Dear Impostor (48 page)

          Gabriel moved forward; she followed a pace
behind him when he walked to a grave obviously more recent than the others. The
small stone read simply, Mary Gillingham, with the dates of the woman’s birth
and death. Why
Gillingham
, Psyche wondered, then a wave of empathy
pushed aside inquisitive thoughts as irrelevant. His mother had died three
years ago while Gabriel was still abroad. Psyche had also lost parents; she
knew the aching grief. She felt a lump in her throat and she wanted to touch
him, to offer him comfort. But Gabriel stood very still, his whole body stiff,
and his thoughts seemed far away.

          “A graceless stone, with no inscription at
all,” he muttered, as if to himself. “Damn him, he couldn’t give her even that.
I shall have it replaced with a proper headstone.”

          Psyche nodded, daring to put on hand on his
arm. Gabriel’s body was so rigid he might have also been carved from stone. Inside
him, there must be enormous turmoil, pain and perhaps other emotions as well,
if he struggled so hard to contain them.

          “She used to plead with him to have done, when
he beat me,” Gabriel said, his voice husky. “When he sent me to bed with no
supper, she would slip up with bread and butter wrapped in her handkerchief. She
tried to look out for me, but my father was too strong for her, too unfeeling.”

          “Your mother must have loved you very much,”
Psyche said, her voice low.

          She felt him shudder, as with too much grief
too long contained. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice dull. “But she did not come
to argue when he sent me away. I had thought she might have confronted him more
openly just once, when it was so vital, but–”

          ”Perhaps she was too afraid?” Psyche ventured,
though her every instinct recoiled from the idea of a mother who would not
defend her child, would not at least try. In truth, she could not imagine any
woman, certainly not the timid, gentle soul that Mary seemed to have been,
prevailing against the brutal man Psyche had glimpsed in the study. What a life
the poor woman must have had! And as for Gabriel–

          “How did you stand it?” she asked, wondering
how he had grown up to be charming and sympathetic, with such a brute for his only
model.

          As always, he seemed to know the direction of
her thoughts. “In my earliest childhood, he was not quite–as he is today. He
was always gruff, unaffectionate, but he was not so quick with his fists or
with his curses. But–he thought that my mother had betrayed him.”

          “Oh dear,” Psyche breathed, not sure what to
say.

          “If she did, she had good enough reason.”
Gabriel’s tone was grim. “But after that, he became obsessed with the thought
that I was not his natural son. I look little like him, whereas my older
brother has his nose and his sandy hair. I think I simply resemble my mother’s
family, but–the idea seemed a canker inside him. He became increasingly
resentful, abusive to my mother and to me.”

          “He did not consider divorce?” Psyche dared to
ask, trying to understand the embittered man she had glimpsed in the dark
study.

          “No, he has a morbid dread of scandal, so that
later–” Gabriel paused and drew a deep breath. “My mother sent me away as much
as she could. I spent long visits with my maternal grandfather. He was a
gentle, scholarly man–much like your father, perhaps. Grandfather may have been
my salvation; he gave me cause to believe in myself, despite my own father’s
rejection, cause to feel that I was not the total failure my father seemed to
believe.”

          She nodded. Gabriel bent, laying the rose he
had plucked from the garden in front of his mother’s headstone. Then he
straightened and took a deep breath.

          “I hope she did not believe the gossip. I never
had the chance to explain–”

          Psyche drew a breath and held it; would he at
last explain the scandal which had sent him away from his home?

          “Her name was Sylvia Fowley, but all who knew
her intimately called her Sylvie,” Gabriel said, his voice very quiet. He
continued to stare down at the mound of earth, not meeting Psyche’s gaze. “She
was a woman of two and thirty when I met her, petite and dainty as a butterfly,
with soft brown hair and big brown eyes. I was visiting a friend from school–I
took any excuse not to return home during the school holidays, as my
grandfather had died by then–and she was his aunt by marriage. She seemed to
enjoy my company at once, did not dismiss me as too young, danced with me at
the Christmas ball, smiled into my eyes and touched my cheek . . . I was
captivated; no woman had ever treated me so. She whispered to me after the
dance, invited me to her room after everyone was asleep; she and her husband
had separate chambers, of course.”

          Psyche nodded and held her tongue, afraid to
break the flow of confidences. She thought of a young and innocent Gabriel, a
schoolboy entranced by an older woman, and her heart ached for the disillusion
that must be coming.

          “I was totally infatuated. I tiptoed down the
hall at midnight, my heart in my throat, my body aching with new yearnings, and
she was waiting. During our time together, she taught me about love-making, and
fashion, and other worldly pursuits, and I was an eager pupil. I thought I
would love her forever, but I did not expect her to remember me past that
holiday. But she did; she wrote to me at school, she traveled to be near me,
and made sure to have me invited back for more visits. Our trysts continued,
even though her husband was becoming suspicious. After some months, she told me
he had threatened her, and she suggested that we run away together. She was
prepared to seek a divorce.”

          Psyche raised her brows. How could a mature
woman expect a schoolboy to defy convention, as well as all his family? They
would have been outcasts in Society.

          “But what I had first taken for charming wiles
became shrewd manipulation. Through her sulky tears and fits of temper, she had
begun to order my every thought, my speech, my clothing, my habits. She wanted
to choose my friends, and she wanted me to leave University . . .”

