***
Maggie returned, bearing away the tray and offering to return to help move Alessandra to a window seat in “two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
The task was shortly accomplished, and Maggie began straightening up the room. She returned to her mistress’s side, holding the waste bin in one hand, and the handkerchief by two fingers in the other. “Yer don’t care to throw this away, do yer, my lady?” she asked.
Was it stained? Torn? Why had Geoffrey throw it away? Alessandra took it, instantly spotting the stain. Only it wasn’t a stain, it was embroidery. She saw the initials: GD-JB. Geoffrey Darringforth-Jacqueline Bremcott.
For several painful thumps of her heart, she held it as though it might burn her, but then she folded it slowly, carefully, and looked up at Maggie with eyes she blinked dry. “No, it’s fine. I’ll keep it.”
“Yer don’t want me to wash it?”
“I’ll put it in the laundry basket when I’m ready.”
“And what about this riding ’abit of yers? I think a little soakin’ wif my special solution might take the dirt out.”
“Yes. Fine. Please tell my sister where to find me.” She managed a thin smile. She could hardly wait until Maggie was gone, which thankfully proved to be relatively soon.
Smoothing the kerchief fully open, she stared at the initials again. Who else’s initials could they be but Lord Huntingsley’s, whose given name was Geoffrey Darringforth, and Jacqueline Bremcott’s? She, that Jacqueline, had sewn this; she had put their initials together so possessively; that woman, that creature, that one who would cherish another woman's husband—!
Her thoughts jerked forward toward thoughts even more harsh and less patient as she scolded herself: Whose husband? You have to be a wife to have a husband. You are no wife. You scarcely let him kiss you this morning, let alone encouraged him.
So then, let her have him; they want each other. He doesn’t want you, not even if he thinks to try to kiss you. Not even if his body sometimes presses close to yours for warmth. Not even if he is gentlemanly, and courtly, and kind. Kindliness can be given to a dog, idly, so how can you think of yourself as being of any worth to him, of having any right to his eternal fidelity?
He is being honorable—so shouldn’t I be also? Shouldn’t I ask for that divorce, to set him free, to let him go to the woman whose initials he carried in his pocket?
Except, one word stood out to her: carried. In the past tense. He had tossed the kerchief in the waste bin.
That was significant…wasn’t it?
She sat, stuck in her chair, the taunting kerchief spread on her lap. Her emotions teetered between certainty he loved another and hope he’d literally cast the past away.
Her chest hurt. Her brain hurt. At last she gave in to the pain and sobbed, as silently as she might.
***
“Lessie? Lessie, what’s wrong?” Emmeline opened the bedchamber door, and came flying across the room to her.
Alessandra had been struggling to reach the bed, and now collapsed into her sister’s arms. She pressed the hated kerchief into Emmeline’s hands, twisting away to half-fall onto the bed. There she cried into a pillow, one that smelled of soap and leather, of Geoffrey.
Emmeline eventually got a stuttered explanation out of her.
“You say you found it in the waste bin?”
The dark head nodded on the pillow, her face smothered away from sight, her tears finally spent.
“And Geoffrey put it there?”
Again a nod.
“Did he know you saw him do so?”
Alessandra lifted her tear-stained face and sniffed shakily until she could command her features enough to look at her sister. “I suppose so. Yes, probably.”
Emmeline sank down to sit next to her sister. There was a soft roundness at the waist of her gowns these days. She ran a hand back and forth across Alessandra’s shoulderblades. “If he cared about the handkerchief, wouldn’t he have placed it away somewhere, someplace private? Why would he throw it away, right in front of you? I don’t understand why you are upset. Do you want him to admire something from Jacqueline Bremcott?”
Alessandra lifted her head and stared. She sat up and swiped at tear tracks with the back of her hands. “No. And I thought about that. That he had thrown it away.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Alessandra hung her head. “I’m afraid,” she whispered at last.
“Afraid of Geoffrey?”
She shook her head.
“Afraid he’ll leave? That he loves another?”
The answer was in an even tinier voice. “Yes.”
“Then you do love him?” When Alessandra’s eyes widened, Emmeline pressed on. “You must care for him, or this little bit of cloth,” she hefted the kerchief, “would hardly cause this storm of tears.”
Alessandra felt her chin move from side to side, not quite a shake of the head. “Or I don’t like being humiliated.”
Emmeline pursed her lips. “Regardless, what do you mean to do about it?”
“About his…his wanting Miss Bremcott instead of…?” Alessandra’s voice faded away.
