‘Science has reasons for what happened,’ Cam answered swiftly. ‘And none of them are about the Mrs Brownings of the world or about karma.’ He piled the meat on a plate and sighed. ‘Pavia, we have to get past this.’ But there was so much more they had to get past. This was merely one more obstacle. Would it ever end?
‘What if we don’t? What if we can’t?’ Pavia asked softly, her earlier acerbity replaced with something akin to sadness. It was the first time she’d let her defences down in a week, just long enough for Cam to see a glimmer of hope. We. She’d said we. Once upon a time that word had meant so much to him. It meant even more, now that it had become elusive.
‘As long as there’s a “we”, Pavia, there is something to fight for.’ He covered her hand where it lay on the butcher block. This time she didn’t pull away. ‘We can get through anything. We just have to want what’s on the other side.’
The words were meant to be encouraging; they were meant to let her know he was there for her, completely. Instead, the words raised questions. Did she want a we? Did she want him? She’d already confessed they would never have met if not for the tavern and her desperation. She didn’t need his name any more—the one thing he had to give her that had any value. He felt the beginnings of ghosts gathering in the kitchen, doubts and fears, converging on the periphery of their hope, and he remembered a thought he’d had before. Their worst enemy wasn’t what the outside world could do to them, but what they would do to themselves. If this marriage failed, it would be their faults.
Chapter Nineteen
It was all her fault. Every last scrap of it. Pavia bit off a length of thread and pushed it through the eye of her needle with determination to ward off such thoughts, but it was hard to escape the truth. It was her fault Cam was back to riding out every morning, purposely to avoid her. It was her fault she sat in this garden right now alone, this beautiful oasis at the back of the house that Cam had created for them, a place where they might escape the heat, together, spending long summer afternoons, lazing about here.
Tears pricked at her eyes and Pavia laid aside her needlepoint. She wished he was with her to share the garden he’d created. It was a simple space with the bench he’d repaired by hand, the shady trees, the fragrant rose bushes, the lush green grass, all designed with a summer afternoon in mind. The shade was cool, the grass soft, made for throwing down an old quilt so that a husband could nap while his wife stitched, or so that a baby could play, waving its fists and feet in the air with a coo. But she had neither baby or husband now. She was entirely alone and no one to blame but herself.
It was quite the litany of sins she’d accumulated. She had not thanked Cam for the garden when he’d shown it to her the first day she was out of bed. She had not invited Cam back to their bed even when the doctor had given permission. He’d ridden out the next morning and every morning after, coming home late until July was nearing its close and with each passing day it grew harder to bridge the expanding gap between them. What was the point?
The one thing that had rooted the marriage was the baby and it was gone. What did they have now? Nothing. Pavia swiped at her tears, staring at the half-completed stitchery, a little sampler with the words ‘bless this house’ surrounded with a profusion of wildflowers. There were no blessings here, only curses, and that was her fault, too. She’d interfered with her father’s plans. She deserved an empty marriage to a man who honoured her out of duty, but didn’t love her, a man whom she’d forced into a marriage he had not sought. She’d stolen him from his intended path. Oh, yes, the list of her sins was long indeed. She deserved her suffering because of the suffering she’d caused others. But Cam didn’t. Why should he suffer?
She needed to make amends and soon or it would be too late. Cam’s leave was up in August, less than a month away. They’d never talked of what happened then. There had been too many other things to talk about, easier things. To talk about his leave might expose the flaw in the fairy tale. If he left, it would prove this was only a matter of duty to him. He’d done that duty, given the child his name and was off to resume his regular life.
She had not wanted to face that reality. It was far nicer living in their ham sandwich, fairy-grove cocoon, pretending they were in love. And maybe they had been in love with the family they were making, if not each other. The latter seemed too much to expect for two strangers. It was a nice feeling, none the less, and it had led to other nice feelings, at least for her. That’s where things got blurry. His feelings had been for the baby, always for the baby. He was in love with the idea of being a father more than being a husband. Being a husband was a means to the end. But not for her. Somewhere, somehow, she’d fallen in love with him. At some point, he’d stopped being a stranger and become her bulwark, her strength.
