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Early the next morning, before Henry even stirred, Lex stole out of the house and set off for the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly. He wasn’t ready for the encounter, but he doubted he ever would be. Best to simply do it.
Before he could change his mind, Lex entered the building and asked the maitre d’hotel if the dowager countess was available to see him. He was shown into a small sitting room that faced a lush cheerful garden, the sight of which did not elevate his mood after some half an hour of waiting. At last his mother arrived in a frothy swirl of yellow muslin.
“Lexden, you don’t know how happy I am that you’ve paid me a visit.” She waggled a slender finger in his direction. “Though I am not best pleased at the hour you chose to call.”
Lex stared at her for a long moment, tamping down the urge to walk out. He reminded himself to be more like Eleanor. Open, forgiving, willing to listen. God, he wished she was by his side for this conversation. But she wasn’t, and that was entirely his fault.
“I apologize for coming so early.” His fingers drummed against his thigh as he searched for the civility that would get him through this. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh.” Her voice was flat. “I thought perhaps you wished to welcome me back to London.”
Was she really so oblivious? Did she not realize what she’d done to her children?
No. He couldn’t go down that path. She was who she was. Life, and the effect of others, no doubt, had shaped her just as they had shaped him. He was here hoping to understand the family better.
He looked up and caught her eye. “Did you ever love him?”
She held his gaze for a brief moment and then moved to the window. Her jaw tightened just before she addressed the glass panes. “I liked him well enough when we courted. He was a trifle too melancholy sometimes, but he absolutely doted on me.”
The breath Lex was holding escaped in a soft exhalation. He’d been afraid she would pretend ignorance about who “he” was. He took a few more steadying breaths before continuing his inquiry. “He loved you devoutly. Why did you...?” It was difficult to keep his tone and words from veering into accusations. Best to keep it simple. “Why?”
“He was draining the life out of me!” She turned toward Lex, her brown eyes flashing. “At first his attention was gratifying, but as the years went on he became so unstable.” Her lip curled. “He was forever telling me how devoted he was to me, but then he’d either become crazed and run off to do something wild or he’d fall into the dismals. Either way, I couldn’t live, I couldn’t breathe. I just wanted a normal relationship, not that nightmare I lived in where I might wake up to a loving husband or a frenzied man who decided to ride backward on his horse across the estate at full gallop or a despondent man who didn’t want to live another second in this world.”
So you turned to other men, looking for the security of normality.
And each time she had, she’d driven his father further out of his mind. Had there ever been any hope for such a marriage?
“Did you find happiness—living the way you did?” he asked. She’d twisted the knife further and further into his father’s heart, but had she meant to hurt him or had she only been trying to make herself happy?
“I don’t see why this conversation is necessary, Lexden. My marriage to your father is well in the past.”
He closed his eyes and pictured Portia, concentrating on the love he owed her. Even so, it took a valiant effort not to lose his temper with his mother. When he spoke at last, he thought only the barest hint of anger seeped through his tone. “My father is dead. His death, and your infidelity, have had an enormous impact on the lives of your children. I am trying my damnedest not to judge you. All I am asking for is honesty. I think Portia and I have a right to know certain things.”
“Honesty? That’s what you want?” The countess waited for him to nod. “Very well then. I was happiest when I was away from him, and so I took every opportunity to get away. And, truthfully, I was freed by his death.”
He’d known. Still, the words sent a ripple of grief through him. No one’s death should cause another such obvious relief. Immediately after his father took his life, she had run out of the house and not returned until the next day. Where she’d gone, he didn’t know. She had, however, crept in the servants’ back entrance the following day and played the grieving widow to an exceeding height—in front of visitors at least. After the funeral in Essex, she had left Lex and Portia there and returned to London briefly before heading off to the likes of Florence and Naples, ostensibly because she was ill with grief. Her letters told a different story. Oh yes, she’d written to him, describing her travels, sending quick sketches of churches and landscapes. He’d written back at first, but she never responded to anything he said. She would simply talk about her own life. Eventually he’d concluded that she was attempting to stay in his, the eighth earl’s, good graces for the day he reached his majority. She had been quite surprised, on that day, when he’d told her he wanted nothing to do with her.
He looked at her again now, her expression still defiant, though with a hint of wariness at the edges, no doubt due to his continued silence. So, this was it then? No matter what, he could never have a normal life with Eleanor. It was inevitable that he’d drive her away and someday...someday she’d be freed by his death.
Lex turned away and rubbed his neck. He hadn’t accomplished much in coming here, except to realize that his parents had been a completely mismatched pair who made each other miserable. And he was repeating the past with his wife.
Well, he might as well hear all the ugly truths at once. “Did you know Portia wasn’t my father’s daughter?”
His mother didn’t hesitate in the slightest. “Of course. You’re a grown man. I think you can reason for yourself why there is a nine-year age gap between the two of you. The truth was obvious to both your father and me.”