“That is hardly an established fact.”
“We’ve been married a month, and we haven’t… We...”
Emmeline waved a dismissive hand. “I know. You’ve both been acting like idiots.”
“Emmeline!”
The older sister rose to cast the kerchief once again in the waste bin, only to spin back to the younger. “Even so, what courses are open to you yet?”
Alessandra lifted her head, perplexed. “What?”
“You have several roads you could take.”
“Leave him?” Alessandra ventured, voice uneven.
“Yes. Or wait and see if anything changes.” Emmeline strode back in front of Alessandra, hands on hips. “Or you can fight to win him.”
Alessandra’s mouth turned down. “Me? Against Miss Bremcott’s charms?”
“Yes, you. You, who was humming earlier today when your husband carried you up the stairs himself. You, who he made sure was safe and well and seen to. You and your fetching dimple. You and the vows you both made.”
“Vows! He vowed to let me go, if I asked him to.”
Emmeline threw up both hands. “Then ask the opposite! Ask him to stay. To honor the greater vow. Ask him to love you.”
Alessandra put both hands to her face. “You can’t ask a person such a thing.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t make someone love you.”
“No. But you can ask them to try. And you can love them in return, making it a tempting offer.”
Tears had formed again in Alessandra’s eyes, but there was a tiny glimmer of hope in the damp eyes gazing so intently at Emmeline. “You make it sound so simple.”
“What do you lose by trying? By asking for what you want? Because, dearest sister, we both know you want Geoffrey, and this marriage, and a joy you can never have if you don’t try for it.”
Alessandra went silent, but Emmeline was surprised not to see defeat in her eyes, but something shiny and emergent. “Emmy, I believe you’re calling me a coward.”
Emmeline felt a little short of breath as she took up Alessandra’s hand and squeezed it. “Not a coward, no. But you have to put aside fear, my girl. You can only be defeated if you never try in the first place.”
Alessandra sat still for a very long time. Finally, she nodded, and looked up from under her lashes. “Will you help me?”
Across town a heart more matronly than maidenly beat an unsteady tattoo as Lady Chenmarth poured out tea for her long estranged husband. “You came...to talk?” she asked shakily, one hand at the pulse beating at her throat as she placed the tea offering on the low table before him.
“Yes, to talk,” Lord Chenmarth answered calmly, though his eyes were flashing. “I won’t dilly-dally.” Even saying so, it was a long moment before he sat up straighter, and went on. “Geoffrey came to see me. He said some peculiar things. Acted very odd, don’t you know. I’ve come to see if you have any idea what is happening in that quarter.”
Jane poured out a dish of tea for herself, her eyes lowered that he might not see the girlish eagerness that had overtaken her at his mere presence in her sitting room.
“I will tell you,” Jane said.
Chenmarth’s brows rose; perhaps he was as surprised as she was at the promise of frankness. It hadn’t been their habit.
She raised her gaze to his, and held it. “Geoffrey has told Alessandra that she may have a divorce, should she but ask him for one.”
“I know.” His brows lowered. “Although I had to learn it from Lord Warring. But has she asked him for one? So soon?”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”
Chenmarth lowered his chin, his eyes flicking over her face, searching. “Was any of it your doing? Putting the notion in his head?”
Jane sat up a little straighter, posture defiant. “Yes.”
It told its own story that he did not ask her why. They were both aware he had never set her free, had never even allowed talk of it.
“But,” she said, at last looking away, to sip at a cup of tea she did not want. “But…I think perhaps I should not have.”
Chenmarth—Roderick—grunted. “It’s unsettled the lad. Knowing, believing, the option of divorcing is there.”
“Yes.”
Roderick considered for a good half minute, one hand absently rubbing over the knee of one leg of his breeches. A confused look rose. “He came to me… I’m not quite sure why, Jane.”
She felt the blush spread across her face and neck; Roderick hadn’t called her by name in years.
“He demanded to know why we’d…you and I had separated. He blustered. He near broke my best new billiards cue!”
“Heavens,” Jane said dryly. “Not your best cue.”
Roderick pinned her with a look…but then he laughed, perhaps realizing that for most people one disaster might not equate with the next. Great heavens, when was the last time she’d seen him laugh?
She laughed with him, gently, and when she looked back at him was startled by the intensity of his stare.
“By Jove, you look fine today, Jane.”
She was dressed in a rich burgundy gown, her hair swept back into a soft chignon. She knew her face, never in need of a rouge pot, was still as fine boned as ever. Even so, her blush deepened as she reached up a hand to pat at her hair.
