No wonder he had led a spotless life. She couldn't bear to imagine what cruelty they would heap upon him if he had given them legitimate cause for scorn. With a shock, she realized that he had done just that, simply by marrying her, and yet he had done it willingly, had insisted upon it.
"How long until you go to London and shock the masses?" his mother asked over the soup.
"You wish to be deprived of your sport?" asked Stephen. "I thought to stay and torment you as long as possible."
"But you do not torment me, my boy, you delight me," she replied with relish. "If only we had some guests about to liven things up further. It's really very rewarding, my dear Lady Helen, to see you here in the vaunted ancestral home."
Lady Caroline leaned closer to Helen. "Mama has been in agony since my brother inherited. You've saved the family from becoming dead boring."
"Yes, we couldn't have that," Stephen cut in. "Nothing is quite so unforgivable to my mother as an absence of eccentricity. I've been sadly lacking."
It galled Helen to be the one through whom the dowager countess's dearest dreams were fulfilled. She looked at Stephen from the corner of her eye, but he was utterly composed. He never seemed to rise to their baiting. She had the idea that Lady Caroline was her mother's pet, a partner in vexing Stephen. But any notion that the two were a united front was dashed somewhere between the salmon and the roast beef.
"Perhaps I shall create a scandal myself," mused Lady Caroline. "I'll set my sights on that Lord Granville, who is still suspected of poisoning his last wife. You'd tell me, wouldn't you Summerdale, if he really was a murderer?"
But Stephen didn't have a chance to answer. His mother was too quick.
"Granville would never look twice at you. No man with any self-respect would. There are more attractive dung heaps in London, my girl; I thought you understood that."
The most telling part of it all was that Lady Caroline did not even turn a hair at such abuse. Plainly it was nothing new; she only became quiet and turned her attention to her meal. It was appalling. Helen found herself actually admiring her own parents' indifference.
It was just before dessert that the situation grew worse. Stephen had been quiet for the most part, refusing to take part in the conversation even when they spoke most rudely of him. Helen counted eight times that she held herself back from throwing the candelabra at the women, but he remained unruffled until they brought up his brother.
"I wonder would Papa have approved of this match?" posed Lady Caroline, evidently finding the proceedings far too tame. "No, that's an obvious answer. He'd have disapproved only because you did it, of course. What I really wonder is what Edward would have thought."
Stephen went very still, fixing his sister in a stare that made her squirm and look down at the table uncomfortably. But his mother was not so faint of heart.
"Yes, what would he have thought, Summerdale?" she asked. Helen gripped her napkin tightly in fear of what the horrible woman would say next. "Did he whisper on his deathbed that you would never make a proper earl unless you could equal him in his whoring? This marriage is an excellent first step but you've a long way to go until you can outdo him in that regard. And you can't possibly surpass his parentage."
The tension in the room grew so thick that the servants seemed to have become statues along the walls in order to escape notice. Helen watched him grip his wine glass hard enough that she feared it might shatter, and desperately tried to think of something, anything, to divert the explosion she felt must come at any moment. She did not know exactly what his mother meant but she had obviously spoken what was, to Stephen, the unspeakable.
"My brother," he said slowly, staring daggers at his mother, "had a civil tongue in his mouth, a trait which was obviously not inherited."
"Inherited from his parents, my dear?" His mother gave a complacent smile. "Which parents are those?"
Stephen stood abruptly, the chair skidding back into the waiting hands of a footman. He looked ready to lunge across the table, but Helen suddenly found her voice.
"My lord, I have no taste for dessert. I am sure it is excellent, as everything has been. But I have a number of things to see to, if you'll be so kind as to escort me to our rooms."
Her voice was overloud, but he almost seemed not to hear her in his fury. She had never seen him in such extremity. She laid a hand on his arm and he looked at her, his features softening minutely.
"It has been quite a fatiguing day, my lord," she said. "Let us retire, and you can advise me in my letter to Lady Whitemarsh."
Still he did not move, and the table was silent. Helen feared his mother was waiting in delicious anticipation for an outburst, and knew absolutely that Stephen would regret losing his temper. And gradually – ever so gradually, she felt the subtle shift in the air, the silent and secret way he had of gaining control over the mood. He slid a hand over hers, his fingers tightening slightly.
He turned back to the table. "Good night then," he said flatly. He took her arm and led her from the room, as though nothing untoward had happened at all.
"It could have been worse, you know," he said sleepily as they lay together hours later.
"Worse?" She tried to keep the shock out of her tone. "How so?"
He gave a half-laugh with no humor in it. "My father could still be alive."
His hand traced a lazy circle in the light sweat on her bare hip. She was tired, really she was, but when he touched her like that... She would have nestled even closer and kissed that tempting spot at the base of his throat, but he sounded exhausted.
"He never knew for sure. None of us has ever known the truth of it, except my mother, and it's impossible to say if she invented it only to bedevil my father."
"Did it drive him mad?" she asked, lacing her fingers through his.
"He didn't let it," he answered, dropping a kiss on the top of her head and settling deeper into the pillows. "But it drove Edward mad, not knowing, being constantly mocked in his own family because of it. And it drives me mad, because I'm sure it's a lie."
