‘Deborah,’ he said delicately, ‘the fact is that your husband preferred men to women. Not just as friends, but in every way. He’d been having an affaire with another man. These—these relationships, they are not uncommon, but your husband and his lover were not discreet. The Kinsails obviously put pressure on Jeremy to avoid scandal. I remember you told me how proud your husband was of his heritage. I’m sorry.’
Deborah’s pale face turned ashen. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He married you to protect his name. He used you.’ Elliot’s hands clenched into fists again as his sympathy for Jeremy’s undoubted plight warred with the man’s perfidy. ‘If only he had confided in you. If he had had the guts to tell you. But to blame you as he obviously did, for failing… To make you think that you were the problem—’ He broke off. ‘Sorry. That’s not helping, I know.’
Deborah was shaking. ‘Do you mean that Jeremy—are you saying that my husband—the man who married me—that he loved men?’ She shook her head, her expression a heart-wrenching mixture of incomprehension and hurt. ‘He wouldn’t have—not even Jeremy would have lied to me about such a thing. Someone would have told me, surely? They would not all have—have colluded over such a thing.’
‘Deborah, they probably all assumed that you knew.’
‘But I didn’t,’ she said slowly. ‘I didn’t know. Did Jacob—do you mean that Jacob knew?’ Her voice choked. ‘He did. Of course he did. All this time. And Margaret, his wife? Surely she did not…’
Elliot’s nails dug into the flesh of his palms. ‘I don’t know,’ he said grimly. ‘It doesn’t matter a damn.’
Deborah clutched at her chair. There was a rushing noise in her ears. ‘But it does. Why did no one tell me?’ She clutched at her face now. Her fingers were icy. ‘All these years, all the things I did to…’ She shuddered. ‘Oh God.’
‘Deborah, it doesn’t matter.’ Elliot tried to pull her into his arms, but she pulled away.
‘Doesn’t matter?’ She looked at him incredulously. ‘Have you any idea of the humiliation that I suffered? To say nothing of the guilt. How could I not have known? How could I have been so bloody stupid? Dammit, only the other day I was talking about moving out from the shadows of the past.’
Her voice had an edge of hysteria to it. She was shaking, her teeth were actually chattering, but when Elliot tried again to touch her, she pushed him away. ‘Deborah, I love you. Please, listen to me…’
‘How can you love me? How could you possibly love me? I’m a dupe. Even the servants must have been laughing at me.’
This was going badly wrong. Elliot tugged ineffectually at his neckcloth. Deborah had retreated so far into herself he doubted he could reach her. All his confidence, the joy of discovering himself in love, was being shred into little pieces in the face of such misery. ‘Deborah, I love you,’ Elliot said, clinging to the one certainty. ‘I really love you. I’ve never said that before. I’ve never had the least desire to think it, never mind say it. I love you, and it’s not going to go away, what I feel. You could feel it, too, if you would just let go. If you would just believe in yourself a little.’
‘Believe in myself?’ Deborah exclaimed. ‘Seven years I was married and my husband could not bring himself to trust me. For seven years, and two more since I was widowed, not a single soul has thought enough of me to tell me what seems to have been common knowledge.’
‘Deborah, Lizzie did not say…’
‘What kind of person does that make me,’ Deborah swept on, ‘that my own husband lied to me about something so—so fundamental? What on earth is there to believe in, save an ability to bring misery to all those I love?’
He needed an answer, but all he could think about, seeing her distraught face, was that he wanted to make it all go away, make it all unsaid. Yet where would that leave them save back at the beginning with it all to say again? Never in his life had he wanted something so much as to take away her pain and never in his life had something seemed so utterly unattainable. Elliot tried to rally himself, to remind himself of the old saying that love could conquer all, but he never did have much faith in old adages. He loved her, his heart was aching with love for her, but even if he could make her listen, make her believe what he felt, what difference would it make? He had thought his revelation would clear the path to a happy future. Instead, he seemed to have placed an insurmountable object in their way. His dejection was all the deeper for the height from which he had fallen.
Elliot picked up his hat and gloves. His feet felt weighted to the ground, his actions felt as if they were happening in slow motion. Already, it seemed as if Deborah was far away, out of his reach. ‘I love you,’ he said, his voice cracking on the words he believed he was saying for the last time, ‘that won’t ever change, but until you do, then there is no point in my saying any more.’ He waited, but she made no move, said no word. He left.
Chapter Eleven
For more than a week, Deborah struggled to come to terms which what had happened, but every time she tried to reconcile her heart and her head, she failed. The truth, stark and terrifying, took stronger and more resolute root the more she tried to shift it. It hurt because it was so painfully clear, like the sun reflected on snow. She was in love with Elliot.
She was in love and had never been so utterly and completely miserable in her life. It tormented her, this love, which she would never be able to tell him. She tormented herself, crying over the sentimental romances she had so formerly despised, deriving small consolation by constructing alternative, unhappy-ever-after endings. She lost hours gazing into space, dreaming up rose-bowered cottages in which she and Elliot could live happily ever after, even though she hated cottages and the notion of Elliot spending the rest of his life contentedly tending their garden made her laugh. Bitterly. In the park, she gazed enviously at couples strolling arm in arm, inventing falsehoods to explain every little sign of affection. If she could not be happy, why then should anyone else?
