A Christmas Promise (8 page)

But she did not hear the words. She held his hand very lightly in hers and knew from his mumblings earlier that she was already superfluous to him, being still anchored firmly in the land of the living. She knew that he was seeing only her mother and his own parents. She knew that he had already gone from her, that he needed now to shed the nuisance of a body that would no longer serve him.

She felt only her own loss. He was beyond pain or fear.

“He is gone, my lady. I am so sorry, my lady.” The soft voice and the hands on her shoulders were those of the housekeeper.

And she realized that there were no more breaths at all. She sat and held his hand for a while longer before laying it down gently at his side so as not to cause him pain. And she leaned forward and kissed it.

“Good-bye, Papa,” she said.

“His lordship is downstairs, my lady,” the housekeeper said. “You go to him. I’ll see to everything here.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor got to her feet and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Mrs. Bennet.” She did not look at her father again.

“H
E IS DEAD,” SHE
said. “He died a few minutes ago.”

“I am so sorry,” he said, and he took a step toward her. She was still wearing the brown velvet dress she had put on the morning of the day before. Her hair looked as if it had not been combed since. Her face was pale, her eyes dark-shadowed. He would have gone to her, perhaps even drawn her into his arms. He had been impressed to learn on each of his visits that she could not be persuaded to leave the sickroom. Perhaps he had misjudged her.

“There is no need to be,” she said. “He should have died a month ago. Only stubbornness kept him alive so long.”

He stood still and watched her. “Come and sit down,” he said.

“It was kind of you to call so frequently,” she said. “I thank you.” She did not move from her standing position just inside the door.

“He was my father-in-law,” he said. “And you are my wife.”

Incredibly, she smiled. “What a lowering admission for you to have to make,” she said.

“My carriage is outside,” he said. “I shall send you home in it, my lady, with a maid. You need sleep. I shall stay to see the physician when he arrives and to begin making arrangements for … to begin making arrangements.”

“For the funeral,” she said. “Yes. Thank you. It is kind of you to be willing to do that. I shall return tomorrow morning—with your permission. There will be letters to write, people to inform.”

Even then he considered going to her. What would happen if he took her by the shoulders? Would she relax her proud posture, set her head against him, and allow the floodgates of grief to be opened?
Was
there grief? Or would she continue to stand stiffly, perhaps, and look at him in incomprehension and even with contempt?

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“All right?” Her eyes widened. “I am tired. He was a long time going. Far longer than I expected.”

He remained where he was. “On your way, then,” he said, “without further delay.”

She stared at him silently for a long moment and then turned and left the room without another word.

He stood looking after her. Would she have behaved differently if he had been someone else? he wondered. Could she possibly be as cold and unfeeling as she seemed? Was it hatred of him that caused her to hold her feelings in check? Or were there no feelings?

It chilled him to know that he was married to such a woman. And to know that his marriage weighed more heavily on his mind than he had expected it to do. He had done nothing in the past two days except move between his own house and Transome’s. There had been no visits to White’s or any of the other clubs. And it was not until this very moment that he remembered telling Alice that he would be with her the night before. His spirits had been oppressed by the dying of a man who was a stranger to him. A stranger he had good reason to dislike. And by the girl who was losing a father and who had every reason to believe that she was being transferred to the care of a man who would treat her far more cruelly.

It shamed him to know that he was that man. And yet how could he show kindness to a marble statue? To a woman who was a social climber and nothing else? How could he be kind to a woman who hated him? A woman who spoke of her father’s death as if it meant nothing at all to her, as if spending his last hours with him had been nothing but an exhausting nuisance to her?

And did he want to show kindness to her anyway? She was the daughter of a cit. He had been forced into marrying her. And he would always feel some shame, knowing that he had agreed to the marriage for the sake of money. He had never thought of himself as a mercenary man.

But it was not the time for such thoughts, he realized suddenly. There were things to be done. Although it was already late evening, there was a man upstairs who had just died, and doubtless the servants would be seeking direction on what to do. He drew a deep breath and opened the door into the hallway.

S
HE HELD HERSELF STIFF
and her mind blank until she was finally alone in her bedchamber on Grosvenor Square. She had waved away her maid and undressed herself. She sank into the chair where she had waited for her husband to come to her on their wedding night—how many nights ago? She did not know. And she prepared to cry her heart out.

She stared into the crackling flames of the fire and thought of her father. Thought of the way she had been the focus of his life all through her childhood and girlhood, although he had always worked long hours. Thought of how he had always lavished love and gifts on her. And of how her world had revolved about him. Thought of him sick and in pain for the last months, though he had never complained, had refused to let his brothers and sisters know how gravely ill he was, and had forbidden her to inform them. They had their own lives and worries, he said, and did not need to be burdened with his. She thought of him dying, slowly fading from her and from life through the long hours when she had sat by his side. Thought of his still, quiet body when she had finally released his hand and turned from him.

She thought of the fact that she would never see him again. He was gone from her. Forever, just as her mother had been abruptly and permanently gone from her childhood. She was alone. Her father was dead. The dearest person in all the world to her, including Wilfred—oh, yes, even including him—was dead.

And she waited for the tears, for the release of grief and the relief from the unbearable pain of loss. But there was only the pain, the pain of knowing at last that she could not grieve. She was too tired to grieve. She had never in her life felt more tired.

If only he had been someone else when she had gone downstairs to the parlor. If only he had been one of her uncles or cousins. She felt sorry again that Papa had chosen not to inform his family of the gravity of his illness. They would have come—Papa’s family always rallied around for a big occasion, even if that occasion was an illness and death.