“I like the way the skin crinkles around your eyes, and those laugh lines that define your mouth.”
Her hand fell. She might have scolded him, but he rushed on. “No, I mean it. The lines, well, I’ve got ‘em myself, haven’t I? But they look well on you. They give you a…a softness that hasn’t been there before.”
It took her a moment, but then her opinion fell on the side of graciousness. “Thank you,” she said, one side of her mouth bending into a brief smile.
“There. That sideways smile. That was always a favorite of mine.”
To hide her shock at learning he’d ever liked something about her, she put sugar and cream in her tea, even though she seldom drank it that way. The moment stretched out long, neither snagging the other’s gaze for longer than a second.
After the clock on the mantel grew noticeably louder in the silence, Roderick gave a long sigh. “Well, Jane,” he said, shaking his head, his mostly still sandy hair in need of a trim. “What are we to do about the boy, then?”
The room tilted a little…or perhaps it was that Jane’s heart had skipped a long beat; a word had stood out to her. “We?” she echoed.
“Didn’t mean to… I mean… Well, yes, we…” His voice trailed away.
Jane took a deep, steadying breath, then she chose bravery and came around the low table, sitting next to him. She laid a hand over his where it rested on her settee. For a moment she thought he would pull his hand away, but he remained as he was, his eyes examining her face.
“Please, don’t take back the word.”
“’We?’” he repeated.
“When Geoffrey came to see you…”
“When he said such odd things about you. About me.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Do you think…can it be Geoffrey has been seeing something we have been refusing to see for ourselves?”
He did not speak, but his hand turned over against the settee, his fingers curling to cup hers. The gesture was small, but it emboldened her. It made her stuttering heart start up again, now racing.
“Let us say what we wish, as we wish. Let us dispel with silence,” she said, not quite able to hide her anxiety that he would not continue, that he would stop speaking, again, as always, leaving only silence and hurt between them.
He looked to the ceiling and the walls for a moment or two, but finally he blurted out, “Is it ever too late, Jane? Can two people start over...people of our ages?” he asked beseechingly.
Jane smiled shakily, looking into his eyes. “Our ages? Does it matter? Right now I dare say I feel very young, very giddy, indeed.”
He frowned, then smiled, then laughed unsteadily. “I know the feeling.”
“I’m so pleased you came today, Roderick,” she said, reluctantly lifting her hand so she could rise and cross to the double doors that led into the morning room. She closed them gently, turning to lean her back against them. “Even though there is very much that needs to be said, new problems to resolve, and old misunderstandings to be gotten rid of.” Her courage failed her for a moment, so she sought reassurance. “Yes?”
He stood, as tall as he’d been in his youth. “Yes,” he said. “And no time like the present,” he added, his voice gruff, though not from anger.
“No time, indeed.” She crossed the room and found herself in arms she had been missing in more ways and for more years than she could bear to think.
***
A week later, four days after the evening news sheets held an announcement of Miss Jacqueline Bremcott’s wedding to Viscount Aldford, Emmeline had pondered a long time. Tonight, finally, she had come to a decision and had given a house-boy a shilling to carry a discreet note to a certain gentleman.
That evening she assured her sister she was not feeling up to a ball, and that they must go on without her, and she would be fine at home with Papa, she only wanted to rest.
As soon as they were gone, Emmeline went upstairs and changed into clothes more suitable for nighttime ventures. She returned to the downstairs parlor, unlatched the door that led into the gardens, and sat down to wait for her gentleman caller.
***
Geoffrey stared at his parents, bemused. “That is their fourth dance together,” he said to Alessandra, blindly handing a glass of punch in her direction.
She hurriedly caught the glass, only a few drops spilling to the floor and onto her gloves, as the fan hanging from her wrist swung dangerously. She righted the glass with her other hand, casting only a mildly exasperated, and largely amused, glance in his direction.
“It would seem they have reconciled some of their differences,” Lady Warring said, trying to reach for the other punch glass he held. It drifted outward, just out of her reach, until Geoffrey brought it around to absently sip from it himself.
“Geoffrey,” Alessandra almost laughed. “Would you please get Mama some punch?”
“What?” he said, finally taking his eyes off his laughing, smiling parents, only then realizing he was drinking Lady Warring’s cupful. “Oh. Beg your pardon, ma’am. Er, could you hold this until I come back?” He handed the glass to Lady Warring, and went off to find the punch bowl again.
