Ren felt the words leave him. He saw the certainty in her face.
‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered. Tears shimmered.
He lay quite still. Physical and emotional pain twisted together so that he was unsure where one began and the other ended.
He wanted her. He wanted a family with her.
Wordless, he watched, unable to stop her, as she quietly exited the room.
* * *
Over the next few days, Ren started to heal. Physical pain lessened. His mobility increased. Thankfully, his right arm now seemed fully mobile, although the incision still hurt on his left.
Beth went to Graham Hill to meet with the manager. However, a sudden deluge of rain led to spring flooding which delayed her prompt return.
Mrs Ross relayed these details in crisp tones. He supposed Beth could hardly control the weather, but wondered whether she was glad of the reprieve. Perhaps he was, too. He needed to think, but her presence made thinking impossible. Knowing she was even in the building seemed to put him on a seesaw of hopelessness and love and need...
Time hung heavy. A constable came and asked questions. Jamie joined them and they went to the library and sat around the hearth. The constable was young and looked nervous, a twitch flickering across his clean-shaven cheek.
‘Right, sir. I...um...just wanted to get a few of the details about the attack,’ the constable said.
Unwillingly, Ren made himself remember that night. He described the public house. He described his ride and how he had taken the shortcut through the wood. He forced himself to recall the three men with their covered faces, their guttural voices, the glint of the metal, the flash as it fired and the acrid scent of its smoke.
The constable and Jamie made notes.
‘Likely a robbery,’ the constable said, nodding. ‘A most unfortunate but random event.’
‘Yes, most unfortunate,’ Ren said, wryly.
‘You said the voice was guttural. Do you remember what he said?’
‘No, it’s like a blur,’ Ren said. ‘Sounds...but I can’t discern or make sense of them. I’m not giving you much to go on.’
‘No,’ the constable agreed. ‘But I will ask around, see if anyone knows anything. Thank you for the descriptions. I will let you know if I learn anything.’
‘Thank you,’ Ren said.
The constable stood. Ren rang the bell and Mrs Ross showed him out.
‘He won’t discover anything,’ Jamie said after the door closed. ‘He doesn’t have the mind for it.’
Ren shrugged and then winced. He was much improved, but some movements still hurt.
Jamie stood, as though to leave.
‘You could review that gypsum experiment with me?’ Ren suggested, suddenly not wanting to be alone with his own circling thoughts.
‘I would like to do so, but I have something more pertinent and pressing to accomplish now.’
‘More pertinent than gypsum?’
‘Indeed,’ Jamie said, walking briskly to the door.
So Ren sat alone again. He had certainly come to a sorry pass when he had actually requested information about bloody gypsum only to be rejected.
He wished he was well enough to ride.
Nagging thoughts circled his brain. Ideas for Graham Hill, thoughts of Beth, memories of his night with her, memories of that night in the woods, Beth’s words, Mrs Cridge’s words: There is only one person whose opinion and respect matters in life. Words, thoughts, ideas jumbled into a mad chaos so that he felt his head must explode.
He tried to read but gave up, laying down the book and leaning back so that he stared up at the ceiling. It had a crack resembling either the boot of Italy or a dog’s hind leg. And now he was seeing random limbs.
As a child, his thoughts had sometimes felt this way; ideas and concepts spinning out of control, the very eagerness of his ideas rendering them incomprehensible.
Painting had helped.
He hadn’t painted since that one failed attempt. But he remembered now how he had wanted to paint as he had stumbled through that blackened night. The regret had been huge, the feeling of a life wasted.
So what stopped him now? He certainly had nothing better to do. After a moment of indecision, he stood stiffly, aware of an awakening...an eagerness.
On exiting the library, he ran into Mrs Ross in the hallway.
‘Don’t you be hurting yourself now,’ she said, her round face crinkling with worry. ‘The doctor said you were to sit still.’
‘Yes, and I’m seeing dogs and boots. Besides, I am not intending to do cartwheels down the hallway.’
‘I am glad of that, but I doubt that seeing things will encourage the doctor.’
‘Then the doctor will have to remain dispirited.’
