Julia London (94 page)

“If you cannot speak, then allow me,” he said, his German quiet and calm. “You have been sitting in that chair staring out that window for two days. Two days almost to the
hour since the duke returned to London.” Lauren tensed and quietly sucked in her breath. “I am not a physician, but I know what ails you. You mourn this … man you love.”

She could not breathe, the pounding in her head having spread to her neck and chest. “
Magnus
—” It was all she could bring herself to say.

“Say it, Lauren,” he said evenly.

She started to speak, choking on her own words. Magnus did not move an inch, waiting patiently for what he obviously knew she would say. “It—It is with great …
regret
… that I must tell you I—I—” She could not say it. God help her, she could not
hurt
him so! Tears filled her eyes, and she picked helplessly at the arm of her chair, trying desperately to think of words that would make what she would do seem less …
egregious.

“You must tell me what?” he asked, his voice oddly soft.

“I … I must tell you that I am very sorry for chiding Lydia so harshly!” she blurted. “God knows I did not want to, but the girl is so
foolish
… I mean, I would rather
die
than hurt her, but I could not …
pretend
that everything would be all right!” she exclaimed, aware of how ridiculous she must seem and despising her lack of courage.

His jaw clenched shut for a long moment. When at last he spoke, his voice filled the room. “Lydia loves Ramsey Baines, it would seem.”

Lauren nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, she loves him truly, and although he is quite
fond
of Lydia, and I think truly
respects
her, he cannot quite …
love
her. But he has tried! He has
really
tried! It’s just that … it’s just that…”

“There is someone else?” he offered helpfully. Lauren cautiously nodded, gauging his reaction from beneath the cover of her lashes. With a rueful smile, he dropped his gaze to his hands.

Tears suddenly spilled from her eyes. “Oh,
God
!” she gasped, and looked helplessly to the ceiling. There was no
use in pretending, no point in putting off the inevitable. “I was so very wrong to have accepted your offer, Magnus, but I honestly thought—” She nervously gasped for air. “You would come to despise me, don’t you see?”

“Yes,” he said simply, and reached for her hand.

It was such a kind gesture, too kind considering what she was doing. Her eyes riveted on the large hand covering hers. “We … had an agreement, but … but it was a foolish agreement, I think.”

“It was foolish,” he agreed.

“Do … do you really think so? I thought … I thought you would be so angry with me. But I could not bear it if you wondered every day if … if…”

Magnus smiled thinly. “I would see the evidence of it every time I looked into your eyes, I can assure you,” he said softly. Distraught by that, Lauren bowed her head in shame. Magnus sighed and stroked her hand with his thumb. “I thought—I
hoped
—that you would one day return my affection, but I no longer believe that is possible. You love him too deeply, I think.” She glanced up; his clear blue eyes locking with hers. “And I thought I knew what I wanted—a wife to give me an heir, nothing more. But now I realize I want the woman I marry to return my affection. I want to see the tenderness in her eyes when she looks at me. I do not want her to dread the touch of my hand.”

“Oh
Magnus
,” she whispered, a fat tear falling on his cuff. “I am so
sorry
! I should not have … I did not plan for this—”

“Lauren,” he said hoarsely, “if I thought you had a choice … We never plan the great events of our lives, they just happen. I think you are as helpless as I am to alter your heart. I am—” He swallowed convulsively and looked about the room. “I am disappointed, I will not deny it. But I cannot fault you for following what is in your heart.” Slowly, he brought her hand to his mouth, his lips lingering on her palm as he quietly regarded her, then he put her hand
in her lap and rose. “I will speak with your uncle.” He paused, his blue eyes skimming her face one last time as his fingers lightly brushed her cheek. “Have a care,
liebchen.
If you ever have the opportunity to be in Bavaria, promise me you will visit. The Potato Man misses you.”

Lauren smiled tremulously. “I promise,” she whispered.

There was nothing left to say; he turned and walked out of the room. And she finally gave into the relief and anguish, letting a river of grief and remorse flow from her until she had exhausted herself.

