Web of Love (36 page)

“That must have been a hard time for you,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but our father had always lavished a great deal of affection on us, and that held us together after he was gone.” He grinned. “Unfortunately, affection did not lighten his hand when I was into some trouble. My only hope was that Madeline was in it with me. He would never beat her, you see, and could not in all conscience beat me for a shared offense.”

She smiled up at him. “I find now,” she said, “that I am able to picture the places where several of those stories you told me took place.” She remembered suddenly where she had heard those stories and waited for the pain of embarrassment. But he had been right in what he had said the night before. There had been more between them during those days in her rooms than just the physical. She had sat on a chair and he had lain on the bed, hand in hand, getting to know each other.

“Yes,” he said. “This in particular was a favorite playground.”

“I have reconciled with my father. Did you know?” she asked.

“You did go to visit him, then?” he said. “I am glad, Ellen. I remember stories you told me of your childhood, and I understood that you had been fond of him.”

“He still drinks,” she said. “Worse than ever, I believe.”

“Does that upset you?”

She considered. “Only for his sake,” she said. “He is not a happy man. He believes he really is my father, Dominic.”

“Does he?” He smiled at her. “Perhaps I should be calling you ‘Lady Ellen,' then.”

“He wants me to go and live with him when I leave here,” she said.

“And are you going to?” he asked. “You are not going to move into your father-in-law's house?”

“No,” she said. She stared straight ahead of her along the path. “I told him the truth before I left town. And Dorothy too. I will not be going back to them.”

He resisted the urge to draw her more closely against his side. He concentrated every effort of will on being a comfortable, friendly presence for her.

“Well,” he said, “I am happy you have found your father again, Ellen. Everyone should have someone he can call his own.”

“I always felt safe with him,” she said, looking up at him and smiling. “When he held my hand, nothing in the world could harm me.”

“That is what fathers are for,” he said.

“I always felt that way with Charlie too,” she said, looking deliberately into his eyes to dispel instantly any awkwardness that that name would arouse between them. “All the dirt and the discomfort, the tedium, the danger, mattered not one bit when Charlie was there. The whole of the French army could not have harmed me if his arms were about me. It was only when he was in battle that I was afraid. And then I was always mortally afraid.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “War is cruel on wives and mothers.”

They strolled in silence for a couple of minutes. He could feel the tension in her and could only walk quietly at her side and hope to bring her reassurance.

“Tell me,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “I want to know. I must know. You said you were with him when he died. Tell me how it happened. Tell me about those few days. I have to know.”

“I don't think he suffered,” he said, curling his fingers beneath hers as they rested on his arm and holding her hand tightly. She had quickened their pace. “He did not die in agony, as so many poor men did. He just…went away, Ellen. I saw he had been hit and went to him. He recognized me, and he said your name and Miss Simpson's name. But I don't think he heard anything I said in reply. He went too quickly. And then I was hit immediately after.”

He could see that she was biting hard on her lower lip. “There was a man,” she said. “I had him brought to my rooms from outside the cathedral. He was getting wet. He was going to die, but I did not want him to die wet and alone. He was not unconscious, but he was halfway there into death. He was past pain too, like Charlie. I sat with him and held his hand while he died. I wondered if someone else was doing as much for Charlie.”

“He knew I was there,” he said. “He was not alone.”

He could see that her eyes were bright with tears, but she would not give in to them. “Tell me the rest,” she said. “Tell me the whole of it. He lived for three days after I last saw him. I want to know about those days.”

He began with the tedious hours they had spent at Mont St. Jean waiting for the order to march that had apparently gone astray. And he told her about the march south to Quatre Bras and the battle there and the trudge north the next day through the rain and the mud and with the French coming up on them and peppering them with shot. He told her about the night spent sleeping on the muddy ground and about the part of the Battle of Waterloo that he had seen.

“It was just one battle too many,” she said when he had finished. “But I hope it was the last. I hope it is all over now. For Mrs. Byng's sake, and Mrs. Cleary's and Mrs. Slattery's. I'm glad you have told me. I have wanted to know for a long time. And have dreaded knowing. I have had nightmares in which he has been screaming and writhing in agony.”

“No,” he said. “You need not have them any longer, Ellen. I have told you the truth. I have not covered it up for your comfort.”

“That had crossed my mind too,” she said, smiling fleetingly. “Thank you, Dominic. I am glad you were there with him. If I could not be with him myself, I am glad it was you. He loved you.”

“I think the only thing that kept me going on that ghastly ride back to Brussels,” he said, “was my need to bring you the news myself. I didn't want anyone else telling you. Or no one at all.”

She nodded and stopped walking suddenly. She was fighting an inner battle, he could see. He took her firmly by the shoulders and drew her against him. He did not kiss her. He laid his cheek against hers and rocked her in his arms.

“I shed all my tears for him long ago,” she said. “I am not going to cry all over you. But it is such a relief to know. Such a relief, Dominic. Perhaps I will be able to start letting him go now. A part of me still expects him to walk through every open door.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.” And he closed his eyes and rocked her and wondered at the enormous self-delusion that had ever made him imagine that he had mistaken his feelings for her in Brussels. He held her to him and allowed her to take from him the comfort she needed, and smelled that familiar fragrance from her hair and felt the slim grace of her body. Still slender—she was not yet swollen with their child.

She rested her cheek on his broad shoulder and closed her eyes. And gave herself up to the comfort of his warm and strong body, his circling arms. And was glad that she had asked him, glad that he had told her. And glad that he had come into Charlie's life and into hers more than three years before. He had comforted Charlie as he lay dying, and now he was there for her too.