* * *
Ren took the familiar back staircase to the nursery where he’d played as a child when visiting Allington. He stepped inside. It was dim with all the draperies drawn and had the stillness of a room long disused. He opened the curtains. Dust motes shimmered and danced within the shaft of morning sunlight.
He went to the cupboard where the paints and brushes had always been kept. He inhaled. It smelled wonderful, rich with the familiar scents of paint and turpentine. He pulled out brushes, charcoal, his old artist’s palette. He had loved that palette. It had fit so perfectly into his childish hand.
Taking out each item, he laid them carefully on the table. He touched the brushes. He felt the heft of the smooth wooden handles in his hands and the prickle of the bristles against his fingertips. He touched the circles of dried paint, dusty polka dots on the palette and then eyed the white, blank potential of the empty page.
And then he felt it—that urge, that need to paint. It was almost visceral, like salivation at the sight of food.
The relief, the joy surprised him with its intensity. It was physical. His whole body relaxed as though he had been bracing himself either to feel nothing or to resist and now, now his breath came deeper, his shoulders felt looser and his fingers eager.
He grabbed the paper and charcoal, taking both to the low table beside the window. He’d sketch, he decided, smoothing out the paper with his good arm. He could not wait to bring out the easel or mix paints.
Pulling the paper forward, he ran a tentative, grey line across its width. That single line was enough. All hesitation left as he sketched with the hunger of a starving man. He sketched the horse standing in the far corner of the field. He sketched the stable. He sketched the large oak tree and the small wizened silver birch. He did not stop. It seemed he did not breathe. It felt like it did when he rode and rode and rode—as though he was immersing himself into something that was bigger than he was, dwarfing his pain and his emptiness.
The knock startled him. He felt as though he was being awakened from a long sleep. Everything seemed different and he found himself looking around the room as though it were an unfamiliar landscape.
‘Did you desire luncheon, my lord?’ Munson intoned.
‘Luncheon?’ he said blankly. ‘No, I don’t have time.’
‘You are not eating, my lord?’ Disapproval laced his tone.
‘No.’
‘Should I bring something up, my lord?’
‘What? Yes, I suppose so,’ he directed.
‘Yes, my lord. What?’
‘I don’t know. Ham or cheese. And I need oil paints.’
‘We have some, my lord.’
‘They must be a decade old.’ Ren said.
‘No, my lord, Mrs Cridge sent a note both here and to Graham Hill instructing us to get some. She thought they might be needed, although I will admit to being puzzled. Anyhow, they are here.’
Munson went to another cupboard, producing the paints.
‘Thank you,’ Ren said. ‘And I will have to thank Mrs Cridge. Oh, and bring flowers as well.’
‘Flowers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any particular type of flowers?’
‘Colourful ones.’
‘Yes, my lord, colourful flowers.’
Ren started to mix the paints. Even though his left arm hurt with the movement, he could not stop. The smell of turpentine scented the room. He loved the smell, he thought, as he pulled out his old easel, the movement both ungainly and painful.
With the easel set up and the paints ready, he rang the bell impatiently.
‘Where are the flowers?’ he demanded upon Munson’s reappearance.
‘I did not know the flowers were urgent. I just sent out one of the maids.’
‘Of course they are. How am I going to paint them, if they are not here? Tell the girl to hurry up,’ he said irritably.
‘Yes, my lord. I will bring them immediately.’
Munson brought daffodils, bright yellow blooms, with leaves glistening with water droplets.
Edmund had liked daffodils. With care, Ren placed the vase on the table, before rummaging through the storage cupboard to pull out the atlas he and Edmund had used.
He ran his fingers over the soft leather and then opened it. It smelled dusty. Ren smiled. He remembered how they would look at a random page, studying the contours of the land, the sea and the rivers, long winding, zig-zagging snakes. They’d pretend they were adventurers. Together, they had scaled high mountain peaks and taken tiny boats across open oceans.
Carefully, he placed the atlas beside the vase and then with equal care he mixed the colours. He needed just the right shade, a golden, sunshiny yellow that would create a wonderful contrast with the muted grey of the atlas cover.
