Once Upon a Tower (27 page)

Thirty-three

I
t was a long time before Edie stopped weeping. She wept for her marriage, and she wept because she had hurt someone who loved her. He had loved her. Gowan had fallen in love with her, and she hadn’t even known it.

When the tears finally stopped coming, she felt so sick that she got to her feet and staggered into the water closet, where all the champagne that had gone into her came back up.

She returned, still shaky but with a clearer head, and sat down on the bed to think. She wasn’t crying merely because she had hurt Gowan; she was crying because she was in love with him. She’d fallen in love with him—probably between one mile post and the next, while watching him solve problems, while watching him endure an endless description of roast chicken because it made Bindle happy, while watching him listen to music, the music he’d been taught was a waste of time. Even so, he respected her love for the cello, and had changed the itinerary of their journey, and . . .

And loved her.

The next morning, she woke feeling empty, like a shell whose inhabitant had died long ago. Gowan was right: she was useless as a woman and as a wife. She had to drink to have an orgasm. That could lead to a life as an inebriate. Like taking laudanum to get that lovely floating feeling Layla described.

She refused to be that woman.

And he was right about Susannah, too. The child had taken one look at her and turned away. Stupidly, it wasn’t until Layla had stepped in that Edie knew she wanted to be Susannah’s mother. But, of course, the little girl would be happier with Layla. Her stepmother had known exactly what to do. Susannah didn’t push
her
away; instead, Layla picked her up into her arms. It was petty to weep over the fact that the two of them loved each other.

The truth was that she wasn’t any good at the things that made a woman a woman. Not only did she lack maternal instincts, but she didn’t seem to have the right instincts when it came to intimacy, either. She didn’t really know what she did wrong in bed. He had a disgusted look on his face when she opened her eyes. It made her wince even to think of it.

She
had
needed half a bottle of champagne to relax enough to enjoy his touch. And she’d rather kill herself then spend hours organizing Gowan’s household the way everyone expected her to do.

She stood up slowly from the bed; her stomach muscles still ached from all that sobbing. Deep down, she’d always known the truth. Music was all there was for her. She just hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to acknowledge it.

Her father would have the marriage annulled. He was rich and powerful; he’d make all this go away. She just had to get word to him, and he would come and take her away. She was fighting tears again when she heard footsteps outside her door. She took a deep breath, expecting Mary—but it was Layla.

“What in the hell happened?” Layla cried, rushing in and closing the door behind her. “Your husband has apparently left, in a fury, for the Highlands. The whole house is in a twitter about it because the man never makes a move without Bardolph, and he left him behind. He took two footmen, six grooms, a solicitor, and a valet, but they all seem to think that he’s traveling light.”

Edie swallowed hard. “I’m leaving, Layla. I’m returning to England.”

“Leave? You can’t leave! You’re
married
, Edie. You can’t desert your husband. Unless  . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “He turned out to have some disgusting perversion, didn’t he?”

“No! It’s me!” Edie shouted. “Me, don’t you understand?”

“
You
have a perversion?” Layla said, looking bewildered. “Well, couldn’t you—we—”

“No,” Edie said, her voice catching. She turned away, curling her fingers hard around the side table until she regained control. “I’m no good at marriage, Layla. Could we just leave it there? Gowan deserves better: someone who is good at bedding, and doesn’t lie to him, and wants to have children.”

“What are you talking about? You lied to him? About what? And where do children come into it?”

“I wouldn’t be any good at raising them, as he pointed out,” Edie said steadily. “And I don’t want to run a castle, either, Layla. I should never have married. I’m good at only one thing, and we both know what that is.”

“You’re wrong,” Layla said, sitting down on the couch. “Come and sit beside me, darling. I’ve always thought your father laid too much emphasis on your playing. You are so much more than a musician.”

“Gowan wouldn’t agree with you.” Edie had a little struggle with herself again, but she bit her lip hard, refusing to succumb to self-pity. “I’ll go to Italy. Father will support me; I know he will. I shall take another name and begin playing seriously, for audiences.”

“But Edie—”

“I’ve made up my mind,” she said, breathing more calmly now that she had forced the tears back down again. “My marriage is over, Layla. Gowan was so furious because I had pretended those times. You know how much I hate it when people rage. Even though I deserved it.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Layla was at her side in a moment, pulling her into a protective hug. “He shouldn’t have. He’s a beast. He should apologize.”

“What would be the point? A man who bellows will just keep doing it. He guessed that I told you, by the way.”

“Oh Lord. No wonder he’s furious.”

“I betrayed him with the one person he cannot avoid, because you’ll be bringing up Susannah. I can’t live like this, Layla. I just—I just can’t bear to be shouted at like that.”

Layla held her so tightly that it almost hurt. “I can’t understand it. The man
loves
you.”

“According to him, he loved the woman he imagined me to be.” Edie freed herself and sniffed ungracefully. “Do you have a handkerchief? I used all mine and almost took to tearing up the sheets during the night.”