Her eyelids felt very heavy. "Well, then, it is a lie, I'm sure," she said through a yawn.
"Flatterer."
"No," she mumbled blearily. "I mean it. You have a marvelous instinct for such things. You are always right. That's what infuriates them."
He seemed to come more awake at that, his arms tightening around her. But she was slipping deeper into sleep.
"Always right. Except when it came to you."
It felt so good and companionable to lay here with him. So, rather than to think of the ways he had been wrong and right about her, she let herself slip into sleep.
Chapter 14
He was afraid that he would lose her. There was nothing he could point to in justification of the fear, only an instinct he had learned to ignore at his peril.
Three nights of the last seven, he had woken to the sounds of her nightmares, little whimpering moans or even shouts that woke her too. One time she had turned to him and curled up in his arms, falling asleep without ever telling him what she had dreamt. The other times, she moved away from him and wrapped a blanket around herself to go and sit in the window seat. She had touched his face lightly and said his name before retreating, but it was clear she did not want him to follow. It was clear to him that she did not wish to be touched. So he watched her sit in the moonlight, her face turned from him, her breath visible in the cold night air. She seemed to prefer it to the warmth of his bed, sometimes. And he let her be, grateful that she allowed him onto the fringes of her internal world, happy to keep stay away from any topic that might bring her pain.
But it haunted him, the feeling that she could go. That she would go, if given sufficient provocation. Each time he woke to find her next to him, he felt immense relief that she was still there. When she still wanted him even after hearing what his mother and sister had to say of him, he wanted to thank her. When he touched her, he felt as though his hands only skimmed over the illusion of her, that sh
e waited to dance out of his reach.
It was something about how very competent she was. She did not need him, not truly, to survive. It was a fact she had proven every day for the last six years. If she tired of him, of this life, what was to prevent her leaving him? He could not imagine that he could hold her.
Even now when she sat across from him chattering on about household affairs, she did not seem entirely real. He felt no permanence, as though at any moment she would stand and walk out the door, and keep walking until the horizon swallowed her up.
To prevent it, he strove to remove anything disagreeable. He'd found it easy enough to persuade his mother to visit her lover. Not that he said it outright, but he made no hesitation to put the notion into her head, knowing she couldn't resist the chance to mock him within hearing of more sympathetic ears. His sister was much more manageable, and avoidable. He took great pains to be sure Helen did not have to endure any more scenes such as those on their arrival.
He wished he could spend more time with her, but there was work to be done. He spent hours in his office and would look up to find her gliding into the room in the afternoon, bringing the tea tray with her. They sat together as she told him of her latest conquests among the staff.
"Foster's sister is expecting," she said. "She lives down in the village, and she had a hard time with the last child. He tells me the midwife passed on last year and there's been no suitable replacement."
He was unsure exactly what he should make of this. "Foster? The first footman?" It had always seemed enough to know the man's name, that he came from Surrey and felt somewhat out of place here. He knew this Foster was one of those servants who was unsympathetic to his mother, loyal to the memory of his brother – and that's all Stephen had felt the need to know. But now Helen gave him a life, complete with a sister and concerns about childbirth.
"Yes, Stephen, the first footman," she laughed softly. "But I speak of his sister, and more importantly of the need for a new midwife in the village. Chambermaid Susan tells me her mother was a midwife and taught her well. Shall I give her leave to attend births from now on?"
As he'd been unaware until this moment that there was indeed a chambermaid named Susan, he gave his wife a smile and permission to do whatever she liked. She had taken it to heart, the idea of winning over the servants. He had no doubt that soon enough they would love her as well as everyone back in Bartle had done.
Nevertheless, there were shadows under her eyes. Spring was coming, and the inevitable return to London. She had sent the carefully composed note to her new sister-in-law, and soon enough an answer came.
He went to find her in the midst of her meeting with the groundskeeper. She was diplomatically imparting her disapproval of rhododendrons when Stephen entered.
"Are you very attached to the rhododendrons, my lord?" she asked with an anxious frown when she saw his gravity.
"I'm far more attached to you," he replied with a smile, trying to remain calm and congenial, for her sake. "Do whatever you like with them, but come with me now. We have visitors."
The blood drained from her face, but she gave a nod to the groundskeeper as she moved toward Stephen. She paused outside the door facing him, her face set.
"Who?" The one word held a wealth of anxiety.
"Your brother and his wife." He waited, standing quietly beside her as she froze. It reminded him of the first time they had met, when he had mentioned her brother and everything in her went still.
"Helen, if you do not want to see him, I will send him away." But not without first telling Whitemarsh to his face how wrong he had been, how he was all that was dishonorable and unfeeling.
"No, I–" She stopped, looking down at her dress. It was the steel gray, serviceable and plain but not tattered. "I only want to look less – well, I should like to change if Lady Whitemarsh has come. At least one of the new gowns must be ready by this time. I'll be down again soon."
He caught her hand before she could escape. She was trembling. "I will be there," he said as he held her hand. "I'll stay beside you all the while, unless you wish to be alone."