   She drifted for days in a state of numbness. Guilt, remorse, and a keening sense of loss invaded her and would not release its grip. The children cast wide-eyed looks at her, intuitively whispering in her presence. In her own direct way, Mrs. Peterman attempted to make her smile, but inevitably shook her head in dismay and left Lauren alone. Obviously having heard the news, Mr. Goldthwaite appeared very quickly on the scene, brandishing an armful of overgrown daisies. He did not stay long. Even Ethan, forever counting the next pence, did not once chastise her for the loss of the annuity promised in her betrothal agreement, apparently taking solace in the generous trust Magnus had endowed and left intact for Rosewood.

Paul watched her closely, apparently afraid she might crumble at the slightest thing—and that was not far from true. Only Rupert said much of anything to her, but then again, he was completely oblivious to everything that had happened, and equally oblivious to her somber mien. Melancholy threatened to drown her. After several days, she desperately needed something to keep her mind and hands occupied. Something that would give her refuge.

So she made jam.

She made jars and jars of it, sending the children out each morning in search of fruit until the apple trees, berry vines, and fruit bushes were depleted. Rupert was sent to
Pemberheath in search of jars twice, his pockets jangling with the coins Paul supplied.

One morning, as she stirred a boiling cauldron of strawberries, Ethan came into the kitchen and landed heavily on a wooden bench, causing the jars lined neatly on the table to knock against one another. His expression was stern as he propped his hands on top of his huge belly. Lauren stood, a wooden spoon in her hand, waiting for him to speak. When he did not, she numbly turned back to her task.

“Paul is returning to London,” he said abruptly. Mildly surprised, Lauren looked over her shoulder. “Lord Dowling has sent word he will not return from America until Yuletide and has accepted payment for the lease of his home until then.”

“Why?” she asked indifferently as she placed two more filled jars on the narrow windowsill to cool.

Ethan waved an impatient hand at her question. “ ‘Investments,’ he says. I rather suspect it is the gaming hells of which he is so enamored. Fancies himself quite the man about town.” Lauren nodded apathetically and rummaged in the big tub she used to sterilize the jars, pulling two free and balancing them on the edge of a workbench already overflowing. “Parliament will adjourn in two weeks,” Ethan continued, “and if I had to guess, I would say this could be your last opportunity.”

Lauren frowned up at him as she wiped ajar clean with a linen cloth. “Magnus bestowed a very generous trust on Rosewood. Surely you are satisfied with that,” she said dispassionately.

A faint smile lifted her uncle’s lips. “No, I do not seek another offer for your hand.”

“That’s grand, because in case you have not heard, I am
persona non grata
in London,” she said, a little petulantly.

He nodded, the light smile developing into a decided smirk. “Perhaps. As I was saying, it would appear to me that this is your last opportunity. Sutherland is bound to leave
London soon. He got the Catholic emancipation bill through the Lords, you know. Quite a fiery speech, I hear. I reckon there is nothing left for him to do this Season, so you had best go to him now.”

She was astonished by what he was saying. The mere mention of Alex’s name made her queasy. She carefully placed the jar on a narrow workbench. “I beg of you, do not mention his name—”

“Nonsense!” he interrupted. “Enough of this brooding! You’ve come too far to go on hiding at Rosewood and making
jam
for the rest of your life!”

His suggestion was outrageous—not even worthy of a response. She picked up the spoon and began stir the boiling contents of the cauldron with a vengeance. “You do not understand, Uncle! He does not
want
to see me—”

“Doesn’t he?” Ethan asked quietly, startling her.

“No! He despises me!”

“Funny thing to say about a man who broke off an important engagement at the last possible moment and chased you to Rosewood like a madman. From what I saw, he would have done anything to make you change your mind. He does not
despise
you, lass, he
loves
you. And you love him, don’t you? Love does not fade overnight.”

Shocked that such sentimental words came from Ethan’s mouth, Lauren gaped at him. “Yes it does—it does when—” she broke off, dropped the wooden spoon, and gripped the edge of the workbench. A moment passed before she could look at Ethan again. “I
hurt
him, Uncle,” she said hoarsely.

Ethan shrugged and picked up a jar of cooling jam and stuck his finger in it, smacking his lips as he tasted it. “I did not say it would be easy,” he remarked, and tasted another dollop. “But I had thought you the bravest woman I have ever known—at least until now.”

