“She believed in me, believed I could find a way to escape. But when I failed her and the child came, born into this world illegitimate, she fell into a despair so deep that she lost her mind. Others had to care for the child. One morning…” His breaths began to come very fast. Images rose in his mind.
Steam rising, the moist, warm air penetrating his nostrils along with the metallic scent of fresh blood. Water trickling down the yellow and blue tiles, draining down into the bath that was tinged red.
Emily’s loud gasp pulled him out of the memory. He looked down. He was grasping her arm. Too tightly. He let her go. The white marks from his hand on her flesh turned to red. He stared at her arm dumbly, speaking automatically as if, once started, the flow of words must have their way. “One morning I found her dead in her private bath. She had cut her wrists with the sharp edge on a piece of her own jewelry.”
Emily pressed herself to him.
He tightened all over at the touch. “I knew the Dutch devil planned to sell off our child since she was not the wished-for son. He’d told me. I knew of no way to stop him. I had lost all respect for myself as a man. I had nothing more to live for. So I went and found that devil, soaking carelessly in his own baths, and I slit his throat.”
He began shaking all over, cold nausea churning his guts at the memory of the raw satisfaction of feeling the sharp blade slicing the wet, heat-softened flesh. The gush of blood from the gash and the fierce joy he’d known.
He had, for that moment, become everything he hated. He had become like the Dutch devil. That moment he’d lost the very last of his soul.
“And then?” Emily’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“I went back to my quarters and waited for them to come and kill me in return. But the merchant’s death caused an uproar. No one suspected me. It was assumed that Catarina did it before she killed herself. And then I saw my chance to escape. I set fire to the house and, in the chaos, I simply left via the garden gate with my child hidden under my robes. Nicolo came with me. After all that time, all the worry of how we could possibly do it and not be stopped, it was really quite easily done.”
“Where could you possibly go in a foreign city?”
“The Jewish doctor who had tended Catarina was interested in America. I had spent many hours telling him all about my life before I went to sea. We sought refuge with him and, though he was quite flustered at our arriving on his doorstep, he didn’t turn us away. He helped us to dye our hair and faces and to find a ship that would allow us to work our way to Europe. He sent us with a pocketful of money and a young wet-nurse.”
“How lucky you were that he would help you.”
“He is one of those shopkeepers who sweeps his own stoop and keeps the city clean. We usually can do little to force change on the greater world, but we can help those who come under our charge or to our back door.”
“What happened then?”
“Once in Europe, we—Nicolo and I—somehow managed to make our way with my child to Venice. Much of that time is not clear to me. I was living like an automaton, like I was half-alive… still, I knew I must keep moving for the sake of my child. But Catarina’s family did not want her child. They had considered their daughter to be dead from the day she’d been captured. They refused to even give me audience.”
Emily gasped.
“I know,” he said. “Catarina spoke about her family with such affection. I was stunned by their dismissal. Their total rejection of my precious child. I saw how people truly felt about illegitimate children and I vowed I would protect mine against a lifetime of that. It was my last disillusionment.”
“So you went to France.”
He nodded. “Yes, my mother’s mother came from France. They were shipbuilders. I sought sanctuary with them, and Manon and François made me see how, if I loved my child, I must give her up and allow them to raise her. Else my dear daughter would be known to the world as a bastard, and that I could not bear. Besides, they rightfully pointed out that I was in no state of mind to raise a child. It broke my heart but I did this.
“But now the terrors unfolding there have forced my cousin and his family to flee. I made arrangements for them to go to Montreal but their vessel was captured by English privateers and they found themselves having to gain passage on a ship bound for Baltimore. In a short while they will sail for Montreal as originally planned.”
“But you cannot just let your own daughter go to live so far away from you. She is your own flesh and blood.”
“Why not? She believes her father to be François, not me. And what would I tell her? How would I explain her past to her in a way a girl her age—indeed, a girl of any age—would be able to accept?”
“But it just…“ Her dark red eyebrows drew together, an adorable expression of confusion that tore at his heart. “I mean, she is your child.”
“Someday, perhaps, she can be told. But what would she gain from knowing, besides a disruption of all she holds dear? I bear the blame for this. I cannot deliberately cause her unhappiness or disillusionment on top of all else. It would simply be too much.”
“But you cannot blame yourself any longer for what happened. You were captured, powerless. You were little more than a boy. Only a year or two older than that gawky Sexton boy.”
He started and stared at her blankly. “Yes, I suppose. Though it is hard to look at it that way.”
“Would you blame him if he were captured and tempted and forced into depraved acts for the pleasures of a madman?”
