Ye better get some rest. I’ll be pulling the bedclothes for ye, then.” According to Mrs. Lundie, Henry had returned inside only long enough to place Peter in his nursery. She’d sat with the child until sleep finally claimed him, then hurried to Ella’s chamber.
Ella watched from her place at the upstairs window. Henry’s long strides carried him toward the stables. His hands moved as he said something to a servant, and the stable boy brought out a second horse.
“Are ye listening to me noo?”
“Yes.”
“What are ye looking at?”
“Nothing.” Ella released the curtain, allowing the rose-shaded fabric to obstruct her view. The faraway sound of horses galloping away reached her. “Where is he going?”
“Got to get the constable, they do. And his lordship cannae very well leave the body, noo can he?” Gentle hands drew her toward the bed. “Will ye come lie doon at last?”
She didn’t want to sleep. Not when tonight was the end, the last remnant of a world she would soon be lost to.
“There, there, child.” Soothing hands guided her to the bed. “More tears? Ye been crying since ye returned, ye hae.”
“I want to see Peter.”
“And so ye shall, in the morning—”
“No. I wish to see him now.” Pleading welled with her tears. “I must.”
Streaks of light backlit the sky before Henry returned to the stables. He gave thanks to the servant who had accompanied him and handed over Miss Staverley’s reins. This once, someone else would need to brush and stable her.
Then he made steps toward the house. Hesitant steps—even though he wanted to sprint inside and bound through the door.
Sweat beaded along his hairline. For the umpteenth time, he removed his hat and wiped the moisture away. God, for the first time …
The sentence lingered, tugging at his lips, pulling them into something like a smile. When was the last time he’d smiled? When was the last time he’d approached his home without the gnawing at his stomach, the wretched dread, the hatred?
Was the curse over? Could the past be buried with Ewan, all the future restored with Peter, all the silence broken with Ella?
God, dare I hope to be … happy?
Fear made hope shrink back, but an underlying courage kept the thoughts ever in motion. Turning, rolling, forming, until he’d painted something lovely, a vision he’d do most anything to possess.
In the house, he discovered the breakfast room empty, the sidebar barren, the plates unused. Even the drawing room appeared lifeless and vacant, as if no one had disturbed the place since the evening before.
He pushed the haunting memories behind him. He’d done what he had to do—not what he wanted to do.
Tossing his hat to the side, he went for the stairs. They seemed to shiver as he strode up them—and had they ever been polished to such a shine before?
When he reached Peter’s nursery, his happiness made unexpected moisture spring to his eyes. He blinked hard, fast, unwilling that tears should steal away the moment.
Then he crept inside.
What he saw must have been a mirage. His wishes—his heart’s desire—playing with his sleep-deprived imagination.
But every step he took closer made them more real, until he bent beside the bed and touched his finger to the lace on her sleeve. The soft, quick breaths of his son mingled with the airy warmth of her own.
His gaze hesitated on her lips. Didn’t want to linger there. Didn’t want to see the small cut, where a man’s fist had hurt her.
Henry had hurt her too. He mustn’t forget that. Perhaps more, in deeper ways—and for his initial unwillingness to forgive, he would always be deserving of hers.
God, if only I were worthy to keep her. Before she could be disturbed, he turned and retreated across the nursery rug.
If only she wanted to be kept.
He stood at the base of the steps, almost as if he’d been waiting for her.
Nerves knotted and tied, she took each step with delicacy, held the banister, and looked everywhere but at him.
She never wanted to reach the bottom. She never wanted to be close enough to inhale his scent, his special scent, his dreaded scent.
“I’ve instructed Mrs. Lundie to keep breakfast waiting for you.”
Only four more steps. “You needn’t have bothered.”
“Are you not hungry?”
“No.” Three steps.
“Perhaps something warm to drink?”
“Thank you, no.” Two more steps, one more step, then she stood before a man she couldn’t bear to look at. “My lord, I …” Her courage bled and died. “Where is Peter?”
“Mrs. Lundie is helping him bathe.”
“Oh.” A pause. “How is your leg?”
“Improving greatly.”
“Your fever?”
“Gone.”
“Good.” She edged backward, just enough that the air might return to her lungs. “My lord, I …”
“Yes?”
“I wish to speak with you.”
His eyes made a slow drop to the letter in her grasp, half hidden behind the folds of her dress.
“I have written a letter.” She outstretched the sealed paper. “I thought perhaps you would care to have it mailed.”
He read her script, glanced up again. “Abbingston Hall.”
“To my mother, my sister. They will want to know I am …”
“What, Miss Pemberton?” Something altered in his tone, deepened as his lips parted with her name. Hurt, angst, and a thread of longing … or was it hatred?
God protect her from the misery of that.
“They will want to know when to expect me.” She tore her eyes from his and backed away. “I shall leave tomorrow morning.”
