The Glass House (18 page)

Louisa awaited me in a room that reminded me
of Mrs. Beltan herself: plump and cozy and old fashioned. Cushions
covered nearly every flat surface, cushions that were fat and
tasseled, thin and embroidered, plump and plush. They were piled on
the Turkish couch, the two chairs, the window sill, and the shelves
of a cupboard.

Louisa sat on the Turkish couch and did not
rise when I entered. She looked tired, I thought. Very tired.

I went to her and raised her hands from her
lap. She did not protest when I pressed a light kiss to each, but
she kept her fingers loosely curled.

"Louisa, what is it? Are you all right?"

"I do beg your pardon, Gabriel," Louisa said,
voice weary. "I did not mean to worry you. I've only come to ask
you for a favor."

"You know I would do anything for you."

"Good. Then I will ask you to please cease
baiting my husband."

She looked up at me, and I stilled. In her
eyes was something I had never seen before. She was not angry. She
had gone beyond that.

"He is easy to bait, Louisa," I said lightly.
"He has no imagination."

"I know. He is as stubborn as you are."

I released her hands. "Thank you very
much."

"You can stop this, Gabriel. You simply will
not."

I took a step back and let out a bitter
laugh. "You would like me to pretend that things are well and
mended, as we did all last autumn? That was not easy, as you must
have known. I am pleased that Brandon and I have returned to
normal."

Louisa rose in a rustle of skirts, her cheeks
red. "I see. So you are happy to stand here and tell me how glad
you are that you and Aloysius have returned to bickering like
schoolboys? I am tired of it, Gabriel. Tired of your arguments and
of being caught in the middle. I am tired of you."

Her words struck me like pistol balls, but
she rushed on. "Do you think I enjoy knowing what you fight one
another about? You are dear to me, Gabriel, dearer than almost
anyone in the world, you always have been. You have told me I am
dear to you."

"You are," I said, stricken.

"Then why do you force me to choose? I am
loyal to my husband. I always will be. He deserves that."

My temper broke. "For God's sake, why? The
man was ready to put you aside because you disappointed his selfish
plans for fathering a dynasty. He deserves you spitting on
him."

She shook her head. "I do not think that
Aloysius ever meant to divorce me. Not truly."

"No? He made a damn good pretense of it."

"I misread him. I know that now. He hurt me,
and I wanted to hurt him back."

"So you came to me that night to hurt him?" I
asked, a dull ache in my chest.

"I do not know why I did what I did that
night. I ran to you because I was afraid and confused, and so
angry, Gabriel, you do not know how angry."

"I have some idea."

Her eyes were clear gray, like rain-washed
skies. "No, you do not. He had wounded me at my weakest point, and
I was furious at him for that. He had shattered my pride, and I
wanted to strike back at him. You took me in and were so indignant
on my behalf, and that pleased me."

"It pleased me too," I said, remembering.

I had hated Aloysius Brandon that night. When
Louisa's tears had ceased enough that she could tell me her story,
I had been ready to murder Brandon on the spot. Louisa had several
times tried to give Brandon his hoped-for son, and she had failed
each time. The enlightened Colonel Brandon blamed Louisa. I knew
that Louisa secretly blamed herself, though she never voiced the
thought.

I, on the other hand, put the blame squarely
on Brandon. If he'd treasured Louisa as he ought, likely he would
even now be surrounded by a horde of children.

"I believe that what angered him most is that
you took my side against him," Louisa said.

I smiled wryly, hurt tainting my words. "Not
finding you in my arms?"

Not in bed. I had held her close, letting her
cry on my shoulder, while I had tumbled her hair and kissed her
forehead. We'd been sitting on a camp chair, her cradled on my lap,
the morning after she'd fled her husband, when Brandon had come
looking for her.

I have never forgotten the look on his face.
For all his bluster that he wanted to give her up, Brandon had damn
well never meant for me to have her.

"We both stood against him, and he could not
bear that," Louisa said. "He has always been much more worried
about his pride than his love."

She was wrong. Brandon had wanted to kill me
that night. He had certainly tried to kill me later.