But such hostility, such railing at the unfairness of it all, such resentment and vitriol, was exhausting and pointless. Weariness and depressions seized her then and finally, in the void created by lethargy, her spirit began to fight its way back. She loved Elliot. She loved him with her blood and bones as well as her heart. Her love for him made a flimsy edifice of what she thought had been love for Jeremy. Her husband had been right. She’d been in love with the idea of love, no more.
Poor Jeremy. If only she could have understood his turmoil, perhaps she would have made him a better wife. If only he could have told her, trusted her with his secret, perhaps then…
Perhaps then what, exactly? Deborah hauled herself out of bed, where she had been languishing, and sat in front of the mirror. ‘Honestly,’ she said to her wan reflection, ‘what do you think you could have done, if you had known? It wouldn’t have made him love you.’
There. It was a fact. Elliot was right. There was nothing she could have done to make Jeremy love her.
‘I am not a failure.’ She tested the words out in no more than a whisper, but they lacked conviction. Because she had failed, hadn’t she? She had not realised what everyone else had known. Her not knowing had made it impossible for her to console Jeremy. Had, in fact, forced Jeremy into prolonging his attempts to…
Pity enveloped her, followed by guilt. She could have helped him, consoled him, made his life a little less miserable, if only she had known. But she hadn’t known. He hadn’t trusted her. Deborah straightened her shoulders and resumed her study of her reflection. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said, and this time her words sounded like the truth. ‘I didn’t fail, because he made it impossible for me to succeed.’
Jeremy had been ashamed. His repeated failures had made him more ashamed. She could see that. Deborah gave a little nod. ‘Yes, I can see that. But he should have told me.’ Another little nod. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ Convincing. ‘I am not a failure.’ More convincing.
Elliot didn’t think she was a failure.
‘Elliot,’ Deborah said his name, just for the pleasure of it, and smiled. She loved him. For the first time, this gave her a warm glow. The kind of warm glow that she had, until that point, decided was an invention of the Minerva Press. ‘I love him.’ Utter conviction. Her reflection softened. She took a deep breath. ‘And Elliot—Elliot loves me,’ she said tremulously. Her smile became positively foolish. Her warm glow spread.
He loved her. She loved him. She was not a failure. It was not her fault. Was it too late? Deborah turned her back on her reflection, her face set in determined lines. The best things were worth fighting for. Elliot was the best thing ever to happen to her, but how—what could she do to persuade him that she had changed her mind? Had she changed her mind? All these years of thinking herself unattractive, undesirable, unwomanly—could she put them behind her? She couldn’t be sure, but she could try. Weren’t some things worth taking a chance on?
‘Oh God, not just a chance, but the biggest gamble of my life.’ Deborah paced the floor of her bedchamber, her bare feet icy on the boards. She couldn’t risk hurting Elliot. She couldn’t bear to hurt Elliot. But if Elliot truly did love her as he said, if he felt what she felt, had she not hurt him already? What was worse, taking a chance or not taking a chance?
Stupid question.
It was dawn before she lit upon the solution. The symmetry of it made her smile again. A beginning where it had all begun, except this time there would be two of them committing the crime. It was seditious and daring, it was illegal and it had the added attraction that by breaking the law they would be offending one of Jeremy’s closest conspirators beyond any hope of forgiveness. Deborah thumped her fist into her open palm. It was perfect. Her smile faded. If only Elliot could be persuaded.
‘He loves me. I love him. There is no question of failure,’ she told her mirror confidently. Then she threw on her clothes and made haste down to her parlour. She had plans to make.
* * *
Elliot returned home dejected, having waved Lizzie, Alex and their entourage off on their journey north. Their obvious domestic bliss was like a dose of particularly disgusting medicine, except it did him no good. He told himself that time would heal. Another of those old adages he had no faith in.
Though he had been angry and hurt by Deborah’s rejection, he had been sustained, for the first few days, by the hope that she would change her mind. She would see, once she’d had time to think over what he had said, that he was right. She would realise that she loved him as he loved her, and that alone would be enough to change her. But days passed without a word, and his confidence waned. His nights were fraught. When he slept he dreamt, horrible dreams of running, running, and never reaching his destination. He was always losing things in his dreams, too. Packing them in a portmanteau, then discovering that he had not packed them after all. Leaving his valise somewhere, forgetting where. Putting things in the wrong pocket. Leaving them carelessly for someone else to steal. Nothing valuable, never the same things, but the loss was gut-wrenching.
He woke sweating, panting, his heart racing. Despair swamped him. Deborah did not come. Time and again, he set out to persuade her, but each time he changed direction. Having waited all his life to fall in love, he would not compromise it. Instead, he would focus on his future. There was unrest brewing in the country. With help, it could spread. The army had taught him how to lead. The Government had taught the Peacock how to break rules. He simply had to find a way to combine both talents to good effect. He would work out a role for himself. He would find a purpose. It would be enough. Sometimes, he almost believed it. He made plans, lots of plans, sure that one or several of them would be the thing which made him want to get out of bed in the morning.