A wall of rock went up between them. His need to deny the validity of her words overrode all other possible considerations. “It’s not the same at all, Emily. Grey Sexton spent his boyhood at his father’s knee and his adolescence at Harvard. In a way, he was just as sheltered as you were by your grandmother. Even more so, because he has had the luxury of his father’s wealth. I had been at sea, on a privateering ship, since I was thirteen.”
“But you had never faced any situation like this, had you? What was your life at sea really like?”
“I was a personal servant to the captain. He was a strict Congregationalist. He never mixed with women in the taverns or drank to excess. We often passed our time playing chess in the taprooms of the taverns.”
“So you were also quite sheltered, weren’t you?”
He inhaled sharply then came to his feet and moved away from her.
She just didn’t understand. She wasn’t a man, with a man’s responsibilities. He had taken Catarina’s virginity. No matter how it had happened, she’d been his wife in all but legality. It had been his duty to protect her and get her out of Constantinople and slavery, and he had failed her. And the price to Catarina, himself and their child had been steep. There could be no forgiving of that. Ever.
However, he had also deflowered this open-hearted girl and thus now was responsible for her. He was on the verge of magnifying the mistakes of his life to such a degree that he would never recover from the shame.
And yet…
“Alex, your secrets have hung between us since the start. But now perhaps we could try again, with truth between us—”
“Oh no, it’s far too late now.”
She paled and his chest grew tight. He hated hurting her. But there was no other way now. It was all ruined between them. Their love hadn’t stood a chance from the very first. He had thought he could keep his secrets from coming between them. He’d failed at that as well. His life was one failure after another. But he could be kinder and end the bleeding by making a clean break with her now.
“It’s too late,” he said more softly.
Her eyes turned glossy, making them so luminous they took his breath away.
“But why?” she whispered, her voice so soft and sweet, so heartbreaking. The moisture in her eyes overflowed, running down her cheeks.
He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and tell her it would be all right. That they could repair this damage. But that would be a lie. A cruelty that
would only drag the pain out.
He forced himself to hold firm. “The moment I told you these things, I knew I was casting the gravestone on any chance that we could ever be wed. You will never be able to look at me as anything else except less than a man. Less than what I should be. You will never be able to forgive me for what I have done to my own child through my powerlessness, any more than I shall be able to forgive myself.”
“Alex, that’s simply not true.”
“You have held me in contempt over my desire to forget about the slavery issue and find some happiness.”
“But I now understand—”
“No, now you pity me. I will not spend my life in a marriage based on pity. You could never be happy with a man you pitied. You deserve to marry a man you can truly love. Pity is a damned sorry substitute for love.”
She rose up on her tiptoes and leaned into him. At her scent, gillyflower and woman, his heart began to beat faster. She wrapped her arms about his neck and snuggled her soft curves to his body. She tilted her head back and her lips parted, her sweet, warm breath teasing his face. Blood rushed instantly into his cock.
He sucked in his breath, wanting only to slide his hands down her back, cup her buttocks and press her pelvis to his. He took a deep, ragged breath, willing his heated thoughts to cool. He couldn’t use her again as he had last time.
He had to be strong now. He took her wrists and gently removed her hands. “We cannot touch. We cannot get close again. It merely drags everything out, makes this ending more painful. I ought to be horsewhipped for taking you the other night. It was inexcusable of me.”
“But, Alex, you must—”
A knock at the door cut short whatever she’d meant to say. He closed his eyes and thanked God for the interruption. He moved away from her and went to answer the door.
Mrs. Webbs stood there with an implacable expression on her face. “Mr. Dalton, I think it is time that Miss Emily went back to Mrs. Hazelwood’s house.”
“Yes, I agree,” he said.
****
Emily sat in a shadow and her hair looked darkest brown. And she looked a little pale with faint purple shadows under her eyes.
“Alex,” James whispered at his side. “Stop staring at her.”
In order to try to present a more respectable public image for the Dalton family, James had requested that Alex accompany him here today to Christ Church. Alex had complied strictly to please his brother. Well, maybe it had more to do with knowing that Cornelia mandated regular church attendance for her upper servants.
In the weeks since their last parting, he had hungered for the mere sight of Emily. Consuming thoughts of her and their final meeting had dampened his appetite, had haunted his dreams and disturbed his sleep.
“People will talk.” James’ whisper carried a note of rising panic. “Do it for her sake if you won’t do it for me.”
Alex pulled his gaze away from Emily. He had not been in a church since he’d left for the Orient all those months ago. He stared up at the ceiling and made a study of the brass chandelier and counted the twenty-four candles; he studied the huge central organ—all of the things that had so fascinated him as a boy.
