by Lisa Berne
All at once something seemed to coalesce inside her brain.
Everything came together, after days and days of thinking, wondering, pondering.
The puzzle solved at last.
And with it, a sharp sense of satisfaction—a brief pang of loss—and a vast, reassuring, overwhelming relief.
Know thyself.
Gwendolyn put her hat back on, said, “Excuse me, please,” and went past him toward the door.
“Are you leaving, my darling? So soon?”
“I’m going upstairs first.”
“What? Why?”
She didn’t answer, only opened the door, went to the stairs and quickly up them, down the hallway, and to Julian’s bedchamber. Julian followed behind her, saying in bewilderment, “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
Gwendolyn flung open the door and went inside. There, hanging above one of the fireplaces, was a large portrait of the Countess. She had seen it two weeks ago—upside down—while lying on the floor. And just a few moments ago, her brain had, as it were, put it upright for her to see at last.
To see it, perceive it, and, finally, understand.
The portrait of the Countess had clearly been done some years ago, when she had been a much younger woman. Wearing a frilly, panniered white gown and white slippers, she was sitting on a garden bench, with a view behind her of trees, flowers, a placid pond, an idyllic blue sky. At her feet stood a handsome little boy—Julian, clearly—who was looking up at her adoringly. The Countess wore no turban, only a pretty white bandeau in her long golden-blonde hair. Her blue eyes were smiling as she looked down at the little boy.
Gwendolyn stood before the portrait for a minute or two, then turned to the Earl. “Did you know that I look rather like your mother?” she said, and watched as onto his face came a faint flush of red.
“No, not at all—well, I daresay just a trifle—not at first, you see—it rather crept up on me—but I soon forgot all about it—not a strong resemblance, surely, I do think you’re exaggerating—and if there is, it’s really quite a coincidence, don’t you think? Besides, your nose is very different, you know, my darling. Frankly, it’s much nicer than Mummie’s. Don’t tell her I said so, of course.”
What a perfectly ambiguous answer.
If she were to marry the Earl, she would never, in her whole life to come, be able to trust that what he said was true. Whether it was over a matter trivial, or important. Whether he had written a letter he had promised to write, or if he had knowingly been going to marry a woman who looked a lot like his own mother.
She looked up into his handsome face. There were so many things she could say to him.
You’re a wobbly sort of person, Julian.
You’re not congruent in who you are and how you present yourself to the world.
You slip and slide about, like blancmange on a plate.
You’re complacent and snobbish, and I’m afraid you’re rather weak.
You’re a little boy who’s never really grown up.
Also, I’m not at all sure that you’re a good kisser.
You’re not a bad person, or a villain, or anything like that. I don’t hate you. I don’t even dislike you. Actually, when I think about it, I feel sorry for you.
And I don’t love you anymore.
If I ever really did.
Yes, she could say any and all of these things. But what purpose would it serve? She had no interest in trying to hurt him, enlighten him, or change him. Besides, she wasn’t perfect, she had made mistakes too, she had willingly entered into their arrangement. She had been rash and impulsive and rather blinded by her own illusions. And so their lives had come together for a while; but now it was all over.
So she took off the glove on her left hand, and pulled from her fourth finger the beautiful Westenbury ring.
It was a little surprising how easily it came off.
Gwendolyn held it out to the Earl. “Julian, I’m afraid our betrothal is at an end. I’m very sorry, but I don’t believe that we should suit each other after all.”
“What?” He had gone chalk-white. “My love, my darling child, what are you saying?”
“I’m not your child. Our betrothal is over. Do take back your ring.”
But he didn’t take it. He only stood staring at her, the very picture of a man dealt a stunning and incomprehensible blow. “You—surely you don’t mean it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re upset about Lady Helen, that’s all. You’re upset, but it will pass. Surely you’re not going to throw away everything we have over something so trivial?”
“It’s not trivial to me.”
“Is it about the wedding? We can have it in Whitehaven, I swear to it.”
