Heartless (19 page)

“All I was able to give George was one stillborn son,” Henrietta said, her voice very low. “If only I had known . . .”

“I am sorry about that, Henrietta,” he said. “It must have been a painful experience for you.” Doubtless an incredible understatement.

“If only I had known,” she said again. “I could not have married you, Luke, though you urged me to do so even after you knew. If it had lived, it would have been his son. Everyone would have known that. And yet I would have been married to you. It would have been impossible. You must have realized that. Have you hated me all these years?” Her voice was thin and shaking.

He could remember having contrived to be alone with her up at the falls. He could remember trying to kiss her and her turning her head sharply away. He could remember it all coming spilling out, how she had been out walking alone, how George had met her and walked with her, how he had waited until they were in a secluded place before taking her into his arms and trying to persuade her to let him further embrace her, how he had grown more ardent and insistent at her refusal until he had forced himself on her and got her with child, how she had discovered the terrible truth and confronted George with it so that he had been obliged to offer for her, how she had felt she had no choice but to accept, how she had decided to break the news to Luke before anyone else knew.

And he could remember her collapsing into his arms and sobbing her heart out while he cried with her. He could remember pleading with her, begging her to marry him anyway. He had not had a chance to think through the implications of what she had told him. All he had been able to think of was losing her, losing the love of his heart, losing his reason for living. At that moment he had not even started to think of George . . .

The pain was something he would never want to live through again. And he had spent years hardening his heart so that he never would.

“I have not hated you, Henrietta,” he said. “I made a new life for myself in France. And now I have come back a different person. And I have come back with a wife. All that seems like something that happened in another lifetime to another person. I am sorry if you suffered longer than I, my dear.”

“I suffered every day while he lived and I have suffered every day since,” she said so quietly that he scarcely heard the words.

He heard her swallow twice but kept his eyes resolutely on the path ahead. He did not look to see if she was crying. If he saw her crying, he knew what he would do, what any gentleman would do. But he did not trust himself to hold her in his arms. He did not trust the invulnerability of his heart. He wished they were closer to home. They were still a mile away.

“I am glad you married before coming home,” she said at last, her voice more normal. “And I am glad you married someone like Anna, someone worthy of you. You chose well, even though you married her because of me. You did, did you not?”

Had he? Had that been his primary motive? He knew it had been part of it. He hoped it had not been the whole of it. “I married,” he said, “because it was time and because I had met someone I wished to marry.” Yes. He remembered Anna at Lady Diddering's ball and the way she had flirted with him and enchanted him. Yes, that was at least partly true. He suddenly, desperately wanted to feel that he had married Anna for herself. And he had, he remembered with some bitterness. He had allowed himself to fall in love with her—briefly.

“Forgive me,” Henrietta said. “Forgive me for even suggesting otherwise. Who could wonder at any man's falling in love with Anna and marrying her all within a week? I am glad you love her. If you did not, it would be dangerous for you and me to be together. We should not be together now. I wish I had known that you were from home this afternoon. I would not have strolled away to be alone and to read. You ought not to have stopped when you saw me, Luke. You should have ridden on by.”

But she had known. It had been a planned meeting. Could not even Henrietta be trusted to speak the truth?

“You are my sister-in-law, Henrietta,” he said firmly. “All that happened between us happened a long time ago to two children who no longer exist.” And yet they did exist. Somewhere deep inside himself, despite the effort of years, was the boy he had been. Somewhere deep within there was still Henrietta. And George.

“Yes,” she said. “That is the truth. It must be the truth.”

The path along which they walked disappeared as they emerged from the trees to the east of the house onto the top of the long lawn that sloped for more than a mile from the formal gardens before the house. They were quite close to the gardens in which Anna was strolling with Emily and Doris.

“Oh, dear,” Henrietta said quietly and then she raised a hand to wave gaily at the three in the garden. “I will never walk with your husband again, Anna, I vow,” she sang out cheerfully as they came within earshot. “He has done nothing but sing your praises and declare his love for you since I met him as I was climbing over the stile back yonder. He has not even complimented me on my new straw hat.”