If he had been one of her uncles, she could have walked straight into his arms and buried her face against his chest and howled out her loss. She could have done it then. She had needed to do it then. But he was an aristocrat and cold to the very heart. Had she gone to him, he would probably have been more concerned about her tears taking the starch from his neckcloth than about her distress. He would have looked down at her with disdain and contempt. Doubtless in his world it was not considered good
ton
to weep for a dead father.

Besides, she would not put her feelings on display for him. She would not.

Papa!
Eleanor spread weary hands over her face and longed for the relief of tears. And longed for someone to go to, for someone’s arms and someone’s shoulder and someone’s soothing voice. But when she thought of her husband again, she could remember only what he had done to her in this very room a few nights before.

She could not cry. She gave up even trying after a while and moved over to the bed and lay down on it after blowing out the candles. But she could not sleep either. She was more tired than she could ever remember being, but she could not sleep.

She stared into the fire and wondered what he was doing. And wondered if he would come home at all that night.

O
LD HABITS DIED HARD, HE SUPPOSED. SHE CAME
back to her father’s house quite early on the morning after his death, fully intending to write letters there to her relatives. And yet when he told her that she might write them at home—in Grosvenor Square—she made no objection. She merely looked blankly at him and agreed to return with him in the carriage. She looked about her almost as if she were in a strange house.

He had had a sleepless night, and she too looked unrefreshed even though he had sent her home to bed. Her face was pale and lifeless and her eyes dark-shadowed. He wondered, as he had done the evening before, what she would do if he moved closer to her and set a hand on her shoulder or about her shoulders, perhaps. Would she respond to the gesture of sympathy? It was hard to tell. He did not know if her calm was the result of a monumental self-control or if it was a part of her nature. And yet he could find no evidence that there were feelings beneath the calm and the apparent coldness.

“Your father has been washed and laid out,” he told her gently. “He is still in his bed. Do you wish to see him?”

She thought for a moment. “No,” she said.

Perhaps she was afraid. Afraid of death. “Will it help if I come with you?” he asked.

She turned her eyes on him. “Not at all,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I shall have a dressmaker summoned to the house,” he told her when they were in the carriage. “It will save you the distress of having to go out. She can make up all the mourning clothes you will need. Do you have a preference for any particular modiste?”

“No,” she said. “And I will not need much. Only a few dresses for the next few weeks. I will leave off my mourning before Christmas. And you must too—if you intend to wear mourning at all, my lord. I do not imagine you felt any great fondness for my father.”

“Leave off mourning before Christmas?” he said, appalled. “After only a month?” He ignored her final words.

“Why wear black for longer?” she asked. “As a show for the world? I do not care to impress the world.”

“I believe you care very much, my lady,” he said. “Or why was it so important to you to marry a titled man? One can hardly say, after all, that you married me for my money.”

“Or for love,” she said. “Perhaps I married you for your good looks, my lord. I am sure you must know that you have those in abundance.”

“This is hardly the time or place in which to quarrel,” he said, frowning. “I am afraid that I must insist that you wear mourning clothes for at least a year, my lady. I have respect for the dead if you do not.”

“It was his request,” she said, looking at him disdainfully. “His final request, my lord. That I not mourn for him long. That I put off mourning before Christmas. But of course, I owe obedience to you now, do I not? No longer to a father who is not even alive.”

There was bitterness in her tone. And what further proof did he need that she cared not a jot for anyone but herself? He did not believe her. But how could he take the chance of not doing so? Would she forever hold against him the fact that he had not allowed her to honor her father’s last request?

“Very well, then,” he said curtly. “But you will not be seen in public within the next year, my lady. Not in town, anyway. We will remove to the country—to Grenfell Park—and stay there. I am sorry you will have no Season next spring. I am sure you have your heart set upon it.” And she would too, he thought in cold anger. She would dance and make merry within months of her father’s death if he would allow it.

“Ah,” she said, “but I will have Grenfell Park, my lord, and all the glory of being its mistress. I will take precedence over everyone else, will I not? Do you have a padded pew at church? I shall enjoy walking down the aisle, nodding condescendingly to all our neighbors.”

“You have a wicked tongue,” he said. “Will any of your family be present for the funeral, do you suppose?”

“No,” she said. “Most of my father’s family live in or close to Bristol. There will not be time for letters to reach them and the journey to London to be made. You may relax, my lord. You are not about to be surrounded by hordes of vulgar businesspeople and farmers. Just me and my father’s business associates from town. I am sure that that will be agony and humiliation enough.”

He considered retreating into silence since they were quite close to home anyway. But he must begin as he meant to proceed, he decided. He did not intend to take cover in silence from the barbed tongue of a shrew.

“I think we had better decide, my lady,” he said, looking directly at her, his voice stern, “to treat each other with courtesy. It seems that we both entered this marriage for less than admirable reasons, and it has become clear that neither of us feels even the smallest degree of affection for the other. But married we are, and married we will remain for the rest of our lives. Let there be civility between us, then. And civility of manner as well as word. No more sarcasm and biting setdowns.”

The hostility gradually faded from her eyes as he watched her, to be replaced by wariness. “Very well,” she said at last.

But any chance he might have had of comforting her for the death of her father—if she needed comforting—was lost. He handed her from the carriage when they arrived at Grosvenor Square and she disappeared into the morning room to write her letters while he retired to his own room to sleep for a few hours. And yet he found himself over-tired. He could not sleep.

And he found himself wishing he could live the last few days over again. He wished that he had followed his own recent advice and established a relationship of mutual respect from the start between himself and his wife. He wished he could have his wedding night over again. He wished he could consummate his marriage with more gentleness and consideration. But perhaps things could not have been different anyway. Perhaps his wife was as cold and as shrewish as she had seemed so far in his acquaintance with her.