“It’s not about the wedding.”
His eyes were filling with tears. “Oh God, Gwendolyn, don’t do this—don’t leave me—I love you so very, very much.” Urgently he reached toward her, to try and take her hands, perhaps, or clasp her in his arms. But she was still holding out the ring, which he didn’t take, which seemed to stop him from coming closer, and it started to feel as if the ring was a magic talisman keeping him at bay. In other circumstances Gwendolyn might have laughed at her own fancy, but what was pulling at her now was chiefly impatience. She wanted to be gone from here and on her way to Bournemouth.
The Earl was openly crying now.
Gently she said, “Oh, Julian, I know you’re upset, but please believe me when I say that this is all for the best. You’re not right for me, and I’m not right for you. We’d make each other miserable, sooner or later, and I suspect it would be sooner. I’m sure you’ll find some nice young lady who will make you very happy.” She thought but didn’t say aloud, Perhaps even some nice young lady with blonde hair and blue eyes. “And whom you’ll make very happy, too. Now—I must go. Goodbye.”
He didn’t say anything, only sank into a chair and put his tawny head into his hands. Next to the chair was a little side-table, and so she went to the table and carefully, gently, put the ring on it. And then she turned and left the room, walking down the hallway and skimming down the stairs feeling as light, as free, as a bird.
Engaged to the Earl no more.
Chapter 16
Christopher had packed, and stood looking restlessly around his bedchamber. No traces remained of his habitation here. He was ready to go, but he hadn’t yet heard back from Gwendolyn. She was the only thing keeping him here. Where was she, how was she, was she all right?
A sudden tapping sound quickly brought him out into his front room and to the door. It was the porter.
“Young lady downstairs to see you, sir. Name of Miss Sherry Moo.”
“Who—” Christopher broke off and grinned. He knew exactly who it was. Relief, and anticipation, and longing, and pain—all washed over him. “Thanks.”
He went rapidly down the stairs, through the entry, and into the courtyard below. Gwendolyn stood near one of the railings. She was wearing a soft pink pelisse, the color of spring roses, with the embroidered hem of her white gown showing beneath, and a simple straw hat with bright green ribbons; her gloved hands were linked together at her waist and a reticule dangled from one slim wrist. He caught his breath. God, she was lovely. And God, how he’d missed her.
Gwendolyn smiled as she caught sight of him walking to her and he felt his heart kick hard in his chest. She came forward to meet him halfway and he smiled back, saying, “Hullo, Miss Moo.”
Gwendolyn laughed. “I couldn’t resist. The porter was so shocked that I wanted to come up. No women allowed, evidently.”
“Well, I’ve heard a few rumors about women dressing as men and sneaking in.”
“Good for them! What a silly rule. Oh, Christopher, I’m so happy to see you!”
“Likewise, signorina. Is your cheek all right? It looks a little—singed.”
“Oh yes, I’ve put some salve on.”
He looked at it consideringly. “It should heal up nicely.”
> “I think so too. In the meantime, I’ll just tell everyone I got into a fight with pirates.”
He laughed. “Do.” Then, as he continued to look at her, with wonder and a kind of painful pleasure: “Is your hair different? It looks very fetching.”
Her blue eyes went wide and rapidly she undid the ribbons of her straw bonnet and pulled it off, then did a little pirouette so that he could see her hair from all angles. “Yes,” she said, “it’s quite different.”
“Very fetching indeed.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes. It suits you.”
She laughed again, and put her hat back on. “I’m glad you think so. Oh, how I’ve missed you! We have so much to talk about, my dear friend, but first—can you tell me—how did things go in Nottingham?”
“Better than I could have hoped.”
“I’m so, so glad! I want to hear all about it, but the thing of it is, I’ve come to you on a matter of urgency.”
Quickly he said, “What’s wrong? Are you in difficulties?”