"He is proud," I agreed. "His pride will be
the death of him."

"I could say the same of you."

I could not argue. I had asked Louisa, this
past summer, why she stayed with the irritating man. She had
replied that she remembered the man Brandon had been--the
admirable, brave, and compelling captain who had lured me from my
Norfolk home. She still saw that in him, she'd said.

I could only see a man who'd let his
achievements puff him up until he raged at minor disappointments.
Brandon had wanted everything: the perfect wife, the perfect
family, the perfect career, perfect devotion from me, the man he
had created. He'd almost achieved all this until his pride
destroyed it.

"I cannot help baiting him," I said, hiding
my uneasiness behind a sardonic tone. "Brandon needs reminding that
he ruined me. He can wait as long as he likes for me to fall on my
knees and beg his forgiveness. I enjoy showing him that I've had
done being his toady."

"Damn you, Gabriel, do you think
I
enjoy it? Watching you at each other's throats, hurling abuse at
one another? I left the room the other night, but I would have had
to flee to the next county to avoid hearing you. The servants too
were most embarrassed."

"I know you get caught in our crossfire," I
said, chagrined. "I am sorry. You know I never mean to hurt
you."

"But it does hurt me, and neither you nor my
husband let that stop you. How many times will you apologize to me,
how many times will I forgive you for friendship's sake? I am
running out of forgiveness."

I looked at her in sudden apprehension. "You
are the dearest friend I have in the world, Louisa. I try to keep
my temper around your husband, but he is so damned provoking. I
could chew through a spoon trying to hold in my anger when he
begins pontificating. You must know by now that reconciliation is
impossible."

"Well you ought to chew through the spoon,
then. And I know you will not reconcile. Both of you refuse to
unbend. My meetings with you enrage my husband, as you know they
do. I believe you encourage visits between myself and you simply to
annoy him. And so these visits must stop."

The floor seemed to tilt like the deck of a
ship. "Louisa, when I meet with you, it has nothing to do with your
husband."

"You might think so, but in the back of your
mind, you know you are rubbing salt in the wound. And you delight
in it." She sighed. "I too, am not guiltless. I have kept up our
friendship, meeting you and telling him of it, almost daring him to
say there is anything untoward. But defiance grows wearying after a
time. I want it to end."

My world tilted still more. "What are you
saying? That we must sacrifice our friendship to soothe Aloysius
Brandon's temper?"

"I am saying that this farce has gone on long
enough. If you and my husband will not reconcile, then I will not
take your side against him. He is my
husband
. I live with
him day after day, and I do not want to be at war with him. I am
too old for this. I am forty-three, Gabriel, rather long in the
tooth for storms. I want peace."

"You will never find peace with Brandon," I
said darkly. I knew I was behaving foolishly, but a great gap of
fear had opened at my feet.

"You are wrong. When he is not reminded of
you or confronted by you, we are a most tranquil couple."

Louisa was wrong again, I thought
desperately. Her so-called tranquility was not harmony; it was
simply the avoidance of painful subjects.

She lifted her chin, as though daring me to
contradict her. "I deserve that peace. I want it. And so I want you
to stay away."

I felt sick. I wanted to reach out and hold
onto something. "You are abandoning me?"

Louisa looked at me a long time, her eyes
sad, but tired. "Yes," she said quietly.

I tried to still my panic. Louisa had no
obligation to me, I told myself. We had been thrown together during
our years in the regiment, she a commander's wife, me the cocksure
officer who had risen on my own bravado. In times of fear, triumph,
grief, and joy, I had always known that Louisa would be there. She
was the firm ground in the quagmire of my life. Even when she'd not
physically been present, the mere thought of her had been enough to
bolster my spirits. I had gotten myself out of many a tight spot on
a battlefield by swearing that I would make it back so I could tell
Louisa the tale.

Now, in London, with our lives so
dramatically changed, I needed her more than ever. I was lost here,
but I was never lost with her.

Louisa fingered her cloak. "You and Aloysius
have forced me to choose, and I have chosen. I came here to tell
you."

