An Exquisite Marriage (18 page)

The first day after Helene collapsed and Miss Sewell threatened to call her manservant if Marcus did not leave the house, Marcus rode to Broadheathe's London house to find it shut up and the man himself gone. Possibly to Paris. The butler would not give him any information, despite the banknote Marcus pressed into his palm.

Marcus returned from that errand and locked himself in his study and wrote a dozen letters to be taken around to No. 48 by hand.

That evening those letters were all returned, unopened.

The second day, Marcus called Adele into his study and demanded to know what was happening to Helene. In return, Adele demanded to know what he had done to break her friend's heart. The encounter ended with Adele locked in her room upstairs and Aunt Kearsely and Patience questioning his sanity.

The third day, quiet little Madelene Valmeyer appeared in the front parlor and told him what she thought of his character and actions in terms he was surprised such a quiet girl could muster.

“I've done nothing,” he told her. “Nothing . . .” He couldn't finish that sentence. Because he had done something, or rather not done it.

And he was an idiot not to have realized it.

That evening, he drove to Bernadette's house.

“Why, Lord Windford!” Mrs. Darington cried in brittle delight as he entered her parlor. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

That was all it had taken. He knew what had happened. He might not know exactly how, or even exactly when, but that didn't matter. Someone, maybe Bernadette herself, had told Helene that Bernadette's children were his bastards, and she had believed him. And she hadn't even asked him. She'd heard the worst of him, and she'd believed it.

The fourth day he spent entirely drunk.

Now it was the fifth day, and he was relatively sober, and shaved, and decently dressed. He was also standing on the doorstep of No. 48, applying the brass knocker until it threatened to break off in his hand.

Finally, the door opened to reveal a grim-faced manservant in a plain coat and breeches.

“I've come to see Lady Helene,” Marcus informed the man. “And I will not leave until I have done so.”

“It's all right, Taggert,” called Miss Sewell's voice from the parlor. “Let him in.”

Taggert clearly did not like this idea, but he did stand aside to let Marcus in.

“Come here, my lord,” said Miss Sewell.

Marcus stared at the staircase, feeling certain that Helene must be somewhere at the top, but he turned away. He'd been fool enough and bestial enough during the past few hellish days. It was time to remember who he actually was.

Miss Sewell was standing in the middle of the parlor. He went in, his hat, quite literally in his hand and she folded her arms to face him squarely. He had a feeling if she'd had access to a sword, she would have drawn it. “Lady Helene does not wish to see you, my lord.”

“Please, Miss Sewell, I must speak with her. You are her friend. Talk with her. Persuade her.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I love her, Miss Sewell. And she loves me.”

But this declaration elicited nothing stronger than a sardonic curling at the corner of her wide mouth. “Perhaps she did, but something seems to have happened.”

“Yes, it did, and I have to explain!” He could not help but glance over his shoulder, in the vain hope that Helene might have come down the stairs to hear him. But the foyer remained empty, except for Taggert, who was vigorously polishing the brass and giving Marcus a look that could have peeled paint.

“Lord Windford, if I thought this was simply a lover's quarrel, I would do as you ask,” said Miss Sewell. “But this is much more serious.”

“I know that!” he snapped. “That's why I'm here!”

“My lord, Helene's heart was more than broken when she was engaged to the Marquis of Broadheathe.”

“I know that, too.” His fists were clenching and unclenching. He was shaking. He had to get hold of himself. If he fell to acting like a brute, he'd never get past this woman, and he did want to act like a brute. He wanted to shove past her and storm up the stairs and break down whatever door separated him from Helene. “Helene told me herself.” In bed, pressed against him, when she loved him, when she trusted him.

“Did she tell you how close she came to dying?” asked Miss Sewell coolly. “I've spoken to the doctor who attended her at the time. Whatever has happened between you has opened those old wounds.”

“No,” he breathed. There was a ringing in his ears, and the room seemed to waver in front of him. “She isn't . . . is she ill now?”