Lex ground his teeth. “That truth killed him.”
“That sounds judgmental, Lexden. Your father knew about Portia from the moment of her birth, and he still adored her. He loved you both very much—when he was in the right frame of mind.”
Too brief, that. Lex had to force his next questions out of his mouth. “Why did you leave Portia and me? Did you not love us?”
She laughed, though there was nothing happy in the sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I loved you. You were the most darling little boy, always by my side, always happy to see me and hear about the balls I attended the night before. But then, around the time you turned nine or ten, you became more distant. Almost scornful of me. It was difficult to be around you.”
That would have been about the time he figured out the discord between his parents, and the cause of it.
“You always took your father’s side and thought he could do no wrong,” she lamented. “You blamed me for his death. I know you were just a boy, but you were blind to so much.”
Lex stared at her, wanting so badly to contradict her as he’d always done. But that vulnerability in her eyes was real. Whatever he’d suffered at the hands of his father’s affliction, she must have suffered ten times more.
Her lips began to tremble, but she managed to whisper, “He didn’t kill himself because of my affairs.” She waited, as if expecting Lex to challenge her statement. When Lex remained still and silent, she went on. “Those were nothing new. He’d been blue-deviled for weeks. I’d never seen him so hopeless. I tried to bring him out of it, tried to cheer him up.”
It took two or three tries, but Lex swallowed the emotion clogging his throat. “I heard you shouting.”
She blinked up at him, tears clinging to her long lashes. “He’d been waving that gun around for over an hour. I tried everything. I thought if I made him angry enough, he’d come out of it.”
Tears broke free and streaked down his mother’s cheeks. This was the third woman brought to tears before Lex in the last few days: Portia, Mrs. Dryden, his mother. Not Eleanor, though. As horrible as he’d been, she’d not shed a tear in front of him.
Once again, Lex handed over his handkerchief. His mother dabbed at her eyes and sniffled as he said, “I’m sorry for what you lived through. I’m sorry that your marriage wasn’t what you needed.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, but he said, “I am, truly. But I don’t understand why you left Portia and me. Father’s death destroyed us, and then you left us to fend for ourselves emotionally. For the rest of our lives.”
The countess crumpled onto the sofa and buried her face in the handkerchief. This visit was not at all what Lex had expected. If anything, he’d have sworn his mother didn’t possess any deep emotions. But, as with most things, he was wrong. Again.
He lowered himself into the chair nearest the sofa and waited for her answer.
“At first, th-the freedom went to my head. With the burden of living with your father lifted, I...I didn’t want to be encumbered by you and your sister. I knew you’d be sad and devastated and I couldn’t... I just wanted to live.”
Lex cleared his throat, which constricted ever tighter. He’d wanted the truth. He’d known coming here wouldn’t alleviate any of his pain.
His mother raised her head, her eyes semidry now, though unfocused. “After I returned from the Continent, after you shunned me and threatened to cut off my funds if I came back to London, I was embarrassed. I couldn’t imagine facing you and Portia again, seeing the condemnation in your eyes. I told myself you were both better off without me.”
The words she’d tossed off at the ball, the ones that had echoed around his head for days, besieged him again: You are just like your father.
“Were you afraid that I was as crazy as him?” He couldn’t look at her, but he had to ask so he stared at the windowsill. “Is that why you stayed away from me?”
His mother snorted. “You’re nothing like your father.”
Lex dragged his gaze to her face. “You said I was. The other night at the ball.”
“You aren’t.” She slid over on the sofa so that she was closer to him, but she didn’t reach out to touch him, for which he was grateful. “I say lots of untruthful things when I don’t want anyone to focus on what I’m doing or saying. Granted, I’ve only seen you twice recently, and you’ve been angry both times, but I’ve seen no sign of madness, Lexden. Not like your father’s. And from what he told me when we fought, his instability started very young.”
“I’m not just angry,” Lex declared, holding her gaze.
She broke the eye contact and studied her hands. “You’re hurt.”
Lex stood. “I must be going. My son is waiting.”
As he reached to grab his hat from the nearby marquetry table, Lex’s mother captured his hand with both of hers and tugged until he looked down at her. “I’m sorry. I know that probably isn’t worth much, but it’s true. I’ve made too many mistakes to even try to reconcile them, but I am sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you. And Lex...” She rose, still holding his hand. “You are not like him. If anyone could recognize that madness in another, it would be me.”
Lex nodded. He hadn’t expected to learn anything earth-shattering from her, but he’d come away with one sad new truth: After all these years, he felt just as sorry for his mother as he did for himself and Portia.
Extracting his hand from hers, he grabbed his hat. “I really must go. One last thing, though. I intend to find a new residence here in Town. If you would care to live in the Hereford Street house, you are welcome to do so. If not, I will have my agent lease it out.”