Not even his argument that Peter was fragile after his ordeal and that her leaving now would certainly upset the boy anew succeeded in changing her mind. Henry had no right to express the damage it would do to his own heart. But Peter … Would she not stay a little longer, at least, for Peter’s sake?
She could not be persuaded and in fact would brook no discussion of the matter. And could he blame her? What she had endured because of him was inexpressible.
She had retreated to her chambers for the length of the day. At both following meals, he had waited for her at the table, but she never appeared.
Peter asked where she’d gone.
He didn’t know what to say, so he’d taken his son by the hand and occupied him out of doors. At first they strolled along the garden paths, talking quietly in the evening coolness. Then he’d helped Peter up the tree he’d missed so desperately, and Henry watched as the branches shook with the happy music of his son’s laughter.
I am crumbling.
Every tie that held his heart together had been severed until the pieces broke apart inside of him. He tried to steady the trembling when he reached up and grasped Peter’s hand. He attempted to hide the trace of anguish when he laughed with his son. He tried to banish the detestable moisture when he forced another smile.
But he was dying inside. Should have known this would happen. Should have known she’d never stay, that his unforgiveness would distance her, that the lies would take this too.
What was left for them?
Nothing. She was right in her choice. There was no other way, not after all that had happened, all the hurt between them both.
“Papa, see how high?” The light, cheery voice swept down from the treetop.
“I see, indeed.”
“I missed my tree.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I did.” A different branch creaked under his weight. “Papa, look at the window!”
Henry pivoted, raised his eyes toward the manor.
From a window at the west wing, a maidenly figure turned away, as if she’d been watching them from the distance.
“Was it Miss Woodhart, Papa?”
No. He was seared by the name he once believed in. Miss Woodhart is forever gone from us.
And Miss Pemberton had only a few hours left.
In the morning, she would carry herself downstairs with all the bravery she could feign. Without tears, she would kneel beside a child she loved, take his cheeks in her hands, whisper the goodbye she never wanted to make.
She wouldn’t allow herself to imagine how easily she might have been his mother.
In the dark, Ella wandered toward her window. She touched the cool glass with numb fingers, tried to look beyond the blackness for the outline of an oak tree.
Too dark to see, though. All she had now was a vague memory. Peter ascending the leafy boughs. Henry standing so far below, the way he spun back to look at her, the startling way she felt his eyes—even after she’d flung herself away.
God, I cannot live with only his memory. She pressed her forehead against the glass. How shall I ever say goodbye?
Of all the rooms in the house, he didn’t know what should have led him here. There was no sympathy in his mother’s portrait. Her peculiar, distant eyes glared at him, as unreal in the painting as they had ever been in life.
Henry leaned against the wall. Quiet, this time of night. Everything still and motionless, with an uncanny sense of loss hovering about the air like dust motes.
For hours he waited, sometimes settling into an upholstered chair, other times roaming to the Grecian-style window, where he would trace his finger along smooth fabric.
But in the end, he was always drawn back to his mother. He was still the child who needed her, yearned for her, turned to her—even when he knew she wouldn’t be there.
He touched the painter’s brushstrokes. Hadn’t he thrown her portrait from the wall?
Someone must have hung her back. Dunn, no doubt. In the name of goodness, why did no one destroy the thing? Must it hang here the rest of his life to taunt him?
Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe here or not, the image would follow his mind, infest his heart, suffocate him.
God, why can I not forgive her? He dragged his finger along the brushstrokes of her hair, lowering to the gentle slope of her cheek. Will she inflict me with pain forever?
His mother’s face swam into a different memory. My wife. Shouldn’t there be a portrait of Lucy too? Her betrayal had been as keen as his mother’s. Perhaps worse, for she had wounded not only him—but their son.
And Ella. On the morrow, she would leave. He had no portrait of her, either. No single trinket to symbolize the devastation she was leaving behind. God, how shall I ever forgive her for this?
How would he forgive any of them?
Better hurry back to his hatred, his numbing hatred. Needed it, depended on it, too weak to battle without it.
Because with no hate, he was vulnerable. Defenseless. Unshielded.
Dear God, what do I do? The anguish pumped through blood that was cold. Must there always be such misery?
No answer.
Why? His lips shook as he whispered the word without sound. In the name of mercy, why can’t I be happy?
Only he knew. Maybe he’d known all along but didn’t have the strength. I can’t forgive them, God. His breathing shallowed. Please do not ask it of me.
They didn’t deserve it.
His mother didn’t.
Lucy didn’t.
Maybe Ella didn’t either—he didn’t know—but he couldn’t pretend all the wrongs were not done, as if nothing had happened. He wished he’d never known any of them. He wished he’d never been the recipient of their smiles, their soft words, their few touches.
Yet even so, it wasn’t true. God knew it wasn’t true. He knew.
And he was weary of hating.
Please, please, help me.
Couldn’t go on like this. Had to kill the hatred, had to destroy the bitterness until there was no more left inside.
He had no right to hate his mother, because if nothing else, she had given him life.