“Time for my French petticoat,” Layla said, but the joke fell flat. “I don’t think Gowan will let you go,” she said a second later, having given Edie a handkerchief, and pulled her down on the couch beside her.

“He doesn’t want me any longer. He told me that he made a mistake in purchasing me, because I’ll be a dreadful mother.” The pain felt like some sort of black thing pulsing inside her. “He says I lie there like a pancake in bed.”

“He said that?” Layla surged back up to her feet, her fists clenched, the very picture of a vengeful Greek goddess. “How dare he say such a condescending, horrible thing? He’s not even English! He should be slaveringly grateful that someone as beautiful and talented as you accepted his hand! Let’s not even address your dowry or your title. Your father will
kill
him.”

“There’s no need for that. But I—I cannot spend my life feeling like a piece of chipped threepenny china, Layla. Let alone a pancake. I just can’t.”

“Your father will take care of it. Bardolph is a pain in the arse, but he’s a master organizer. He’ll have us in carriages in no time.”

“What are you saying? You needn’t come with me! You have Susannah to consider now.”

“We were leaving for England in a few weeks anyway. We’ll simply go a bit earlier.”

“What if Gowan comes after us?”

“Given that he left for the Highlands, he won’t be back for at least a week. I suppose there’s a faint chance that the man will come to his senses twenty miles from here and realize that he’s a craven, hell-born pig.”

“That’s too harsh.”

“No, it’s accurate. Your father has lost his temper with me many a time, but he’s never tried to strip me of all self-esteem.” Layla rang the bell. “We’ll be out of this godforsaken country in no time.”

Edie looked at her wildflowers, still holding up in their weedy, tangled way. “I like Scotland.”

“Wait until you see the South of France. My mother took me there when I was a young girl, and I’ve never forgotten it. I can’t wait to see it again.”

But Edie shook her head. “No, I refuse to steal away behind my husband’s back, like a housemaid stealing the silver. I have to speak to Gowan face to face. I’ll send word to Father, and then wait until he comes for me. I’m sure Gowan will return before then.”

“Your father may ignore you, because I’ve already written to tell him I am here,” Layla said dolefully.

“Darling,” Edie said, using her newfound determination to say just what she was thinking, “you need to stop flirting with other men, because you are breaking your husband’s heart.”

“But I never—”

“That is not the right way to behave, even though we both know that you would never be unfaithful to Father.”

There was a moment of silence. “I’m not sure I like this new Edie,” Layla observed. “First you make me throw my cheroots out the window, and now you’re doling out marital advice.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Edie said flatly. “The blind leading the blind.”

“Someday,” Layla said, her voice musical in its sincerity, “you’ll meet a man who will love you so deeply that he would forgive you instantly for a silly fib. That man will change your mind about bedding. When it’s good . . . it’s as if the two of you become one person. There’s no way, and no need, to call someone a pancake, because you’re speaking to each other without saying a word.”

Edie bit her lip. “If it’s like that for you and Father . . .”

“We forgot,” Layla said. “And I mean to do everything I can to bring us back together. You’re right, Edie. I damaged what we had between us.”

“He’s responsible, too. He needs to learn to be less judgmental.”

“But we will talk, really talk, I promise you. We have Susannah now. We’re parents.”

Suddenly, Edie didn’t care anymore that Susannah hadn’t liked her. “She’s so lucky to have you as her mama,” she said, smiling.

“And she has you as her aunt,” Layla said. “A famous, exotic aunt, who will marry a gorgeous, tender Italian man—a
prince
—and live in a tower on a hill.”

Thirty-four

O
n the way to the Highlands, Gowan rode alongside the carriage carrying the bailiff and solicitor with whom he was supposed to be consulting. Fury drove him for hours, partnered with a pounding, leaden sense of betrayal.

But somewhere between one league and the next, his anger slipped away and was replaced by a much crueler truth: he had failed. He was shite in bed, as his father would have put it.

He’d never really failed at anything before. Oh, there’d been the occasional problem with leaf rust on the wheat or sheep infected with murrain. He’d made mistakes. But failure was another thing. Failure . . .

It took him two days, all the way to the Highlands estate, to grasp something important. Edie had never before failed at anything, either. That’s why she couldn’t bear to tell him the truth—because she believed what had happened to be
her
failure.

But it was manifestly his. Bloody hell. All that posturing about his honor, when what he should have been doing was tupping the barmaid, just as his father had told him to do. If he had, he would know what in the bloody hell he had done wrong.

He walked through the door of the ancient lodge and went straight to his bedchamber, ignoring the butler, the assembled staff, and the men who had accompanied him from Craigievar, and now trailed behind him. His valet followed him up the stairs, only to be met by a slammed door.

Two hours later he was still sitting, head in his hands. But something like sanity was beginning to filter into his mind. He could solve this. He
had
to solve this. What the hell had he been thinking all those years? He should have—could have!—spent every minute since he turned sixteen learning about women, the way other men did. Instead he acted like a hidebound stuck-up prick, looking upon others with condescending coolness. He’d never felt such bitter contempt for anyone in the world—except for one person.

His father.

Right.