Anna looked briefly at Luke, her eyes startled, before smiling at Henrietta and moving close to the low hedge that separated the bottom terrace from the lawn. “And it is such a becoming hat,” she said. “I will compliment you on it, Henrietta.” She laughed gaily.

Luke acted from impulse. He leaned over the hedge, took his wife by the waist, and lifted her over despite her startled shriek of protest. She laughed again as he set her down.

“You will not find that so easy to do in a few months' time, your grace,” she said and then flushed and caught her lower lip between her teeth.

“Oh, Anna,” Henrietta said, clasping her hands tightly at her bosom, “does that mean what I think it means?”

Emily was stooping down to smell the flowers, Luke noticed, but Doris was an interested listener.

“Anna is with child,” he said, offering her his arm, drinking in the sight of her, as he always did, as he always had. Now it was a relief to see her, to touch her, to speak aloud his deep, irrevocable involvement with her. His mind clung to the present, firmly relinquished the past—yet again. His horse snorted with impatience to be moving again.

But Henrietta had to hug her and kiss her first and Doris had to do likewise across the width of the hedge. All three of them were laughing and talking together. Luke grimaced and caught Emily's eye. She was observing the excitement, obviously not understanding it. He shrugged and raised his eyebrows and she smiled at him.

“'Twill be a son,” Henrietta said. “I know it will, Anna. It must be a son. How happy I am for you—and for Luke, of course, even though he would not compliment me on my hat. Perhaps I will even forgive him.” She laughed and moved toward the gap in the middle of the hedge so that she could enter the formal garden. “I shall return to the house with Doris and Emily. I know when three is a crowd.”

He watched her go, feeling curiously depressed. For a few minutes he had wanted her again. Oh, not really physically but nostalgically. He had wanted to be that boy again and he had wanted her to be that girl again. He had wanted to change the world. He had been right to dread coming home.

Anna took Luke's arm and walked with him in the direction of the stables. “I am so sorry,” she said. “The announcement was yours to make. You would have liked to make it in a more formal manner, I am sure.”

“Mine to make?” he said. “It seems to me, madam, that my part in the making of our child was a singularly small one in comparison with yours. So I will be unable to lift you in a few months' time? Is that a challenge to my strength?”

She laughed. Anna's laugh was all sunshine and happiness.

He wished suddenly that there was not the necessity to go to the drawing room for tea with the family. He wished he could take it privately with his wife in her sitting room. Not necessarily to make love to her there, though the idea had its definite appeal, but just to be alone with her so that he could gaze exclusively at her without being ill-mannered and so that he could talk only to her and listen only to her.

He was shaken for a moment when he realized how much he had come to depend on Anna's sunny nature and uncomplicated placidity. Especially here at Bowden. He was not sure that even now he would not bolt back to Paris if it were not for Anna.

And why not come to depend on her? he thought. She was his wife. And despite her past and the secret she had refused to reveal—did not he have a past and unrevealed secrets too?—she had given him no reason since their wedding night not to trust her.

“And how many months will it be, madam, before my strength is to be put to the test?” he asked.

She laughed again. “Before I am fat and ugly?” she said. “At least two more, I hope. 'Tis not even two months yet.”

“Fat and
what?”
He frowned sidelong down at her. “Ugly, Anna? With my child in you? Ugly to whom, pray?”

He liked to tease her. To make her laugh. He was learning how it might be done and she was learning how to do it to him too. The time was, and not so long ago, when he would have whipped out his sword if any man had dared try to tease him—or looked stony and haughty if any woman had tried it.

“I am begging for a compliment, you see,” she said. “Since you did not give one to Henrietta—how unkind of you, your grace!—perhaps you will have one to spare for me. Will I be ugly?”

“Madam.” He paused to bow over her hand and raise it to his lips while her eyes sparkled up at him with mischief. “I can conceive of only one possible way you can appear more beautiful in my eyes than you are at this moment. That will be when you are nine months swollen with child.”