He picked up the paintbrush. He dabbed the bristles into the paint. The bright yellow was vibrant against the tips of his brush as he ran it over the canvas in a slash of brilliant colour. The smell of the paint, the feel of the brush in his hand, the rustle of the bristles against the canvas sent a bolt of joy through him. He did not care that painting reminded him of his parentage.
He needed this. He needed to paint. It was a deep, all-consuming, abiding need.
* * *
When he had finished the daffodils, he looked through the window at the garden. In summer, it used to be so beautiful. It had been a fragrant place, resplendent with colour and filled with blooms: hydrangeas, roses, pansies, geraniums, petunias...
A thought struck him. He turned from the window. Nanny had always kept a looking glass on the chest of drawers. The top was empty, but he found it soon enough, stored in the top drawer. He picked it up and set it on a table. Then, slowly and with care, he stood before it, studying the image of his own face. He looked, he thought, older than his years. Lines bracketed his mouth. His chin was still bruised and purple from the attack and his expression remained guarded, slightly hostile and with an unwillingness to allow the expression of random emotion.
A tiny scar marked his chin where the boys at school had tripped him so that he had fallen down the stairs. The shadows under his eyes had doubtless begun all those years ago when they’d short-sheeted his bed or in the mornings when they had hidden his clothes and he had been flogged by the masters for being late.
Eventually, he’d taken up boxing.
But he’d lost himself.
Carefully, he mixed the paints again. He added reds, yellows and whites, dabbing and combining to create the right skin tone, slightly swarthy. Then, with equal care, he started to outline his facial features, his eyes, the aquiline nose which as a child had seemed too big for his face, but which he had now grown into. He added also straight dark brows, the angular cheekbones and the dark sweep of hair, stark against his skin.
The face in the mirror was that of a hard man, but the image he was creating also showed more: a conglomeration of the child, the artist, the adolescent and the survivor.
He had lost one identify, but this did not mean that he could not forge another.
Even after he had finished the brush work, he sat for long moments, studying the painting. Finally, he stood and washed out his brushes.
* * *
Ren rode with care. The roads were still muddy and he had no desire to exhaust or injure himself or his mount. Indeed, he felt somewhat like a fugitive having escaped the premises and the well-meaning care of Munson and Mrs Ross.
He went directly to Graham Hill where he was met by Arnold at the stable. He dismounted cautiously, anxious not to reopen the wound, and then headed from the stable across Graham Hill’s well-manicured park.
The size of the house always struck him in comparison to Allington. The latter offered more comfort. Graham Hill was larger, with its impressive front entrance, vaulted ceilings and marble floor.
‘Her ladyship is in the study,’ Dobson explained, as Ren entered.
‘Thank you.’
He strode forward, pushing open the door.
‘Beth, we need to talk—’
He pulled short. She was not alone. Jamie sat on the other side of the fireplace. He looked tired and appeared dirty. He had a scratch on his cheek and his trousers were splattered with mud.
‘Jamie, are you well?’ Ren asked.
‘Yes, I haven’t had as much as a cold for eighteen months. I would like to more closely examine this and determine if any foods might protect one against minor illnesses.’
‘No, I meant—I wanted—I need to talk to my wife.’
Beth angled herself to him. He noted a conflicting mix of emotions flicker across her countenance. ‘Hello, Ren,’ she said.
‘Excellent,’ Jamie said. ‘In fact, I am glad you are both here.’
‘No, I meant—I would like to talk to Beth.’
‘We have established that. As you can see, Beth is present, allowing you to converse. However, I need to also talk to you and this opportunity to talk to you together will save me time.’
‘Right,’ Ren said. He sat. He had no desire to learn about gypsum, manure or even the breeding qualities of cattle, but it seemed that he would speak to Beth privately more promptly if he listened.
‘I have investigated your assault. Indeed, the perpetrators are being questioned by the constabulary.’
‘You what?’
Ren gaped. If Jamie had said that he had taken up ballroom dancing, he could not have been more surprised.
‘It was the Duke, of course.’
‘It was? How do you know that? Isn’t he in London?’ Ren said.