She bit her lip. "Of course you will," she said, giving his hand a tight squeeze and then letting go to hurry up the stairs.
It would give him time to speak to her brother. He made his way to the drawing room where the butler had shown them, feeling the anger surge in him like a tidal wave.
They were waiting quietly, Lady Whitemarsh seated on the divan while Alex stood with his back to the door and staring at a porcelain figure on the mantel. The frozen tableau was shattered when the door closed behind him. Alex did not turn, but raised his head suddenly and gripped his hands into fists as his wife jumped up and stared with round eyes at Stephen.
"Oh. Lord Summerdale," she said with some disappointment. He came to her and took her hand, bowing quickly.
"I should like a word in private with your husband." He was unable to keep the anger from coloring his tone. Alex had turned to him now, relief in his expression as though he thought Stephen would be any more forgiving than Helen.
Lady Whitemarsh cut into his thoughts in a stern voice. "I prefer to stay, my lord. Neither you nor my husband will prevent me from meeting Lady Summerdale." She shot a peevish and distinctly mutinous look at Alex.
Stephen forced his thoughts away from the too-appealing vision of a duel with his wife's brother. "I would venture to say that Lady Summerdale feels the same, and I think it unwise to test my strength against the both of you. All the same, I ask only a moment with your husband. My wife will be down shortly."
"Your wife," echoed Alex. He looked as if he didn't believe it. "You've married her, then, it wasn't one of her wild tales. And tell me, what could possibly have induced our noble Lord Summerdale to marry a pariah? I'd dearly love to know, sir!"
Absolutely astonishing. The fool was actually angry with him. Stephen would have laughed at him, had he been capable of feeling anything but outrage.
"Wild tales!" Stephen fairly shouted at the man. "And do you defend her now, my lord? How do you dare to think you have the right to judge anything that concerns her well-being when her wild tales are all true?" His voice had risen, but he did not care. If Lady Whitemarsh would not leave, he could only give vent to his fury by shouting it. "Incoherent, you said! Let me tell you, she was perfectly coherent, every last damned word was clear as crystal. And you – her beloved brother, the only one who could defend and protect her – the only one! But you chose to believe anything else, didn't you?"
He was breathing heavily, the disgust and rage battering against reason and forethought. Alex stood still, looking at him blankly, not even bothering with excuses or protests.
"You believe the likes of Mrs. Wilke and Anne Pembroke, but you do not believe your perfectly rational sister's story."
"They were not the only ones, those two!" Alex burst out, his volume if not his anger matching Stephen's. "And she was not perfectly rational. You cannot know."
"I know that no young girl can be expected to be composed when forced to speak of such savagery. I know that it was you who ruined her. It was you who took what life remained to her when you turned your back."
"I could not risk being seen to approve of her, not when her actions brought such discredit to the Whitemarsh name," cried Alex, a hunted look on his face. "It hardly matters what the truth is, you know that."
This defense deprived Stephen of words for a long moment. "Hardly matters?" he asked in disbelief.
Alex held up a hand. "I did not mean it in that way, damn you, I only meant that what was believed of her would ruin her no matter what I might wish to believe, and no matter what the truth was."
"You betrayed her. You sent me there to learn what you already knew but did not believe! And why?" He stopped, gathering the remnants of his control as his shout echoed in the room, trying to find some satisfaction in the embarrassed flush that had stolen over Alex's face.
"Tell me why," he said tightly. "Why were you so quick
to dismiss her words, to dismiss her entire worth?"
There was silence as Alex merely stared at him. He shifted his gaze to his wife, but Lady Whitemarsh shook her head slightly.
"I will not defend you in this, Alex," she said quietly. "I never have."
He looked ready to collapse into tears. His shame was evident, flooding into the room and slowly filling every corner until at last he licked his lips and spoke hoarsely.
"I was so young," he said faintly and with a humorless laugh. "So young and stupid. And she always loved to invent tales as a child, to get herself out of mischief..."
"Mischief!" Stephen could not believe this. Had not Lady Whitemarsh been there, he would have gladly lunged for the man's throat. "You call it mischief when she has the audacity to refuse marriage with a monster?"
Alex winced at the word and closed his eyes briefly. That he could be so willfully blind, that he could stand here now and make the whole thing out to be a terrible misjudgment, was insupportable. "Answer me, damn you," he insisted.
"I did not want to believe it!" Alex shouted. And here at last was the truth, obvious in the way that Alex was appalled at his own words. He seemed smaller, as if he had been deflated in the discovery his own cowardice. He looked up at Stephen, who watched him lose the struggle for composure.
"I didn't want to believe it," he repeated, his voice small now. "I still don't, that such a thing could happen to her. That I could not protect her from it, and that she ever had to endure such things. I didn't want it to be true, Summerdale. It was easier to believe that she was a liar than it was to believe that he had... done such a thing."
Stephen looked at him, wordless. He found it impossible to believe they were brother and sister, when he was so weak and she so strong. The man was a fool, how had he not seen it before? But he dimly heard the voice of his own conscience, the memory of all the things he himself had believed of her. And he could not forget, ever, the terror on her face when she had told him what had happened. It was understandable, if not excusable, to prefer the lie.
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