She jerked her head up. “You thought
what
?”

“You walk about like the dead,” he blithely continued,
“making mountains of
jam
for Chrissakes!” He put the jar down and propped his pudgy hands on his knees as he looked her squarely in the eye. “This is the most important moment of your life, Lauren. Don’t let it slip through your fingers without a fight. God in heaven, do not lose heart now, lass!”

Stunned that this conversation was even
happening
, Lauren whirled around and stared blindly out the window. God knew she longed to see him, to feel his green eyes pierce through to her heart. But what if he looked at her the way he had when he had left her in the cottage? The pain, the disgust … she would not be able to bear it. But neither could she remain at Rosewood forever, never knowing. All she had been through paled in comparison to the prospect of always wondering, of always needing closure.

“Well then, don’t dally about it! You know I am right,” Ethan said, as if reading her thoughts.

Touched by Ethan’s uncharacteristic concern for her, and still reeling from the notion that he was even
capable
of it, Lauren pivoted suddenly and went to him, throwing her arms around his enormous shoulders and kissing him on the cheek. Ethan scowled, red-faced. “Enough of that,” he groused as a shy smile toyed with the corners of his mouth.

“Why, Ethan?” she asked, ignoring his gruff response.

He shrugged and looked at the jars of jam lined neatly on the table. “Believe it or not, silly girl, I was in love once.”

With that admission, he could have knocked her over with no more than a sneeze. “You
were
?” she gasped, incredulous. “With who?”

“Well, who do you think? Your Aunt Wilma, of course!” he blustered, then sighed longingly, “God rest her weary soul.” Embarrassed, he began to wave an impatient hand at her. “Go on with you now!”

Lauren smiled, for the first time in days.

* * *

“What shall we do? We cannot allow him to continue like this!” Wringing her hands, Hannah anxiously paced the floor of Arthur’s spacious drawing room on Mount Street. “Did you
see
him last night? Lord Barstone came dangerously close to calling him out!”

“
We are
not going to do anything. I would strongly advise against meddling in Alex’s affairs,” Arthur answered. “I also would strongly advise you stop pacing before you wear a hole in my very expensive carpet.” Seated in a floral damask chair, one leg dangling negligibly over the other, Arthur thought Hannah looked as if she wanted to slap him.

“I will not sit by and watch my son’s heartache turn him into a bitter man,” she said sharply. “Assuming he does not
drink
himself to death first!” She bestowed an imploring look on her youngest son. “Will you not at least
speak
with him, Arthur? God knows I have tried, but if I so much as
mention
Countess Bergen, he flies into a black rage!”

“Mother, I
have
spoken with him. He will not talk about it. Whatever happened is locked away forever, I fear.”

“But there must be something we can do! Dear God, he loved her so!
Loves
her! Can you not see how he is hurting?”

“I can see how he is enjoying the company of a variety of females,” Arthur muttered. Since returning from Dunwoody, Alex had thrown himself into the final festivities of the Season with abandon. It was so out of character, so unlike Alex, that Arthur secretly shared his mother’s grave concern. Alex attended one mindless rout after another in the company of different women, and usually married ones at that. It was the appearance of Lady Barstone on Alex’s arm last night that had Lord Barstone strutting about like a rooster, making loud, threatening comments concerning Duke Sutherland’s person.

And Hannah was right; Alex had, of late, developed quite a liking for Scotch whiskey. His disdain for everything and everyone had grown so blatant that rumors were flying
wildly. In salons across Mayfair, the Quality whispered about the immoral affair that purportedly led to the end of his engagement. Thanks to Lady Whitcomb, everyone knew that a disreputable
foreign
countess was the cause. Lady Pritchit made sure that no stone was left unturned by spreading rumors of some terribly compromising event that had forced Lady Marlaine’s hand, finishing off her little tale with a whisper that Alex still held a strong
tendre
for Lady Marlaine. Naturally, a well-heeled young woman such as Earl Whitcomb’s daughter would have nothing to do with such a scoundrel. Nothing could actually have been further from the truth—Alex hardly seemed to notice Marlaine. Whatever had transpired at Dunwoody between him and the countess had wounded him deeply.