At length he straightened painfully and returned downstairs, where he gathered his angle-rod and tackle, waved away the offer of a groom, and waded into the loch a short distance from the house.

There is something about a Scottish loch and a fishing line that doesn’t allow a man to live with self-hatred. Peace crept into his heart a couple of hours later with the splash of a fish jumping from the surface of the water.

When he came back to the castle, he was cold and wet and his clothes were covered with fish scales. It took another’s day casting his line to think out the rest of it.

In the end, he concluded that he was a creation of his depraved father. Avoiding whisky, avoiding women, avoiding three-legged stools . . . all the posturing of a child telling the world that he would never be like the only exemplar he’d known. In other words, it was never about virtue—it was all about a dead man.

The third day, he found himself noticing that the water was shining dark green, but the edges were dark silver. Trout slipped below the surface avoiding his line with the ease of wise men. Pink-legged buntings greeted him at the heathered edge.

That afternoon, he realized that he never wanted to hear another lecture about a bottle of wine ever again. And he was sick of eels as well. And wheat.

An osprey plunged straight down into the water not so far from him, rising with a trout in its claws; Gowan swore at it in Gaelic for taking his fish. A thread of happiness snuck up on him. But he wasn’t completely happy by any means. The thought of Edie was like a hole in his heart.

Every day his longing for her grew worse. He craved her like a drug, like opium, and it wasn’t all about the bed. He wanted her to hear the haunting calls of the rain geese in their endless mating conversations. He wanted to bring her an armful of dripping water lilies and hold the creamy petals up to her skin.

One morning, he didn’t head for the loch until he set up a chain of command whereby he would hear only the most significant reports. By the next day it was clear that one secretary and two bailiffs would be unable to carry their own weight without his constant guidance. He dismissed them.

Since he’d inherited his title, at age fourteen, he had never allowed himself more than an hour of angling; there were too many important things to do. Now he understood that almost nothing was important except perhaps regaining control of his emotions. But every day it seemed a bit more possible that restraint wasn’t an option, not when it came to Edie.

Perhaps love was the only choice.

He had to go back and make it work—not the bedding, though that was important. The rest of it. They needed to talk, really talk. It wasn’t something that came easily to him. He’d never had anyone to talk to, for one thing.

He was standing on a promontory, watching his line drift on the surface of the loch, when a ray of sunshine struck something gold, the gold of Edie’s hair. His body went taut, his mind dark with lust. A moment later a bird sang, not half as beautifully as the music Edie coaxed from her cello as her left hand rocked on the strings, making notes float from her instrument.

His heart clenched, and her name choked in his throat. She was the only thing that mattered in the world. Not this loch, not Craigievar, not the servants . . .

They were nothing.

Edie was—

He had to go home. He strode out of the loch and back to the house, shouting for a bath. Before he returned to the castle, he had to deal with a backlog of complaints relating to his position as justice of the peace. That afternoon he strode into Great Hall, cursing the fact that he’d stood around in the loch when he should have dealt with these cases and returned to his wife.

He doled out justice—more or less—for the first four to five cases. Then a brewer and his wife, who found themselves unable to live in harmony and had decamped to separate houses, appeared in front of him. Her dowry had been a number of pigs, and now she wanted them back.

The brewer’s wife had no chin. Her husband had a chin that came to a point. They glared at each other as if the pigs were there in the room, rootling about in front of them all.

What right had he to sit in judgment over these two? He wanted nothing more than to leave, but he couldn’t leave the pigs—who were blameless—in metaphorical limbo.

“Half and half,” he barked. “Five pigs to you, and the others to you.”

The brewer turned plum-colored. “She’s me damned wife and what’s hers is mine,” he shouted. “Them’s me pigs and I’ll pickle them before I let her have a single trotter.”

Gowan walked over to him, knowing that he looked like a man emerging from the gates of hell. He couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t eat; he couldn’t take a damned piss without thinking of Edie.

“
You do not own your wife.
” His voice boiled with barely suppressed rage.

The brewer fell back a step.

“No man owns a woman. You’re lucky she tolerated you for five minutes, you shriveled excuse for a fool-born ruffian!”

“Here!” came an indignant voice behind him. “You hasn’t the rights to say that!”

Gowan turned his head.

The brewer’s wife was on her feet, hands on her hips, scowling at him. “He’s no ruffian. He may be a clotpole—and I say that he
is
—but you’ve no right to call him names just because yer a duke.”

Gowan glared at her until she paled, but she didn’t back down. The brewer’s mouth was half-cocked. Gowan took him by the collar and gave him a shake. “There’s a chance she might take you back, you useless, witless clotpole.”

The man gulped.

Gowan shoved him away. “The pigs are confiscated until these two idiots work out their marital problems.”

A babble of protest rose instantly. Gowan looked at the brewer. “Do you love her?”

He gulped, and then nodded.

Gowan turned to his wife. “He don’t act so,” she said shrilly. “He stays at the pub till all hours.”

“No pigs,” Gowan told the man. “Not a single pig until you learn to keep your arse in your own kitchen.”

Then he left.