When had it happened? Had it been when he’d watched her walk down the aisle on their wedding day and he’d taken her hand and whispered how beautiful she looked even though she was in a simple travelling gown? Still, the words had given her confidence. Had it been when he’d donned his uniform that first day at church to project his status on to her so that others would see her not as foreigner, but the wife of an esteemed officer? Had it been the day of the house-warming and the myriad times she’d looked across the lawn or out a window and seen him with the other men, sweating and laughing as they laboured? The picnic in the fairy glade? Or was it simply every time she looked at the rosewood dining table and remembered the pride with which he’d presented the used table to her?
There were countless memories to choose from. Perhaps it didn’t matter when it had happened, only that it had. She had fallen in love. And foolishly so. That love was a chasm between them and no way across it. The baby might have been their bridge. What would keep him here now without the baby to anticipate? She could think of nothing to keep him here past August, not when the lure of finding Fortis called. She could see it in his growing restlessness. She knew without being told that he didn’t always ride out to see Conall. Some days, he rode out just to ride. Just to give vent to his wildness, his grief.
She was not enough to hold him. Once, she might have gambled that he’d stay and live the life of a minor country gentleman, investing in Conall’s alpacas and his family. But on their own, the alpacas wouldn’t be enough to keep him here and neither would she—a wife who’d pushed him away in her pain. The last weeks had proven her fears were justified all along. She was only the mother of his child, nothing more. Cam wanted to leave. She should let him go, back to the military, to a life he had chosen. But then what happened to her?
If he left, there would be nothing to keep her here either, except a misguided sense of hope that he’d come home to her some day. Like Fortis Tresham’s widow. The thought came to her in a wave of truth so ferocious Pavia closed her eyes against it. Was that her fate? To be left behind? An unwanted wife with an unrequited love for a husband who didn’t feel the same, but would not dishonour his wife with divorce? But her suffering was not reason enough to make him stay and suffer, too, a married couple together but separate. She had no right to consign him to that hell for life.
Hooves pounded on the drive at the front of the house and a voice called out for the groom. Cam was home. The urgency in his voice called to her. Pavia rose and shook out her skirts, moving towards the house as she did so, a little ashamed she’d idled away the afternoon again. Cam never complained about it, never commented on it. Perhaps he didn’t notice. Or perhaps he didn’t care. He’d found other things to keep him busy these days outside the house. That was her fault, too, one more to add to the pile.
She heard the sound of the pump and she stopped at the front parlour window, keeping herself hidden behind the curtain. This was her guilty pleasure, watching him strip and wash in the pump before he came to her. He’d not been with Conall today. He’d been out riding. On those days, he came home in a sweat, his shirt and his body grim with dirt, his golden hair dulled with dust. And she’d watch. From in
side, from behind a curtain. Did he know she watched? He never commented on it. Despite all that had happened, he still made her mouth go dry. Was there ever a man as beautiful as her husband with those sculpted biceps and that chiselled chest?
A pang of longing speared through her. She wanted him one more time before she let him go, one more time she wanted to feel what they’d once had. That’s where today’s ruminations had led, hadn’t it? To a conclusion that would be difficult but necessary? That’s what you did with things you loved, people you loved. You set them free. She’d kept him too long as it was. His duty to his child, to her, was fulfilled. She would let him go now, but maybe it was all right to kiss him goodbye first. Cam had reached out before and she’d rebuffed him. If there was any reaching out to do, it had to come from her. She moved out into the yard before she could rethink her actions.
‘Pavia!’ Cam smiled, a big, wide, excited grin on his face as he sluiced the sweat from his body. ‘I was just coming to find you after I cleaned up. I have news.’ His eyes sparkled like blue sapphires. She hadn’t seen him like this for a long while, steady and pulsing with vibrant life, purpose. This was the Cam who’d come to her father’s house. This was the Cam who’d made love to her so ardently in the early days of their marriage. This Cam had control of his restlessness. Best of all, he was letting her in, just as she’d asked so many weeks ago. In that moment in the yard, everything was possible. Perhaps she’d been too hasty. Perhaps he wanted to stay in Little Trull, with her. Maybe she’d misjudged. Maybe she could be enough. Maybe she didn’t have to let him go.
