because it’s important to me that you know I’m well, now.
I wish I could say I was wise enough to have saved myself, but I met a person who saw me at my worst and still loved me. She taught me that I am worthy of being loved.
She convinced me that if I hang on to my hatred for you, I’m harming myself and those who love me.
Having behaved with great cruelty toward Nora—and, by extension, you—I know I’m no better than either of you in that regard.
I accept now that I must forgive you so that you no longer hold sway over me.
I must forgive you in order to forgive myself, Edward.
I will never like you, but I bear you no ill will.
Catherine Fanshawe.”
Edward exhaled a shaky breath as he stared sightlessly at the letter.
Smith had not told him of Catherine’s involvement in Derek Brown’s attack on Nora. Edward had to admit that was a wise decision. He wasn’t sure he would have been so kind as to offer banishment.
Although he understood Catherine’s Biblical impulse of an eye for an eye, he believed she’d maimed the wrong party.
Or perhaps she hadn’t. Edward would have much rather have been raped and publicly shamed than Nora, so maybe Catherine’s aim had been unerring, after all.
Chapter Forty-Four
Spring 1871
Edward was, he decided, exhausted but happy. At least as happy as he believed himself capable of being. The school was open, the dormitories filled, and the classrooms noisy hives of industry.
Like other schools, they would take an Easter Break. The instructors, most of whom had been selected by the members of the syndicate—Chatham and Banks had, not surprisingly, become involved in the project—were young men selected from their various business enterprises.
Edward and Smith were paying some of the instructors additional wages to stay at the school over the break, during which time they were offering excursions to places most Londoners never seemed to make time to visit. It would be a treat for boys who had, for the most part, grown up without ever having a holiday.
After Smith had shamed him—by leading a group of students on an excursion to the Tower—Edward decided to take a group to visit a part of the British Museum that featured furniture.
He’d grumbled about it to the other men, but the truth was that he’d looked forward to it. With his usual mania for organization and control he’d visited the museum three times by himself to develop a list of questions to ask his students.
When Smith had seen the questions, his comment had been that it was supposed to be fun.
Edward was still irked about that. Just what wasn’t fun about furniture?
Edward was mounting the steps to his house and considering how to one-up Smith’s next trip—to Madam Tussaud’s, of all places—when the door opened, Phelps on the threshold.
“Good evening, sir.”
The reason Edward had chosen Phelps for the position of butler is that he epitomized everything Edward always imagined a butler to be: unflappable sophistication. Today, however, Edward detected as slight tension around the other man’s eyes.
“What is, Phelps?” he asked, handing the man his hat and cane.
“You have a visitor, sir.”
Edward paused in the act of stripping off his gloves and glanced around stupidly, as if Phelps might have hidden the visitor somewhere in the foyer.
“It’s rather late for a visitor,” Edward said, pointing out the obvious. “Why didn’t you just make whoever it was come back?”
“Because Phelps and I are old friends.”
Edward’s head whipped up so fast the bones in his neck cracked.
“Nora?” The word left his mouth before he recalled. “I mean—”
“Nora is fine, Edward.”
Edward gaped like a child at a circus. “I thought you were in the country,” he said, apropos of nothing.
She smiled down at him, which made him realize he was standing in the middle of the foyer shouting up at her. He turned to Phelps and opened his mouth.
“It’s already on the way, sir.”
Ever the paragon of discretion, Phelps turned and disappeared in the direction of the kitchens.
Edward lifted legs made of lead and made his way toward the stairs. He knew there were only thirty or so, but it felt like a hundred before he reached the top where she stood waiting.
He’d forgotten how very small and slender she was, his Nora. His palms were sweating as his eyes ranged over her like marauding bandits.
“Your hair,” she said, with a touch of wonder in her voice. “It’s lighter than mine.”
Edward foolishly ran a hand through his overlong hair—as if to confirm what she was looking at. “I look like an old man. It happened overnight.” He didn’t tell her which night, but he could see by her expression she knew. Yes, his Nora.
“And spectacles, too,” she added.
He smiled wryly.
“I’m only glad you have come on a day when I wasn’t using my wheeled chair.”
She smiled slowly and his lungs tried to freeze and speed up at the same time.
Once again, he noticed they were speaking in the hallway.
“Would you like to come to the library?”
“That’s where Phelps put me, remembering how much I enjoyed books.”
Phelps, Edward decided, was getting an immediate increase in pay.
They walked slowly, Edward matching his long stride to hers. “You have many more books than those I chose,” she said as Edward opened the door for her.
“Yes, I’ve taken up reading,” he admitted, feeling like a twit for being so proud of such a simple thing. “Well, reading for pleasure,” he added.
“There is nothing else like it, is there? A well-written book.”
“No, nothing quite like it.” He couldn’t stop staring at her.
They sat, reflexively, in the chairs they’d occupied the few times they’d sat in the library: he in the big black leather beside the fire, her in a smaller version opposite him.
In addition to gawking, he couldn’t stop smiling.
“You look different, Edward.”
“Yes, so you mentioned.”
“Not just your hair and spectacles, but your smile. You look . . . happy.”
His face heated, as though she’d just accused him of some indecency.
“It looks well on you.”
If his face became any hotter it would burst into flames.
“How long have you been here?” he asked, wanting to take the subject away from him.
“Only a few minutes before you.” She gestured toward her traveling costume. “I just returned to town today.”
“Ah. Smith gave me reason to believe you were gone for several more months yet.”
Her lips curved in an arch smile that had the predictable effect on his cock—which had already roused at the first sound of her voice. “Yes, well, Smith likes to think he knows everything, doesn’t he?”
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 32