“Oh no, it’s not me. It’s—you see, I really didn’t know what to do after I’d left—well, I was in a hack going back to the Egremont townhouse and I suddenly remembered that Tyndale had given me a note—I was in a bit of a hurry, you see, when he first gave it to me—and it was from you! I was never so glad to hear from anyone in my life!” Gwendolyn took a deep breath, her eyes searching his face. “Oh, Christopher, I hate to tell you this, but Helen’s run off with de Montmorency.”
“Has she? Why?”
“Well, I think it’s possible he’s coerced her into it.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“No, nor would I. I don’t really know for certain, but I still feel I ought to go after them, just in case Helen needs help. The Duchess has gone out of town, and so has Percy, and Lady Almira’s sick in bed—it’s all rather complicated, and it might be just a wild-goose chase, but—Christopher, would you come with me?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, I knew you’d say yes!” Gwendolyn flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Thank you!”
Christopher received her embrace with a shock of pleasure, wrapping his arms around her and wishing they could stay like this forever. The instant he felt her pull back he released her, relieved and glad to see her beaming up into his face. Still, he had to say, though he hated to:
“The Earl?”
Gwendolyn merely shook her head. “Just you and me, ma sherry moo.”
She was very composed, very sure of herself, and so he didn’t waste time arguing the point. “Just you and me,” he repeated, and he couldn’t help but like the sound of it.
She smiled. “How long will it take us to get to Bournemouth, do you suppose?”
“Six or seven hours, I suppose. We could go by carriage, or we could each ride a horse—but that might be rather arduous for you, signorina.”
“Not a bit of it! Hugo and I used to go for very long rides out into the countryside and I enjoyed every minute. Hmmm.” Gwendolyn paused, looking thoughtful. One of her gloved hands came up to toy with a lock of her newly short hair. And then onto her lovely face came a look of playful mischief. “I have an idea.”
She told it to him, and he laughed. “Why not?”
A scant two hours later, Gwendolyn and Christopher, each on their own horse, had finally left London behind and were on the dusty Fulham Road, heading southwest in the bright warm light of a sunny afternoon. Christopher wore breeches, boots, and a dark blue, plainly cut jacket, and as for herself—
Why, she was wearing breeches, boots, and a deep red jacket, all of which belonged to one of the Egremont grooms. On her head was a tall black hat, and her hair was pulled back and pinned into a tiny, jaunty queue. She rode astride and sat in her saddle as naturally as if this was something she did every day, her hands in leather riding-gloves holding the reins loosely and comfortably. She looked over at Christopher, admiring the easy skill with which he rode—as he did always.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, “we got out of London without my being unmasked. Oh, Christopher, isn’t this fun? I mean, except for the worry about Helen, of course, but there’s no use worrying just at the moment—we’re doing the absolute best that we can. Unless you think we should be galloping?”
“No. They won’t sail out today, it’ll be too late by the time they get to Bournemouth. And it would only exhaust the horses.”
“Then I’m just going to enjoy the afternoon. Or is that horribly insensitive of me?” She looked at him a little anxiously. He certainly was handling the news about Helen’s bolt with de Montmorency quite calmly. She saw that he was looking back at her with his dark brows drawn together a little, as if puzzled. He answered:
“Until we find them, we don’t know what’s really going on. So—as you’ve said—worrying isn’t going to help.”
Gwendolyn nodded. In that case, she was going to treasure every minute of this time with Christopher. “I feel very dashing dressed like this. Tall boots do make one want to swagger about, don’t they?”
He smiled, and she was glad to see his frown fade away. She went on:
“Isn’t Tyndale a gem? Not even a flicker of an eyelash when I asked him to find me some men’s clothing.”
“It was impressive. Do you suppose butlers practice being so impassive, or do you think it comes naturally?”
Gwendolyn giggled. “Maybe we can ask Tyndale sometime. I must say, it’s a great deal easier riding this way, rather than having one’s leg hooked over a pommel. I thought it would be! I’ve always longed to try it, especially after Diana and I read the most riveting novel which had the heroine dressing like a man, running away in the middle of the night, and stealing a horse from the nearest inn.”