‘Deduction and the scientific method.’
‘Please, Jamie,’ Beth intervened. ‘You are going to have to explain things better. I am as flummoxed as Ren. I had no idea you were even investigating. I mean, you usually only study agriculture.’
‘Agriculture is preferable. However, I realised that our village constable lacked the mental capacity to properly investigate the attack.’
‘So you chose to do so?’
‘Yes, the conjecture that your husband was attacked as part of a random robbery was not sensible. Relatively few people go through those woods. During the last four days, an average of only three per day have traversed that route.’
‘You counted them?’ Beth asked.
Jamie frowned, an expression of irritation flickering across his features. ‘No, Beth, that is not a sensible comment. You know I have been here some of the time. I organised a roster of village boys.’
Ren saw Beth’s jaw drop slightly.
‘Therefore, it did not seem reasonable that highway men would come from elsewhere to target an area so remote on the off chance of finding a vulnerable traveller.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Beth said.
‘Could they have been local people, desperate opportunists without any clear plan?’ Ren asked, leaning forward, his interest piqued. ‘The Duke’s people are starving.’
‘Their faces were hidden by masks. This indicates some level of preparation. I also interviewed people at the public house and they reported seeing at least one stranger to these parts.’
‘You interviewed people? But you don’t even like talking to strangers,’ Beth gasped.
‘The constable helped.’
At some later time, Ren would remember Beth’s expression and laugh. She looked dumbfounded, as though her favourite dog had grown two heads.
He pushed this thought away.
‘I still don’t see how the Duke could have been involved,’ he said. ‘Isn’t he in London?’
‘He was, although he is at his estate now. Obviously, he was not the attacker. He merely organised the attack and paid the men to perpetrate the assault.’
As Jamie spoke, Ren suddenly remembered that moment in the woods. He saw the cloaked figure with the masked face. He heard the low, guttural voice.
‘We still gotta kill him....’
* * *
Before it had been as though he could hear only a dim distant echo, the sounds so indistinct as to be incomprehensible. Now the words became clear.
‘The men, they said that they would be paid. They would get more money if they killed me,’ Ren said. ‘I remember now.’
‘Exactly.’ Jamie rubbed his hands together with an almost gleeful satisfaction.
‘You think that the Duke would have paid them? That he wanted me dead?’
‘That is my hypothesis.’
‘You didn’t accost the Duke, did you?’ Beth asked, worry lacing her tones.
‘No. He might have hurt me, if only to gain my silence. I felt it was better to remain unharmed so I could procure additional evidence.’
‘So—’ Beth began to say.
‘I really feel that this would go faster if you would stop interrupting.’
Ren saw Beth grin and felt his own answering humour. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘As I mentioned, the constable and I went to the Three Bells Tavern. We spoke to several individuals about the stranger they had seen. Unfortunately, their descriptions were not helpful. People are remarkably unobservant. I really feel that schools and such should train individuals in the scientific method—’
‘Please Jamie.’
‘Right.’ Jamie glanced at his sister. ‘Anyway, the serving girl stated that there had been several thefts from the pantry.’
‘Which must have been the men!’ Beth said as though unable to contain herself. ‘Maybe Ren had injured them and they had to hide until they regained strength so they stole food.’
‘Precisely,’ Jamie said. ‘The constable seemed better equipped at locating them than analysing the complexity and motivation behind the original assault. Therefore, I was able to let him take over that part of the investigation.’
‘And he found them?’ Beth asked.
‘Yes.’
She shivered, reaching for her brother’s hand. ‘Where are they now?’
‘The constable made contact with Bow Street. I believe the men were going to be escorted to London for further questioning.’
‘Thank you. Thank you for this.’
There was a pause. Jamie released her hand, reaching forward to poke the fire. She heard it crackle.
‘But what about the Duke?’ she asked.
‘He is still at large.’
Ren saw her shiver. ‘You really think he is complicit in this. Did the men say so?’
‘I do not know. They are only just now being interrogated. However, there is evidence that they were being paid by someone. The Duke seems the most likely culprit, although this is more in the nature of a hypothesis as opposed to scientific fact.’