Cam came to her, his body glistening with water droplets, his shirt slung around his neck like a scarf. He took her hands, his gaze in earnest. ‘There’s word that a man has been found wandering the woods near Balaclava who might be Fortis Tresham.’ His smile widened, his voice was full of joy at the thought of his friend having been found. ‘Do you know what this means? Fortis could be alive!’
Pavia smiled for his sake. ‘It is good news indeed.’ She knew what this meant to him. But she also knew what it meant to them. It would be their death knell. Cam would be drawn towards hope. What hope was left here? She was suddenly, fiercely, jealous of Fortis, who hadn’t the decency to be either alive or dead, but kept torturing her husband. Part of her resented she was not the cause of Cam’s happiness, but she’d done nothing to earn his smiles. In her grief and turmoil, she’d pushed him away, isolated herself from their marriage.
He took her hand. ‘There’s more, but I need to discuss it with you.’ His eyes were serious. He was being careful, Pavia realised. Of her. Of this tenuous truth. He’d been hopeful over Fortis before only to have his hopes dashed. Those emotional hills and valleys had left him scarred, unwilling to open up to others for fear of being crushed. ‘Our commander needs me to go to the Crimea immediately, to confirm this man’s identity.’
Pavia’s smiled faded. ‘In two weeks when your leave is up?’ she clarified. This was the discussion they’d been putting off since their wedding. There were no more excuses to postpone it now.
‘No, Pavia. I need to leave immediately, tomorrow if we can arrange it, or the day after. I’ll need to stop in London and see Cowden before sailing. We’ll need documents and things of that nature. I will be in London for a week before shipping out.’
She pulled her hands away from his grasp. Desperation and disbelief swamped her. She couldn’t think straight. There was no time, not even to argue. ‘So soon? Can’t anyone else identify him? Someone who is already there? Surely, others in your troop would know him. Why do you have to travel all that way?’
‘Because I knew him best. It’s not only his physical description that matters. We can’t assume it’s Fortis because he has dark hair and blue eyes. Any number of men could have that—and who knows what this man looks like after living in the woods or a cave or who knows where for the last ten months? We have to test his memories, whatever memories he has. From all reports, he’s incredibly discombobulated. Only I can do that if we’re to prove anything beyond the superficial.’ He reached for her hands again and she limply surrendered them. ‘I know it’s sudden. That’s why I wanted to talk with you about it.’
‘What’s there to talk about? It seems you’ve already decided.’
‘Do you mind? I know it’s two weeks earlier than planned.’ He hesitated over the last word.
‘“Than planned”? Nothing has been planned. Were you leaving in August? We hadn’t discussed that. Why would we discuss this? Were you just going to pack up and leave? Was I going to wake up one morning and you would simply be gone with no idea of when you were coming back? Or if you were coming back? Did you think to make me into a living man’s widow like Avaline Tresham?’ Her fear, her jealousy, were feasting hard now. Losing him was somehow different when she had been the one deciding to let him go instead of him simply leaving of his own accord. Abandoning her.
The tentative joy over his news dimmed in Cam’s eyes and she hated herself for taking it, hated herself for not being the one to give it to him in the first place. His gaze was harder now, his voice quieter. ‘I didn’t think it mattered to you if I stayed or left. Does it?’ Did she imagine there was a begging note hidden in his question? If she said she wanted him to stay, would he? Would he stay just for her? No, not for her. For honour. She did not want that. She’d asked too much of him for honour’s sake already.
‘Of course it matters. I want you to be happy.’
‘And your happiness?’ Cam pressed, searching her gaze for something she could not let him find.
‘I don’t want my happiness at the expense of yours. We’ve already tried that and seen how it works out. You’re miserable. Do you think I don’t notice how restless you are? How you ride yourself to weariness so you don’t have to think, so you can fall in bed exhausted every night.’