“Not yet. But she will be. She will not leave her room. She will not eat or speak to anyone, not even Adele or Madelene.”

“My God. This is my fault.”

Miss Sewell made no answer.

“I have to see her. How can I convince you?” He waited, but the only answer was more of Miss Sewell's damnable cool silence.

“Miss Sewell, I swear to you, upon my family name and my sacred honor, I love Helene, heart and soul I love her, and I want only her happiness. If after she hears my explanation she wants nothing more to do with me, I will leave. I'll leave London if necessary. I'll never bother her. I'll ask for nothing but her happiness.”
It will kill me, but I will do it.
“I'm begging you, Miss Sewell. Please.”

***

Her hair had come loose. One lock slanted in front of her eyes. She should brush it away, but she could not seem to summon the strength.

She'd been here before. She remembered this feeling, as if her mind had become detached from her body to wander freely of its accord. Only then, it had roamed to an illuminated garden to hear a woman's lecturing and a man's lazy agreement, and it had stayed there. Now, it could not seem to settle but wandered restlessly from place to place. It was downstairs, still looking at Marcus. It was away in that new square with Madame d'Arnau and her sympathetic expression. It was in the claret parlor in Anandale House, with Mother and Father, and upstairs with her siblings.

It was in a private, secret house with Marcus, listening to him tell her how very much he loved her.

She should have kept silent. She knew that. For Susannah's sake, and Annie's, and the boys, she should have grit her teeth and smiled and done whatever was necessary. But how could she? After what Broadheathe had done to her, how could she endure the same kind of humiliation again?

No. This was not the same humiliation. This was worse. Broadheathe had been forced on her. She had chosen Marcus of her own free will. With her own useless, idiotic, childish heart.

And now it was over. Ruined. Because she loved him and he had lied anyway and she could not endure it. She was weak, and for all her vaunted intelligence, she was a fool. Now her sisters and her brothers would pay the price. Because there would be no marriage and no school, and nothing but debt and degradation for them all, because Helene Fitzgerald could not accept that it was the absolute right of a gentleman to take his pleasure where he chose.

I'm sorry, Susannah. I'll think of something. As soon as I can. I swear I will.

Except right now she couldn't seem to move. The lock of hair shifted in front of her eyes, and she still could not lift a hand to brush it away. All she could do was sit and stare out the window. There were voices downstairs, and she heard every word, and she still could not move.

And now, someone was knocking at the door. She knew who it was, of course. She could not fail to recognize his voice.

I wonder what I will do.

He was knocking again, and calling to her. Saying her name. Pleading with her. Informing her firmly that he was not going away.

Slowly, Helene felt her mind draw itself back down into her body. It was curious. It wanted to know what this man could possibly have to say. Curiosity killed the cat. Perhaps it would kill her. No. That would be too convenient for all concerned.

“It's open,” she heard herself say.

“Helene, it's . . .”

“I know. These walls are very thin. It's open.”

The door opened. She felt the breeze of it. She heard his footsteps on the carpet. She smelled brandy and leather and open air, and Marcus.

“My God, Helene . . .” He was moving closer. She could tell in the way her skin warmed and the shards of her heart stirred restlessly. She kept her face turned toward the window. Her body was clearly still ready to betray her with its longings. Therefore, she could not risk looking at him. She might weaken, despite everything.

“I expected you earlier,” she said. “I've sat through this particular drama before, you know, and had rather thought the curtain to ring down before this.”

“Helene, please, don't be this way.”

“What way should I be? Forgiving? Understanding?
Pliant?
”

“You can at least hear me out!”

There was a sparrow on the opposite roof, pecking optimistically at the gutters.
Fly away, little bird. There's nothing to find here.

“Talk if you want to,” she said. “Then you will do me the favor of leaving me to get on with what's left of my life.”

“Dear God,” Marcus breathed. “What did that man do to you?”

“What did
he
do?” The laugh burst out of her, sharp and painful. On the other roof, the sparrow looked up quizzically.