New light dawned in the countess’s wary eyes. “Are you allowing me to return to London without a reduction in my allowance?”
Lex sighed. “I am saying that I have my own life to live. You may do as you please with yours. And no, I won’t reduce your allowance. My only requirement is that you not contact Portia unless she initiates a correspondence with you.”
His mother waved a hand in acceptance. “Of course. Whatever you wish. And if I were to call on you... Would you be at home to me?”
She’d asked. He couldn’t say no. “Most likely.” Then, with another sigh, he donned his hat and bowed. “Good day, my lady.”
––––––––
IN THE CARRIAGE ON the way back, Lex closed his eyes, contemplative. Though she could put on a good show, as evidenced by her performance at the ball the other night, his mother wasn’t the monster he’d believed her to be. Like he wasn’t the monster everyone else believed him to be.
His mother also thought she’d “made too many mistakes to even try to reconcile them.” Just as Lex once believed. But according to Elliot and Andrew Robson, mistakes were a natural part of life. When—not if—you made mistakes, you had to try to set things right.
So, he’d done that with Henry and Portia and now his mother. What about Eleanor?
The carriage rolled to a stop. Lex climbed out and entered the house. All was quiet, so Henry must still be asleep.
But what about Eleanor?
For God’s sake, his thoughts about her were just as dogged as the woman herself.
Though he knew it would only cause him more grief, he ascended the stairs and stole into his wife’s room. It was dark and still, completely lacking the vivacity she brought wherever she went, but memories inundated his brain. And to his great surprise, they weren’t as painful as he expected. Here Eleanor had rightfully rung a peal over his head for thinking she’d lain with Drummond. She’d been frustrated and angry but also forgiving, despite not letting him utter an apology. In this room he’d finally acknowledged Henry as his son.
Lex neared the bed. Here, in these safe intimate confines, they had opened not only their bodies but also their souls to each other.
What about Eleanor?
This about Eleanor: He loved her.
He sank onto the bed and fell back. He loved her perseverance, loved her generous heart, loved the way she mothered their son, loved her smile, loved her chameleon eyes, loved her forwardness in bed. Loved her when he’d thought he wasn’t capable of loving anyone. Hence, her supposed “betrayal” had cut twice as deep.
Eleanor always knew what to do in any given situation; he admired that about her and trusted her decisions. But when she’d corresponded with his mother—before she knew how Lex felt about the woman, he reminded himself—he’d been knocked sideways by the havoc. In the hushed calm of the morning air he acknowledged how Eleanor couldn’t have anticipated his mother’s reaction to her letter. The night of the ball he’d been nothing but blind, but that was no excuse. None at all. Fury over that trivial matter had been nothing but a disguise for his fear. Fear of being loved, fear of loving, fear of turning into his father. He’d torn asunder the one person who had dared to make herself vulnerable to him in the last two decades, the person who’d done it out of love. What a fool he was. He’d turned his back on her for what—a night’s worth of anger? An opportunity to feel sorry for himself?
Lex reached for Eleanor’s pillow and drew it to his chest. A whisper of her scent reached his nose, and he stared at the canopy above, picturing Eleanor in his mind, hearing her purposeful words.
You should know by now that I’ll never give up on you.
He was married to a generous-hearted, forgiving woman who loved him. He’d told her she was too forgiving once, and what had she said?
I know. And there’s nothing you can do about it.
Lex bolted upright, slashing his hands through his hair. Had she truly meant it when she’d said she would never give up on him?
Of course. Eleanor meant everything she said. He could make amends. At the very least he had to try. He loved Eleanor and had failed her; therefore he must do what he could to repair the damage he’d caused.
Awake at last—both literally and figuratively—Lex went to work. He took a quick peek in the other room and saw Henry was still asleep, so he slipped down to his study and wrote a note to Andrew. Next he found Bickley and informed him of his hastily made plans. To Lex’s surprise, the old butler’s eyes widened in what looked like approval. But only for the briefest moment, and then Bickley bowed with his usual indecipherable nonchalance.
Plans made, Lex swept into his bedroom and leaned over the still slumbering Henry. “Awake, my boy. Today, at long last, we return to Mayne Castle.”
The boy stretched and yawned. Then he sat up straight and narrowed his eyes. “You said ‘we.’”
“I did,” Lex agreed with a broad grin. “I regret to inform you that Mr. Robson will no longer be accompanying you. You will have to make do with your...your father.”
It was the first time he’d ever called himself Henry’s father aloud. At last the title seemed to fit.
“Yay!”
Henry leapt to his feet and hopped around the plush mattress, his nightdress flapping around his thin legs, so Lex hooked an arm around the boy’s waist and dragged him to his lap. “Colonel, we haven’t much time to get ready.”
“I will dress quickly, sir!”
With a salute, he scrambled off Lex’s lap and marched out the door.