“Oh.” The mischief disappeared to be replaced with what looked very like wistfulness. “Do you speak truth, your grace? Or is it mere Parisian gallantry?”

“Madam.” He bowed again. “I vow 'tis not a speech I am in the habit of delivering to ladies. I do not enjoy having my face slapped.”

She threw back her head and laughed with glee.

“'Tis teatime,” he said. “We will be frowned upon if we are late, Anna.”

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “And I am hungry. I am reminded that I am now eating for two. While I may be willing to deny myself, I do not feel 'twould be fair to deny the person who cannot speak for himself.”

“Or herself,” he said.

“Or herself,” she agreed.

Anna had a gift for happiness, he realized suddenly. And a gift, too, for passing it on to others. He had indeed made a fortunate choice.

•   •   •

“Anna.”
Henrietta caught up with her sister-in-law and friend on the stairs after tea and they ascended the rest of the way together, arms linked. “I was hoping for a private word with you with as little delay as possible.”

Anna looked at her inquiringly.

“You must not misconstrue what you saw,” Henrietta said. “You really must not. 'Twas perfectly innocent.”

Anna looked puzzled.

“Oh.” Henrietta bit her lip. “You did misconstrue it, did you not, and are pretending that it does not matter. Believe me, I thought Luke was at the house this afternoon. I took a book outside to be alone for a while, and he came upon me sitting on a stile as he rode home. I suggested that he ride on while I walked, for I did not want anyone to see us and misunderstand. But of course Luke is ever gallant. He insisted that we walk together. 'Twas nothing more than that, Anna, I swear. Please believe me.”

Anna gazed at her in amazement. “Henrietta,” she said, “how foolish of you. Of course I know 'twas nothing more.”

“Ah.” Henrietta exhaled in obvious relief. “You are very generous. And of course you are secure enough in Luke's love to trust him. And I hope secure enough in your friendship with me to trust me. You understand that what is past is past and there is an end of the matter. As Luke observed while we walked, we were little more than children then and it all happened more than ten years ago.”

Anna felt suddenly chilled.
“What
happened more than ten years ago?” she asked.

Henrietta's hand flew to her mouth as she looked at Anna in dismay. “You did not know?” she whispered. “He did not tell you? Oh.” She closed her eyes. “I wish I had known. I wish I had known.”

Anna felt sorry for her sister-in-law. She knew how it felt to say something and then wish it unsaid, knowing that it was impossible to unsay. But at the same time she felt wary. And not at all sure she wanted to know. She opened the door into her sitting room and smiled. “Come in and sit down,” she said. “Perhaps you had better tell me what happened, Henrietta.”

Henrietta sank down onto a chair and set both hands over her face. “What a fool I am,” she said. “Of course he would not have told you. Why did I assume he had?” She looked up resolutely. “'Twas really nothing, Anna. We grew up together, Luke and I, and when we reached a certain age we fancied ourselves in love with each other. We were to be married.”

Luke and Henrietta. Growing up together. Falling in love. Two beautiful people. Yes, of course. Of course.

“What happened?” Anna asked. She did not really want to know what had happened. Now that the time had come and she was being offered the knowledge she had ached to know, she no longer wanted to know. Pandora's box was perhaps best left shut. But it had already been opened. Luke and Henrietta.

Henrietta sat with eyes closed and hand pressed to her mouth for a long time. “How can I tell you?” she said at last. “But how can I not? Your imaginings will be worse than the reality—if anything could possibly be worse. George ravished me and got me with child. Luke begged me to marry him even so—he cried in my arms, Anna—but I could not. I was with child by his brother. And so I married him—after Luke had challenged him to a duel and almost killed him. He was sent away. George nearly died, but I thought I had killed Luke too. Word came back of a terrible wildness in him for a long time, and then word that I had indeed killed a part of him. Word had it that he no longer had a heart. Do not believe it, Anna. He does have a heart. He loves you. He must have told you that. It all happened so long ago.”