He had no right to hate Lucy because even in her treachery, she had given him Peter.
And he had no right to hate Ella. Could not ever hate her. Could no longer remember a reason for his lack of forgiveness.
She was guiltless. She was beautiful. She was courageous.
Whether she belonged to him, he loved her. Whether she was apart from him, he loved her. Loved her beyond himself. Loved her through his own failures, in spite of his past and weakness. Loved her more than the word itself.
It must end here. The realization came as slowly as the morning sun seeped through the draperies. He remained still until light bathed the room. The hatred is dead.
With eyes that stung with weariness, he grabbed his tailcoat from the back of the chair. He slipped through the sleeves, raked a hand through his hair, dragged in a ragged breath.
It was time to say goodbye.
Help me. Halfway through the door, Henry paused. He glanced behind him, beheld the portrait for one moment more. “Mother, I forgive you.”
Someone tapped the door.
With deft hands, she finished tucking her fichu. Then, with a smooth of her dress, she pulled open the bedchamber door. “Dunn.”
The steward offered a wan smile. “How did you sleep, Miss Pemberton?”
Had she slept at all?
He cleared his throat. “The carriage is prepared. Are you certain you will have no breakfast?”
“Yes.” She reached for her pelisse, hurried it on. “I am most anxious for an early start.”
“It would mean a great deal to Master Peter if you could stay for breakfast—”
“No.” The word left her sharper than she’d meant. Tears threatened. “No, I must leave now.”
Dunn nodded, submissive, but he could never quite meet her eyes. “Very well, Miss Pemberton. If you will follow me.”
The stairs again. Oh, why were there so many of them?
When they reached the bottom, no one waited for her. Relief battled with distress for the length of time it took Dunn to reach the front door. He pulled the knob, held it open while she forced her legs to move.
“Where is Peter?” Raspy voice, even to her own ears. “I must tell him goodbye.”
“He is not yet awake. Shall I fetch him for you?”
“Yes.” This came from behind, rumbling and soft, followed by quiet footsteps. “Yes,” Henry said again. “My son will want to say goodbye.”
Ella never turned.
Dunn’s footsteps melted away.
Emotion thrilled every cord until her body shook with a melody bittersweet. Oh, why didn’t he say something? If she had strength, she would pass through the doorway. She would race outside, sprint down the stone steps.
Yet she remained, still as a marble statue, and the last of her fortitude drained away. “When I am returned to Abbingston Hall, my mother and sister shall know the truth. They will be infinitely contrite, for they have misjudged you so long,” she said. “You must expect letters of apology.”
“Do not defame your sister’s name for my sake.”
“You deserve good opinions, my lord.”
His breathing was unsteady, hushed. “May I also expect letters from you, Miss Pemberton?”
“No, I fear you shall not.”
“Why?”
“If my apology could not reach you before, I am convinced a letter would have even fewer hopes.”
From behind, he took hold of her arms. Slowly, lightly, he turned her to face him. “Do not say such things, Ella.”
“What would you have me say?”
He stared without answer. So many times, begging eyes swept to her lips. “Say you forgive me.”
“My lord, I—”
“Please.” Closer. “Please, Ella, do not leave without speaking the words.”
“You have done no wrong.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Henry—”
“I have given you my love, yet tried so desperately to rip it back away. I have despised you for the same sin I am guilty of. If any forgiveness should be sought, then let it be from me.” Miserable tears. “Please.”
Against feeble warnings, her lips leaned upward to press against his cheek. She left a whisper in his ear, “Then it is yours.” She tried to pull away, but his arms did not release her.
One heartbeat. Two. Three, until her senses began to drown in the citrus scent of him.
Looking away, he dropped his arms to his sides.
She fled through the door, as one who runs from an arena of lions. Her chest burned with the roars, heart wept from the ripping claws. God, I must leave—
“No, Ella.” He seized her before she reached the carriage door. His arms crushed her in their strength, their power. “No, Ella, do not go.”
“I do not want to. Never wanted to, but I …”
“Wyckhorn is yours. You must know that.” His arms shook. “You must stay for Peter … can’t you see, Ella, how he needs you?”
Her lips broke with a sound. “I know, but …”
“I need you.”
Her world careened.
“Need you so much that I … I …” Half weeping.
She waited for him to go on, but he never did. Instead, for the second time, he let her go.
Her body nearly wilted.
His face turned away from her, as one of his hands hurried away the wet stains. “Heaven knows I love you.”
“Henry …”
“Love you with all my unworthy heart.”
She grabbed his hand and tugged him back toward her. Slipped her fingers to the lapels on his coat. “Henry, one of the truest things I have ever told you is this. I do not want to leave,” she said again. “I never did.”
He blinked, opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, then finally said, “And with nothing held back, nothing buried except that which should be, may I ask if you shall marry me? Stay not merely for now, but for always?”
Their lips tangled before she had time to answer. With her first breath, she murmured the pledge, “I will.”