“Why was she running away?”
“Oh, her parents, who were dreadfully poor because the father had gambled away all their money, were going to force her to marry a rich old man. He had absolutely no hair, and he never changed his clothing and he stank of turnips, and also he had no teeth, plus he was a ghastly drunkard who had been married four times previously, and all of his wives had died under mysterious circumstances.”
“He stank of turnips?”
“Yes, I daresay the author wanted to make completely sure her audience found the old man to be an undesirable suitor.”
“I’d say she succeeded. You seem to remember him very well.”
“Oh yes! He quite horrified us. Diana and I swore we’d run away too, if we ever found ourselves in a similar situation. Unlikely as that might be.” Gwendolyn laughed. “And I remember the title page as if it were yesterday! Escape from Castle Killarney. In a very gloomy, medieval sort of typeface. I forgot to tell you that the heroine and her parents lived in a horrid old castle which was practically falling down from neglect—it was very damp and cold, there were cobwebs everywhere, the most awful draughts, and it even had an old moat which was swarming to the brim with rats.”
“I hope there was a ghost.”
“That would have been a nice touch. Unfortunately there wasn’t a ghost, or even any old bones moldering in a forgotten cupboard. Maybe the author saved them for the next book. Christopher, tell me about Nottingham! I want to hear about Diana, and your father, and your stepmother, and—oh, everything.”
So as they rode he told her about his journey to Nottingham and what had transpired there. She listened joyfully, only intervening once to say, “That Dr. Baynes sounds so infuriating! I wonder you didn’t kick him downstairs! But then, he was there to catch Diana, so I suppose it all worked out for the best. What happened after that?”
He went on, and when he was done, Gwendolyn gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. “I’m so very, very pleased, Christopher! And I’m so proud of you for going, especially when you couldn’t know what would happen when you got there. How does it feel to have a brother?”
“I quite like it. I’ve never really known any babies before, but Jasper seems to me a
splendid little man. Yells like anything when he’s hungry. Cora says he’s a perfect trencherman.”
Gwendolyn laughed. “Good for him! Oh, Cora sounds so nice. I’m so happy for your father.”
“As am I. And what about you, signorina? What’s happened since I went away?”
There was so much to tell Christopher. The best of friends, who would listen to anything she could possibly say, without judgment or censure. “Quite a lot has happened, ma sherry moo,” she said, and started with the influenza that had been afflicting so many in the Egremont townhouse, then went on to the evening at Carlton House last night, and quite literally running into the Prince Regent (which made Christopher laugh), and finding Helen and Rupert, and hitting Rupert with a vase (to which he emphatically said Bravo), and Monsieur de Montmorency arriving in a very timely fashion (he gave a low whistle when she told him about the knife), and then the express from poor Philip Thane in Great Yarmouth, and the Duchess hurrying to him, and the accident with Lizzie and the curling-tongs, and then finding the note Helen had left behind, and after that . . .
She stopped.
Christopher said, “Is there more?”
“Oh yes.” Gwendolyn hardly knew how to begin this next part of the story, so she pulled off the riding-glove on her left hand and held it out for him to see, watching the swift gravity come into Christopher’s expression, the look of astonishment and deep concern.
He looked at her hand and then into her face.
Slowly he said, “If he’s hurt you, I swear to God I’ll—”
“No,” she quickly broke in. “No, it’s not like that at all. I’m the one who’s ended it.”
“You,” he said, still in that slow, careful voice. “You ended your engagement?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Gwendolyn put her glove back on, and looked again at him, into that interesting, delightful, unforgettable face which had become as familiar to her as her own. Many, many times had she drawn it in her sketchbook while he had been gone. How much comfort she’d gotten from that! “Christopher, you knew, didn’t you—about the Countess. That evening she came to the townhouse for the first time, and you looked so—so stunned and unhappy. You realized that I look a great deal like her. Too much like her.”