‘I think he might be, too,’ she whispered as she pulled a thread loose from her dress, wrapping it about her finger. ‘There is an evil about him. It seems greater than mere violence.’
Ren reached forward, touching her hand and stilling her restless movement. ‘He will be stopped.’
‘I worry that he is too clever. There will be no proof that he is behind the attack. It will remain a—a hypothesis.’
‘In the event there is no evidence to connect him to this current assault, it would be illogical for him plan a second attack and hope to avoid detection,’ Jamie said.
‘I am not certain if the Duke is logical,’ Beth said.
Her face had drained again of colour. He remembered how on that night that they had spent together, she had admitted her fear. He saw it again, in her quickened breath and the nervous movements of her hands.
‘Don’t worry. I will be fine. He won’t jeopardise his own neck,’ Ren said.
‘I believe Ren is correct. The Duke will seek self-preservation above greed. I presume he hoped to inherit, in the event of your demise.’
‘My guess is that his addiction to opium is impacting his solvency,’ Ren said.
‘Is that the sweet smell that is always about him?’ Beth asked.
‘Yes.’
Jamie stood, his movements as always brisk and businesslike. ‘Now, I need to measure some seedlings. I have tried to increase the amount of nitrates and hope to ascertain the optimum levels.’
Beth nodded. ‘Thank you, Jamie. This could not have been easy for you.’
‘I find criminal investigation similar to science, although I don’t think I would like to do it on an ongoing basis.’
‘Let us hope that there is no need for you to do so,’ Beth said.
‘Talking about science, I could discuss the science experiment that I was pursuing with Edmund regarding gypsum and manure, prior to measuring the seedlings. I believe you had an interest in it.’
‘Perhaps later,’ Ren said and Beth heard that familiar ripple of mirth. ‘But thank you. It is appreciated.’
‘Yes,’ Beth said. ‘Thank you.’
After Jamie had left, Ren took Beth’s hand again. ‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘We are going to talk. But I need to do something first. Stay here. I am coming back.’
* * *
Ren dismounted and, after tethering his horse, walked up to the front door of the Duke’s house. The bell was answered by a servant in a dirty livery. He seemed surprised by Ren’s presence, stepping backwards and giving no opposition when Ren walked inside.
‘His Grace is in the library,’ he offered.
‘Thank you.’
The residence had the size and proportions of Graham Hill, but there was a sense of neglect and sadness about it. The floor had not been polished. The banister rail was splintered, the brass doorknob tarnished and dust hung heavy in the air.
On entering the library, the feeling of neglect intensified. No fire warmed the hearth and long cobwebs were visible from the chandelier. The threadbare furnishings were sparse as though chairs and tables had been removed. The walls were vast and empty, rectangles of faded paint remaining as the only evidence of paintings removed and sold.
The Duke sat beside the dark hole of the hearth. The empty room made him seem smaller.
‘Lord Graham,’ the servant said.
‘Still got use of my eyes,’ the Duke said, by way of greeting.
He looked thinner and paler even compared to the night at the ballet. His necktie and collar appeared loose and his skin resembled that of a plucked chicken. His hands shook and Ren noted a sheen of perspiration across his flaccid cheeks.
‘Ayrebourne.’
‘To what do I owe this honour?’ the Duke asked, casting his pallid blue gaze in Ren’s direction.
‘I thought you might wish to get dressed. I believe you may soon be getting a visit from the Bow Street Runners.’
The Duke’s pallid eyes remained expressionless and he gave an imperceptible shrug. ‘I may be getting visits from many individuals. On the whole, the Bow Street Runners might not be the most unpleasant.’
Ren walked further into the room. He sat on the only other piece of furnishing, a straight-backed chair to the right of the hearth. ‘I suppose people who sell opium like to be paid promptly and become unpleasant when they are not. Really much better to make your tailor wait than the provider of one’s opium.’
The Duke made no comment.
‘I have heard also that one starts to shake if one does not get the dose of opium required. I had wondered if that were true. It would explain your desperation and your fast deterioration,’ Ren said dispassionately.