He sat down by the empty grate, and was wondering how he was to fill the rest of the day when his servant brought him a note which had been delivered by hand. The familiar, untidy scrawl set his heart thudding. Elliot broke the seal.
It is set for tomorrow morning, he read, then paused, frowning. His own words, more or less, he remembered them clearly. The note he had written to Deborah that first time, when they broke into the house in Grosvenor Square. Not exactly what he was expecting, but then Deborah never did anything expected.
I will call for you at nine o’clock. Nine in the morning? What was she planning?
Bring your usual accessories. Daylight robbery?
If you do not wish to take part in this last assignment, send word by the boy. No signature. Elliot turned the single sheet over, but it was blank. Succinct and to the point. What point? For the first time in days, he found himself smiling. The point was that they would be together. He could hope. He could allow himself to hope.
‘Will there be any reply, sir, only the boy is waiting?’
‘No. Give him a sixpence and send him on his way,’ Elliot said, unable to keep from grinning at his batman. It is set for tomorrow morning. Whatever it was, it was something.
* * *
He was waiting on the steps at fifteen minutes to nine. With still five minutes to go before the hour, Elliot had persuaded himself that she was not coming. He ran his fingers through his hair. The effect was to make it look considerably wilder. It needed cutting. He checked his pocket watch for the tenth time, giving it a shake, certain that it had stopped. He was upon the point of setting out for Hans Town on foot when a post-chaise pulled up in front of him and the door opened.
She was wearing her man’s clothing. Breeches and boots. Greatcoat. Hat pulled down over her hair. Her smile, in the gloomy light of the carriage, was tremulous. ‘You’re here,’ Deborah said foolishly, unable to say more because just seeing him made her breathless.
Elliot climbed into the chaise and sat down beside her. ‘You’re here,’ he said, equally foolish, equally breathless. The carriage jolted over the cobblestones.
‘Did you bring…?’
From the large pocket of his greatcoat, Elliot drew out his box of picks, his wrench. And the peacock feather.
The initial thrill of seeing him had receded. Deborah began to twist at one of the large brass buttons on her greatcoat.
Elliot took her hand, forcing her to relinquish her hold on the button, which she had already loosened. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.
Her fingers fluttered in his grip. ‘I’ve missed you, too,’ she whispered. She risked a glance up at him. His smile was only just perceptible, but it was there. Enough to give her courage. Enough to give her hope. ‘Elliot…’
‘Deborah?’
She sighed. ‘I had a speech, but I don’t think I can say it.’ She took off her hat, and threw it on to the bench opposite. Then she gave one of her little nods. ‘Elliot, I love you.’
He had hoped, from the moment he had read her note, he had hoped that she would be willing to consider the possibility, but he had not allowed himself to dream that she would say it. Just like that. Elliot was dumbfounded.
‘I said, I love you.’
‘Say it again.’
‘I love you, Elliot.’
He tugged at his neckcloth. ‘Are you sure?’
Deborah gave a funny little laugh. ‘You think I’d be saying it if I was not?’ She pressed a quick kiss to the back of his hand. ‘I don’t blame you for being sceptical.’
‘Not sceptical, just scared, if you must know,’ Elliot said, too afraid to consider prevaricating. ‘I don’t think I could bear it if you found you were wrong.’
She had never seen his face so stripped bare. The simple honesty of what he said, even more than his declaration over a week ago, made her realise the depths of his love for her. Almost she told him that she didn’t deserve him, realising just in time that what mattered was that he believed she did. ‘I know I love you, Elliot,’ she said fervently, ‘it’s the thing I’m most certain of in the world. I promise.’ She pressed another kiss on to his hand, then held it tight against her breast, then spoke in a rush, all the things she had planned so carefully tumbling out at once. ‘You were right. About Jeremy.
About it not being my fault. About my hiding behind Bella. You were right about all of it, only it was such a shock. It took me days to be able to think straight. I knew I loved you, you see, from before—before we made love—but I thought it was impossible. Only after what you told me, I realised that I could make it possible if I wanted it enough, and I do, Elliot, I want it more than anything. You. Us. Only you have to understand, there are bound to be times when I think I’m not good enough. It’s a hard habit to overcome, but what I’m trying to say is, that I want to try. I want to be happy, and I can’t be happy without you, and that’s worth trying for, isn’t it? If it’s not too late?’
‘Too late?’ Elliot tucked her hair behind her ear. Relief was already turning into something he thought might be happiness, spreading like fingers of sunshine from the inside out. ‘It could never be too late. I love you. Didn’t I tell you that’s not going to change?’ He swept her into his arms, pulling her across the bench of the carriage and kissing her ruthlessly. ‘I love you,’ he said, breathing heavily some moments, later. ‘You have no idea how much.’
‘I do. I do, Elliot. I have every idea.’ Deborah clutched at his shoulders, pressing herself into the reassuringly solid bulk of him, kissing him back, deep passionate kisses, desperate, needy kisses. She ached with love for him. Her fingers twined in his hair, roamed restlessly down his back, under his coat, fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat. Kisses were not enough. She needed him. All of him. Now.
Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Page 21