My panic threatened to overwhelm me. "Damn
it, Louisa, seeing you, our friendship, that is what makes me live
from day to day."

Her eyes blazed anew, ingots in the cold
room. "Do not dare blackmail me with guilt, Gabriel. And do not
dare fall into melancholia to sway me back to you. Next time I will
not come running."

It cost her to say those words. I saw that.
But she had forced herself to say them. She was tired of me and my
temper and my melancholia. She had finished with me.

And I could not bear it. "Louisa, for God's
sake. I'll lick his boots if you want me to. I'll attend Sunday
dinner and raise a dozen toasts to him. I will do what you
want."

Louisa regarded me sadly, the heat gone. "It
is too late. Let it be done with."

"Give me a chance to put things right, or at
least make them better for you."

"No," she said. "This entire rift was my
doing from the beginning. Mine. So I am putting it right. You and
Aloysius will have to live with it." I must have looked as
anguished as I felt, because Louisa's expression softened. "I do
not mean that I will cut you forever. We may speak when we meet.
But nothing deeper than that. I cannot pretend any longer."

She turned away.

"What do you mean?" I said. My throat ached.
"What do you mean you cannot pretend? Cannot pretend that you care
for me? Tell me plainly."

Louisa was at the door, hand on the door
handle. "Any words I tell you, you will twist. I will not let
you."

She opened the door. The voices of Mrs.
Beltan's customers came to us, riding on a scent of warm yeast and
baking bread.

I could not call after her. I could not beg
her to stay. I could only stand there, my hands curling and
uncurling, while the woman I cared for most in the world walked out
of my life.

* * * * *

Chapter Twelve

I lost track of the time I sat in Mrs.
Beltan's parlor after Louisa had gone. I'd sunk down onto the
pillow-strewn couch where she'd sat, unable to move, unable to
think. Time seemed to forget about me, and I forgot about it.

I could not believe I had been such a fool
about a woman I cared for--again. I had loved my wife, Carlotta,
loved her to distraction. And yet, I'd been impatient with her,
brushed her aside with brusque words or snapped rebukes. All the
while I'd think that, later, I would make it up to her, that I
loved Carlotta so much I could explain and ask for forgiveness. She
would understand, I was certain.

I could not see that all that time I had hurt
Carlotta, hurt her deeply. And then, when later came, she'd been
gone.

I'd been furious with myself when I'd
discovered that Carlotta had eloped with her lover, knowing I only
had myself to blame. I'd sworn that if ever I had another chance at
happiness, I would be the kindest, most patient man a woman could
ever know. I had learned my lesson, I'd thought, a hard and painful
one.

And what had I done? Louisa had stood beside
me through every one of my troubles--when Carlotta left me, when
Brandon got us nearly thrown out of the Army, and now in London
when our lives were so different. I owed Louisa my very life.

And, so, to repay her, I'd hurt her. I'd let
my feud with Brandon blind me to the fact that I'd abused my
friendship with Louisa and profoundly distressed her.

I sat still, angry with myself, and also
angry with Louisa. Why had she not told me I'd upset her before
this? Why had she not told me so that I might stop, might make
amends before it was too late?

The answer, of course, was that she had told
me. Since our return to London, Louisa had tried time and again to
make me reconcile with Colonel Brandon, to put the past behind us.
And time and again, I had refused.

I was a blind, bloody fool, and in that
little parlor, warm from the baking ovens of Mrs. Beltan's shop, I
faced that naked truth.

I was still there when Bartholomew came to
fetch me for the supper with Grenville and Lord Barbury.
Bartholomew informed me worriedly that Grenville's carriage had
called for me, and I'd be late if I did not leave.

I did not much care anymore, but I sighed,
got to my feet, and let Bartholomew lead me out.

The world was still dripping and gray when I
arrived in Mayfair and Grenville's. We supped again in his
ostentatious dining room at a table meant for a dozen. This
evening, only three of us sat here, Grenville at the head of the
table, I to his left, and his guest, Lord Barbury, to his
right.