She raised her head finally and looked up into his eyes. She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “Dominic,” she said, “I have never stopped liking you, you know. You were a good friend to Charlie. I am glad we have been able to get back beyond that other again. Thank you for telling me.”

He smiled down at her.

“The others will think we are lost,” she said, stepping back from him and smiling more brightly. “Though I have not heard any stampede down the hill yet. Have you?”

“You cheated,” Lord Amberley called from the opposite bank as Lord Eden was handing Ellen back across the stepping-stones. “You did not climb after all. Susan and I were at least honest about our laziness, were we not, my dear?”

“Ah, but we put our lives in peril by venturing across these stones,” Lord Eden said cheerfully. “We did not cower on this side, did we, Ellen?”

“We also risked the danger of being run over by those exuberant children if they had chosen to come back down,” Ellen said. “Here they come now. Oh, dear, is that Jennifer shrieking? Or is it Anna? What hoydens! This is very good for Jennifer, my lord, though I fear it is sending her back into childhood. I am very grateful to you for inviting us here.”

The earl glanced from her to his brother and back again. “I dare to hope that it is good for both of you, ma'am,” he said, turning to lift Susan back into the saddle. “You are looking well. Is that my wife actually running down the slope? Perhaps it is a blessing that I do not have a quizzing glass about me. May I lift you up too?”

“If you will just give me a boost, my lord,” Ellen said, “I can mount myself.”

“No you won't!” Lord Eden took the two strides that separated them. “I will lift you, Ellen.”

Lord Amberley looked in mingled amusement and curiosity at his brother and turned to grin at his wife, who was part of the group crossing noisily over the stepping-stones.

 

T
HE EARL AND COUNTESS
invited anyone who was interested to join them in a walk on the beach during the afternoon, but they did warn that the outing was intended for the children and would be focused on them.

The dowager countess suggested a drive into the village of Abbotsford—after they had all rested from the exertions of the morning, that was. She had looked with particular significance at Ellen. The shops did not have a great deal to offer, she explained, but it was a pretty place. And they might call upon the Misses Stanhope, who would be delighted to make their acquaintance, or on the rector's wife, if they could extricate her from her rapidly growing brood of hopeful children.

Ellen and Jennifer agreed to the drive.

Allan Penworth too was to rest after luncheon. Madeline walked upstairs with him, careful not to offer him any assistance at all.

“It is a beautiful day,” she said. “You will probably enjoy sitting in the churchyard or outside the inn while the rest of us look in the shops. You will like the village.”

“I intend to spend the afternoon outside painting,” he said. “I had a long talk with your mother this morning, and she has lent me all the necessary equipment.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “Where are we going to go? Onto the terrace?”

“
We
are not going anywhere,” he said. “You are going with the other ladies to enjoy an afternoon in the village. I am going to the other side of the bridge to paint the house.”

“You will need someone to carry your easel and your brushes and things,” she said. “I will be quite delighted to help you, Allan. I can visit the village anytime.”

“There are such people as servants,” he said. “All I need to do is ask for help. It is a very simple matter.”

“But I want to stay,” she said. “I miss those days, Allan, when we were always alone together. Let's do something together this afternoon.”

“A few minutes ago,” he said, “you were full of enthusiasm for showing off your village to Mrs. Simpson. You don't need to give up that pleasure for me, Madeline. I will be quite happy painting alone. I prefer to be alone when I paint. I can concentrate better.”

They came to a stop outside his room.

“You really don't want me with you, do you?” she said. “I am getting on your nerves, Allan?”

He looked exasperated. “No, you don't get on my nerves,” he said. “Have I said the wrong thing again? I have, haven't I? I have hurt you again. I don't seem to be able to help doing so these days, though I never mean to do it. Stay with me, then, Madeline, if it is what you really wish to do. I would like that.”

“I think we should end our betrothal,” she said in a rush, her voice not quite steady. She looked about her hastily to make sure that the corridor was deserted.

“What?” he looked at her, incredulous. “Have I hurt you that badly? I must be a far worse brute than I thought. I merely wanted you to have a pleasant afternoon, free of the necessity of fetching and carrying for me. Come, Madeline, don't overreact. Smile at me and say you forgive me.”

“It is not just today,” she said. “And it is not your fault. Perhaps this was inevitable, Allan. You are recovering and regaining your independence. You don't need me any longer.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, reaching out for her hand, which she kept clasped in the other one in front of her. “I wouldn't be alive now if it were not for you. Do you think I can ever forget that?”

“I'm not blaming you,” she said. “You did need me, yes. You leaned on me for a long time. And I made the mistake of thinking that you would always need me like that. It was very naive of me. You don't need me now, and I have to be happy for you that you don't.”

He tried to laugh to relieve the tension. “Can we not just love each other?” he asked. “Does there have to be any need? Any dependence? Can we not just have a normal, happy marriage?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don't think so,” she said. “I don't think we love each other, Allan. Not in that way.”

“I love you,” he said. “You are very, very special to me. I owe you my life and my sanity.”

“I love you dearly too, Allan,” she said. “But I don't think we could make a marriage of it. We are too different from each other. We would bicker and bicker and come to thoroughly dislike each other before we had been married a year. I don't want that to happen. I am too fond of you.”

He shifted his weight on his crutches and blew out air from puffed cheeks. “I can't quite believe I am having this conversation,” he said. “You always seemed so unattainable, you know. Lady Madeline Raine, whom everyone admired. I did not think you had even noticed me. And now I feel as if I am the one who has let you down. I have made you unhappy.”

“No, not you,” she said. “You really are not to blame for anything, Allan. I am only unhappy with myself. My life seems to have been one string of self-delusions. Yet this time I was so sure. Oh, never mind. We must be thankful that we have come to our senses before it is too late.”