‘I have been working with Conall, looking for new pastures to expand the enterprise, expand our profits so you might have a rosewood table without scars. And, yes, sometimes I ride out to stay in shape, to keep my soldiering skills honed.’ He smiled at the admission, but there was hurt behind it. ‘Why did you think I was out riding, Pavia?’
There were too many answers to that: because she was not bearing him a child, because she’d pushed him away and given him no choice, because she’d not welcomed intimacy back into their bed, because he needed a purpose beyond her. So many reasons. If there’d been some hope for them, she might have voiced those reasons. But he was leaving and voicing them now would only cause an unnecessary fight.
‘Conall will manage all right without you?’
‘Oh, yes, I needed his partnership more than he needed mine. I was happy to ride out for him, save him the effort of doing it so he could be at home. So—’ He stopped, but it was too late. She could fill those words in for him. So Conall could be at home with Sofia and his son.
It prompted the question she had to ask. ‘If I were pregnant, would you still leave?’ Would he choose Fortis Tresham over her anyway? It was a terrible truth to face even if she’d long suspected it.
‘Do you really want to know the answer to that? There’s no good answer I can give, Pavia. If I answer yes, then I am choosing my best friend over my family. If I answer no, I am admitting I believe Fortis is truly dead, that I failed him on the field. Either of those choices pain me.’
‘Then be pained. I want to know.’
‘Then, no, I would not be leaving. Satisfied? Does that make you feel better or worse?’
Worse. So much worse. It would be easier to be jealous of Fortis’s claim to him. But there it was. The horrible truth she’d tried to ignore since this honour-bound farce began. It had all been about the baby for him. At least she knew she was doing the right thing in letting him go. He would have his old life back.
She gathered her courage. He’d asked for her opinion so she would give it. ‘Then you have your answer. Since ther
e is no baby, you should go.’ She took a step backwards, intending to head for the house. She’d done what she’d come out here to do—set him free. ‘I will help you pack. Mrs Bran and I will make lists of things you might need to get in London. I’ll open a bottle of wine tonight so you have a proper send-off.’
Then she hurried inside before he could see her cry.
Chapter Twenty
Damn it, that wasn’t what he wanted at all. Cam whipped the shirt from his neck and roughly pulled it over his head. He didn’t want to be putting his shirt back on. If things had gone right, he’d have been going upstairs with her. But it had all gone very wrong. He didn’t want a farewell dinner. He didn’t want her helping him pack. He wanted her to want him, to want him to stay, to tell him not to go. He wanted his marriage back. Even at the expense of Fortis.
Cam kicked a rock with his boot and strode towards the stable, needing some space and privacy to think over what had just happened and what was going to happen. He took the curry brush from the stable boy and made to send him home to his family early. Then Cam remembered. The boy only worked a couple of days a week. He wouldn’t be back until Thursday. Too late. Cam drew a shaky breath and steadied himself. This would be his first goodbye. He’d not expected it to happen so soon. In truth, he’d not expected it to happen at all.
‘Sir, are you all right?’ The boy peered at him in concern.
‘Here.’ He flipped the boy a coin from his pocket and tried for a smile. ‘Thank you for your hard work. I know we only have three horses to look after and a modest barn, but you’ve done well keeping it clean.’
Cam stroked Hengroen’s nose with a long caress. ‘Looks like we’ll be on the move again soon. Back to Sevastopol...back to Balaclava.’ He patted the horse’s side and began to brush. ‘Maybe even back to Fortis.’ The thought of going back, of finding his friend alive, should have filled him with unspeakable joy. The latter had. He’d read the telegram from London and ridden straight home, joy in his heart, and he’d let that joy spill out. He’d shared that joy with the one person he wanted to know. He wanted Pavia to celebrate the chance with him. After months of uncertainty and difficulty, here was proof that hope sprang eternal. They had lost their child, but maybe they would have Fortis back.
One Night with the Major Page 18