“Well, he is certainly pleased with events, I must say,” Lady Warring said tartly.
“As am I. It was always so sad, don’t you think, the way they were separated?”
“But can they stay together?” Lady Warring questioned.
“I hope so,” Alessandra sighed, choosing to ignore the meaningful look Mama shot her way.
When Geoffrey returned, he found his mother-in-law holding two glasses. “Where did Alessandra get to?” he asked, trading the newly fetched one for the one he’d drunk out of.
“Von Brauer’s got her, for the gavotte,” Lady Warring said, pointing in the direction with her chin.
Geoffrey turned to look where the dancers assembled, knowing Alessandra’s ankle was recovered enough that she might dance. “The gavotte? That’s rather old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
“So is the Dowager Lady Bremcott,” Lady Warring said, without bothering to look repentant for the remark.
Geoffrey recalled his manners. “Would you care to join me?”
“Delighted,” was the reply.
They found a place to cache the punch glasses, and moved quickly to join the others who were just about to start.
As the music began and they swayed to it, Lady Warring sighed, looking across the floor to where her daughter was partnered by the baron. “They look well together. He’s not too old for her, is he? Twenty years is a big difference, but that makes him only eight and thirty,” she mused.
Geoffrey threw Lady Warring a startled glance, and when they had the chance he said in hushed tones, “My lady, I think you presume too much.”
Lady Warring had the grace to go pink. “Presume too much? Well! I mean to say, things do not progress between you and Alessandra. So things are not well…or are they?” She pinned him with a look, one that almost made him misstep. She kept her voice down. “It is not I who thought of that…that thing, that you might…separate. You are both mad to even think of it. But,” she glanced back at Alessandra, “one must prepare and think ahead, mustn’t one?”
When he did not answer, Lady Warring rambled on at him, while he wondered who was madder: the woman who looked about for a second husband for her daughter, or him, the man who could make it even possible by stepping out of Alessandra’s way.
Regardless, Lady Warring now seemingly realized she had Geoffrey captured and must make the most of her chance to voice her opinions. He let her go on fussing at him, but gave his attention to the young lady who danced across from him in the arms of another man. He hadn’t been Alessandra’s constant attendant tonight—and only see what happened because of it. Von Brauer? A new husband for Alessandra? He is certainly a gentleman, but he is so much older than she…Still, that wasn’t enough to disqualify him, Geoffrey knew. Von Brauer had family money, and an estate in Germany. A quick glance is enough to tell you that Lessie… Alessandra likes him, he thought to himself, frowning even more deeply as he discerned that he had used her pet name without meaning to do so. It had just popped into his brain—probably from being exposed to it so much of late. Still, he could not like her having to live out of England for part or most of the year.
But what was he thinking? What concern of his was it where she lived, and with whom? If he and she were a couple no more, he would have no need, nor prerogative, to impose what he thought should happen upon her person and her life.
“Huntingsley?” Lady Warring said to him, tapping his arm with her fan as they danced. “Are you listening to me? I was asking you why you’ve still not removed to your mama’s house? Surely the house is repaired by now? Or is there a truer reason you do not commit to moving there with my Lessie?”
“The roof…repairs…,” he muttered. He was beginning to become quite annoyed with his mother-in-law’s exasperation by the time Jacqueline Bremcott came up beside him. He’d spotted her when he and Alessandra had entered tonight, bowing to her from a distance, aware Alessandra had stiffened at his side. Now, he turned to the fair blonde with a touch of relief and bid her at once to dance with him.
They would have to wait a few minutes while others sought partners for a new set, so he led her away at once, directly to the punch bowl as a logical excuse to escape the plaguey Lady Warring with all her questions and comments on prospective beaux and his not making a home with his wife.
“Here,” he said, shoving a glass into Jacqueline’s hand.
A cool smile showed she was mildly vexed at the gracelessness of the moment, but then he was pulling her by the hand into one of the curtained alcoves that faced the ballroom. It was not exactly private, but it did at least provide a little isolation, the very thing he desired most at the moment.
“Thank you,” she belatedly said, indicating the punch. “Is anything the matter? I must say it is a bit of a crush tonight, but—”
“I’m quite well,” he said, tugging at his cravat, only to then feel it gingerly to see if he had ruined its set. “Does this look right?” he asked, lifting his chin so she could observe his cravat for him. Alessandra had a knack for setting the lay of his cravat correct after he had mussed it up.
“It looks well enough,” Jacqueline said without enthusiasm.