Ayrebourne clutched the arm of his chair as though to prevent the shudders which seemed to rack him. ‘You sound like your crazy brother-in-law.’
‘Jamie is actually remarkably intelligent. You have been selling your furniture and paintings. Is your London house similarly denuded?’
‘Why don’t you and your pretty wife visit me and find out?’ Ayrebourne spat out.
Ren stood. With one swift step he was beside the Duke. He leaned over him. ‘Because my wife is not going to go anywhere near you ever again. And if I find that you have been within a hundred feet of her, I will not wait for the opium dealers to do their work. I will kill you myself.’
He saw Ayrebourne’s hand shake and watched him swallow, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
‘For God’s sake, man. Doubt I’ll see her. Likely have to sell this place anyway.’
‘Good.’ Ren stepped away, returning to sit in the chair opposite. ‘Now that we have established your immediate demise if you so much as think about my wife, we can discuss your estate. I will buy it.’
‘The estate?’
‘Yes.’ Slowly, Ren pulled out the money order, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
‘You plan to buy it?’ the Duke repeated, confusion flickering.
‘Yes. I will buy this place. I will even offer you a fair price, given its dilapidated state. I have an advance here. It will enable you to settle your debts and keep your innards in one piece for the time being. You might even be able to purchase some more of your opium.’
The Duke licked his lips, his hand darting forward eagerly.
Ren smiled. ‘Not quite so fast. There are conditions. First, you will provide me with a written confession that you were involved in my attack.’
Ayrebourne’s hand retreated. He licked his lips again. Sweat now formed in glistening beads across his brow. ‘And if I do not provide this?’
Ren shrugged. ‘I presume either the constabulary or your creditors will come soon.’
The Duke shifted. Instinctively, his gaze moved to the windows and doors as if he expected his immediate arrest. ‘What will you do with the confession?’
‘I will keep it. I will keep it to myself unless you come close to me, my wife, my mother or the tenants or any other innocent girl. If I hear that you have broken this agreement, I will give it immediately to the law.’
‘Why should I trust you? You could go straight to the constable now.’
‘I could,’ Ren agreed affably, still holding the money order between his thumb and forefinger as though it was an object of great fascination. Very slowly, he shifted it between his fingers so that the paper crackled. He watched the man’s pale blue eye follow the movement.
‘I am afraid, Ayrebourne, you will simply have to trust me. It would seem that you are somewhat desperate for cash.’
‘Fine,’ the Duke said. ‘I will sign your damn confession.’
‘Good. Who knows, you might be able to settle your debts prior to your interview with the Bow Street Runners. I am certain you would create a better impression if you were less shaky and, um, sweaty.’
‘What do you even want with this place?’
‘Only to get you out of it. You must have thought all your birthdays had come at once when you learned I might give you Graham Hill. I presume my mother shared that titbit of information. And then you must have been quite desperate when I changed my mind and later survived your plot, staying alive so very inconveniently. Now where is your paper and ink? Or will you ring for some?’
‘There.’ He nodded towards a desk pushed to the wall and cluttered with books, papers and several dirty tumblers.
‘By the way, you will vacate the premises by the end of the week.’
‘By tomorrow, if you like.’ The duke spoke in angry tones.
‘Entirely satisfactory,’ Ren said.
* * *
Ren paused on the threshold of the library at Graham Hill. Beth sat in the chair beside the fire. The lamps had not been lit yet and the amber glow of the fire light cast delightful shadows.
His heart beat fast. He felt both an eagerness to talk to her, but also apprehension. If she didn’t listen this time—
She turned as he entered. ‘Ren?’
‘The Duke won’t be bothering us any more. I have convinced him that remaining in our neighbourhood is not conducive for his health.’
‘He’s going to leave?’
‘Yes, I am certain the Bow Street Runners will be escorting him to London. However, even if he is released, he will not be returning here. I’ll explain it to you later, but right now we need to talk.’
‘No, Ren, you know—’
‘I will not agree to an annulment. I will not agree to an annulment because I want to stay married to you. I love you.’