          Gabriel took a deep breath, then went on. “I
loved my years at university, it was a way to get away from home, for one
thing, after my grandfather’s death, but I truly enjoyed the books and the
tutors and the gentle atmosphere of learning. I had friends there; my tutors
approved of my work. And I began to feel increasingly overwhelmed by Sylvie’s
love, which appeared to have no boundaries. She was like a sweet-smelling
flower which grows in a seemingly limpid vine, until the vine begins to twine
around you, constricting your very breath.”

          He put one hand to his face, then lowered it. “So
I gathered my courage and told her that I thought it best, for both of us, that
we not invite the scandal of a divorce and the censure of society that would
have fallen more heavily upon her. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps I should have
been true to her, but–”

          ”Gabriel, how old were you?” Psyche
interrupted at last, unable to bear the regret and self condemnation she heard
in his words.

          “I was sixteen when we first–when we met,” he
answered. “Just past seventeen when I suggested that we part. That interview
was horrendous. She wept and screamed at me; she said I had ruined her, taken
her honor. She flung a gold pin at me—one of many little fashionable gifts she
had chosen for me, but this–she said–was special. This trinket was engraved
with our entwined initials. She had engraved her own as S.S., as if we were
already married. While she broke china and tossed cushions about the room, she
ranted hysterically; I had never seen this side of her. Finally, she told me to
leave, and I did.” Gabriel swallowed hard.

          “I did not know–had not enough experience in
the world to comprehend–that she was much more unstable than I had suspected. That
night, she drank a whole bottle of laudanum, and she died the next day.”

          “Oh, my dear.” Psyche put her hand again on
his arm. She felt the shuddering breath that he drew, the way his whole body
trembled at the memories.

          “I learned before I left that she had had
other young lovers—a collection, if you will. But it was I who broke her.”

          Psyche shook her head emphatically. “It was
not your fault; you were only a boy.”

          “I must bear the blame,” Gabriel argued, his
tone dogged. “I kept that gold pin until Barrett’s hired killers stole it from
my bags. It was a reminder to me that I should never give anyone or anything
too much control. That other women might want me for my charm, my so-called
pleasing looks, but they would never be allowed to touch my soul, nor would
they want to. I was marked for life, my reputation ruined forever, and I should
never be allowed to ruin yet another woman’s life, as my youthful adoration had
destroyed Sylvie’s, as my very existence had troubled my mother’s, destroying
any trust her husband had had in her.”

          Psyche stood mute, shaken by the depth of his
guilt and pain.

          “And my father–when he heard they were saying
that Sylvie’s death was because of me, that I had as much as murdered a
delicate, overly-nervous lady of good breeding–he told me to get out, that I
was not fit, had never been fit, to bear the name of Sinclair. So I left.”    

          “You cannot blame yourself!” Psyche insisted. “Sylvia
was a grown woman with much more experience than you; she sought the affair,
and she sought to control you. You did not even have a father to ask for advice
as to how to proceed, only one who turned on you and railed at you without
listening to your account of what had ensued.”

          Gabriel’s eyes were shadowed still with the
pain he had lived with too long. Psyche longed to kiss his brow and soothe his
hurts. She held one hand lightly to his cheek, ignoring the slight prickling of
dark stubble against her palm. “You must forgive yourself, my dear. Whatever
blame you may wrongly assign to yourself, the lady is at peace now.”

          He looked down at her, his expression hard to
read. “You do not hate me, now that you know my history?”

          She stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. Gabriel
pulled her to him, pursuing the embrace with the fervor of a near-drowned man
who has found a safe rock on which to stand. When at last the kiss ended,
leaving her a little breathless, he whispered into her hair. “I could not bear
to tell the story. I have told no one since the day I left this house, and soon
after, departed England’s shores. My father had convinced me that Sylvie’s
family might demand my arrest, though I think now that would not have happened.
They only wanted to cover up the sad circumstance of her death.”

          He had been an exile for no reason, Psyche
thought, stunned at the revelation. His father’s brutal anger and his own guilt
had driven Gabriel away from every friend, every chance of aid. For years, he
had fought his battles unaided, carried on his solitary struggle merely to
survive.

          But he
had
survived, he had prevailed,
and the years of contention had burnished him like gilded steel. “You are
stronger and wiser because of your pain, because of your journeys,” she told
him. “But, Gabriel, I think it is time now to stop running.”

          He held her close to him, and she leaned her
cheek against his chest. Perhaps he did not wish her to see the expression on
his face; he was too accustomed to fighting all his battles alone. That feeling
she understood. But would he ever lower his guard and truly let her in? Still,
he had taken a big step today, sharing the story of his boyhood transgression.

          They stood in close embrace for long minutes,
till Gabriel reluctantly raised his head and loosened his grip. “It will be
dinner time, soon,” he told her. “They keep early hours here, and you will wish
to wash up a little.”

          Psyche looked down at the grass-stained linen
costume which revealed several rents and tears after their earlier flight
through the woods. She could do with a lot more than soap and water, but
without baggage, there seemed no hope of more. She would not complain; Gabriel
had enough to deal with in this house of brutal memories. Accepting the hand he
held out to her, they turned back toward the big house. They had almost reached
the side door from which they had emerged when a small, stout woman of middle
years suddenly hurried out of the door.

          “Master Gabriel!” she exclaimed, beaming. “It
is you!”

          Gabriel released Psyche’s hand and took two
long strides to swoop up the round little woman, lifting her into a bear hug.

          Psyche smiled. She did not know who this woman
was, but she was the first person who seemed happy at Gabriel’s return, and so
Psyche knew that she would like her, whatever her title or name.