“All right!” Helene cried. “You want to know the true and exact history of the Fitzgerald Jilt?” She threw up both hands. “Why not? I've told you every other secret, why not that one!” She laughed again. Joyless. Mad. But she didn't seem to be able to stop.

“Helene, don't,” said Marcus. “You'll make yourself ill.”

“What?” She sneered. “And die of a broken heart like a heroine in a novel? Oh, that would be so very convenient for everybody. But no. I'm afraid I'm not quite adaptable enough for that.”

“Will you at least look at me?”

“You will take my story as I choose to give it, or you will leave now.”

She inclined her head. Outside the window, the sparrow shook itself and fluttered away to look for more promising rooftops. What an intelligent bird.

“How I turned down that first marriage offer is common knowledge,” she said. “We may gloss over that.”

“Helene . . .”

She did look at him then, and she felt herself to be hard and cold as diamond. Marcus's mouth had been open, his hand had reached out, but when his gaze met hers, he took a step back. Good. Let him be afraid. Let her be utterly hard and pitiless toward him. It was better than breaking any further.

“Here is what you do not know,” she said. “Here is what I believed no one would ever need to know. The night of my engagement party, I was overwhelmed by the heat and took myself onto the balcony. I was so excited. I was not in love, but I was fulfilling my duty, and I was sure that with the title and the money I was about to gain, I would do so much good, for my family and the world.

“There was another woman on the balcony. She introduced herself as Madame d'Arnau. We talked. Nothing consequential. She suggested we walk in the gardens until I cooled down. I agreed.

“It was when we were well out of earshot of the party that she told me . . . she told me . . .”

He wanted to move toward her. She could tell. So chivalrous. So caring and tender and considerate. He wanted to hold her, to soothe her hurt, to tell her how he loved her, that whatever it was, it was all right. He would make it all right.

But he did not move, because he was also so intelligent, because he'd always understood everything about her. Which was probably how he'd been able to lie to her so easily.

“Madame d'Arnau was Broadheathe's mistress. She had been with him for years. They couldn't marry. I think . . . I think she had a husband back in France at the time. I was never entirely clear on that point. But, she . . .” Helene closed her eyes and she swallowed. “She gave me to understand, quite clearly, that I was not the marquis's choice. I was hers.” She opened her eyes and met his. “The marquis asked her—he
asked her—
to select a wife for him. He didn't want to be bothered, it seems. She picked me because she knew it was impossible that any man would actually fall in love with me.

“She told me she was speaking to me now because she wanted to be sure I knew exactly what I was and the circumstances under which my presence in their lives would be tolerated.”

“Broadheathe can't have known.”

“He was there,” she told him. “He was waiting in the garden for us. He stood there and let Madame d'Arnau talk, let her list her ‘rules' for my conduct. I pleaded with him to spare me. I would have gone on my knees if he'd just . . . just said something to stop her. But he shrugged. ‘You've made your bargain,' he said. ‘You're getting a prize stallion for the family's stable and a title to wear and a name for your children. With all that, what can you honestly say you have to complain about?'

“He said some other things as well, which I will not trouble you with.”
I paid for you. A pretty sum it is, too, and I expect the women I pay for to know their place.
“But he ended with telling me to go collect myself. He would meet me back inside. He kissed his mistress, and they walked off and left me.

“You know the rest. The whole world knows the rest. I threw his engagement present back in his face and screamed and ran away.

“After that . . . I believed I would never fall in love. My heart had been too thoroughly broken and shamed. That was, of course, until I met you.” Her voice dropped to the barest whisper. The strength that anger had loaned her was ebbing, and her mind threatened to slip its moorings again. “And I knew, I knew I could love you more deeply, more truly . . . And then there was her and her children, and most especially her son, who looks remarkably like you.” Finally, she was able to lift her gaze and meet his. “And who, Miss Sewell informs me, is very likely the boy you said you ‘felt some responsibility for' when you asked me to help secure him a post with a publishing house.