‘I know, but—’
‘No, I have listened.’ He sat on a low footstool in front of her, taking her hands in his own. ‘I need you to listen. I won’t agree to an annulment because I love you and I love being married to you. I love everything about you. I love your spirit. I love your independence. I love your moments of anxiety and the strength it takes you to overcome those moments. I love that you think about things differently. And what you told me the other day was nonsense!’
Her mouth dropped. ‘It’s not.’
‘When you were a child, you always said that you would not let your blindness stop you and that you were as good as the next person. It seems you no longer believe that.’
‘But I do,’ she said, stiffening in her chair and freeing her hands. Her brows pulled into a frown.
‘So why don’t you think you’re as good as countless women who have sight but not an ounce of your strength and your spirit? You have worked all your life to prove that you are equal to any man or woman, sighted or otherwise. There seems to be only one person you still have to convince.’
‘I cannot help it if you—’
‘Not me. I knew you were my equal the moment you hit Edmund with that fish and don’t tell me you didn’t intend to do so. You’re the only person you still have to convince.’
‘I—am convinced. I travelled to London. I manage this estate and Allington. I found you. I helped to nurse you—’
‘And you think that our child would be less equal if he or she were blind? You think you would be less of a mother and less of a wife because you are blind? You still think you are broken. You’re not. People like the Duke are broken. You are whole and strong and I love you.’
Her frown deepened. She shoved one hand through her blonde hair so that it stood up, haystack-like.
‘Beth, you gave me sight. For a decade I saw only ugliness and you gave me back beauty. None of us is perfect. Jamie is both brilliant and a fool. You see the world differently because you are blind and whether you know it or not that is a strength.’
‘But—’ Her lips opened. He saw her catch her breath.
‘No, no buts. I love you.’ He took her hands again, feeling their tremor. ‘I was a man in hiding. Everything hurt and I didn’t like myself. I tried to make myself into something I wasn’t, something I couldn’t like and I couldn’t respect.’
‘And now?’ she whispered.
‘Now I like myself. I respect myself. Whatever you decide, I will still respect myself and my choices but, if you stay with me, if you love me, I think we could give each other joy. We can work together and make this place something important. We can be happy.’
* * *
Joy and hope filled her. She reached up to him, cupping his face with both hands, running her fingers across his jaw and gently outlining the shape of his lips. ‘I love you, but—’
‘Then that is the only certainty we need.’
‘And if our child is blind?’
‘Beth, we do not have to have children. You are enough for me. You will always be enough for me. But, if we choose to have children, I do not fear blindness. Our children will have strengths and they will have weaknesses because they are human. Our job will be to help them make the most of their strengths and to overcome their weakness. You can help them do that. You would be a wonderful mother.’
‘But I can’t keep them safe. What if there are steps...?’
‘No one can guarantee a child will be safe. But I will do everything possible. Allie will help and we will hire as many servants as you want to keep them safe. There are always people to point out the dangers. But whether our child is blind or sighted, someone needs to point out beauty and to teach him or her to be strong and kind. You can do that. You can do that better than anyone.’
‘I almost think it could work. I always thought that I could never be a wife or a mother.’
‘You can.’
‘You really do love me,’ she whispered, the wonder of it striking her anew.
He leaned forward, cupping her face with his hands. ‘Of course I do. It just took me a while to realise it.’
She smiled. ‘And I have loved you, too. You taught me how to see the world.’
‘And you taught me how to see beauty in the world again and, of the two, the latter is the more remarkable.’
He kissed her, exploring the intricate, delicate crevasses of her mouth, the soft, yielding lips.
‘Ren, I never thought—I didn’t think we could have a happy ending.’
Again he framed her face with his hands, his touch warm. ‘But don’t you know this is only a happy beginning?’
She smiled. ‘And we can have everything.’
‘Everything,’ he said, running a row of kisses along the smooth line of her chin. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t mind having everything now.’
‘You mean here? In the library?’
‘Indeed, there is something about tossing books and papers aside—’
‘It sounds very—spontaneous,’ she whispered.
And then their lips met again. His arms encircled her and she knew. She wanted everything. She always had.