Of course, as a child, he’d had to attend services regularly to satisfy his father’s sense of propriety. But it had been the private hours in the evenings that he’d spent listening to his mother read from the Bible and joining her in prayer that had been his foundational religious rituals.
This public canting was meaningless to him. His gaze returned to Emily.
She stifled a yawn and her expression seemed tense. Weary.
Damn it, he did not like seeing his— No, wait. She was not his fiancée, not his lover, not his anything any longer. But no matter, he did not like the idea of her being Cornelia Hazelwood’s servant. That situation was going to end.
Immediately.
****
As she sat in the wingchair in her parlor, Cornelia Hazelwood compressed her lips and her steely blue eyes flashed with ire.
Alex had never received such a harsh welcome from his matronly cousin but he wasn’t about to be deterred. He repeated the request which had so provoked her. “I came here to see Miss Eliot.”
Cornelia raised her brows. “And I don’t think you should.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
Cornelia’s eyes widened a fraction. “I don’t care for your tone, Alexander.”
“Furthermore, I want you to take her off your employ. I do not like the idea of her being your governess.”
“The girl must earn her keep.”
“I shall pay her expenses.”
“What?” She put her hand to her lace collar. “You can’t pay her expenses. My word, boy, what would people say?”
“People can say nothing about that which they do not know. We can keep that between the two of us, you and I.”
Cornelia narrowed her eyes. “Just who is Miss Eliot to you?”
“She’s very dear to me.”
Cornelia stiffened. “I see.”
“No, you don’t. It doesn’t matter.”
Cornelia’s hand tightened on her collar. “Oh, if only your dear, sainted mother could see these goings on!” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “It would break her heart.”
“I don’t think there’s any need to bring my mother into this.”
“My word, just listen to you.” She narrowed her eyes again and leaned forward in her chair. “Do you intend to marry Miss Eliot?”
“No.” He almost choked on the word.
Cornelia’s face relaxed. “Thank heaven for that much at least. But then what are your intentions?”
“I intend to see her educated, to see her artistic talents maximized so that she may earn her living that way.”
Cornelia nodded. “Yes, I can see how you would want to do that.”
“She cannot be Betsy’s nanny.” He couldn’t bear to see his Emily in a servile position, as though she were some common wench. It stuck in his craw every moment of every day that this ridiculous situation went on.
“You want me to dismiss the chit then?”
“I want you to accept her as just a guest in your home.”
She gaped at him for several moments. “Goodness, of all the things! Why would she continue to live here if she were not in my employ?”
“Because you would be doing me a personal favor.”
“I don’t know.”
“It is only for a short time. Soon, I’ll be traveling to New Orleans and she can return to my house and live with Aunt Rachel and Nancy.”
Cornelia reached for her teacup and took a drink. Then she sat there with her brows drawn tightly together. “People will speculate about why I’d do such thing.”
“Let them speculate.”
“You really think highly of this chit, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And you really have no intention of making her the next Mrs. Dalton and thereby falsely elevating her out of her natural station in life?”
“I have absolutely no intention of marrying her. Ever.” He felt very cold inside, saying those words. But it was simply the way things had to be.
Cornelia sighed. “Well, all right then, my boy.” She flashed him a small, rueful smile. “You know very well that I never could deny you anything.”
****
The sound of boots on the garden stones carried to Emily where she had been watching the birds eat the bread crusts she’d thrown to them. So much time had passed since that night in Alex’s study. She’d sent him several notes, indicating her desire to reconnect with him, to continue their engagement as before. He had only given short replies, telling her that he loved her but he knew she’d be better off on her own.
She’d been in a numbed haze, unable to believe their love could just end like that. She’d made a mistake, in letting her fear cloud her judgment and losing her temper with him over his forbidding her to write the book on American slavery. She’d made a
nother mistake in letting her doubts and imagination run away with her.
But surely she was entitled to a few mistakes? After all, she was only nineteen. And everyone, even people far older and more experienced made mistakes. Alex had been wrong to keep so many secrets from her, yet she understood that his own fear, borne of the deep shame he felt over his past, had prevented him from revealing himself to her.
She had forgiven him now, completely.
Why wouldn’t he return the favor and forgive her?
The birds took flight and she looked up.
Alex stared at her so intently, she could notice nothing but his ghostly blue-gray gaze. The birds had settled in the bare tree branches above her but the sound of their chirping became increasingly drowned out by her heartbeat in her ears. As if this were all a shock. Yes, that was it. The unexpectedness of his visit was a shock. She resisted placing her hand to her bodice to try and hold back that sensation of leaping there.
Red marked the whites of his eyes in crisscrossed lines and a pale, sallow cast marred his complexion. He didn’t appear to be taking very good care of himself. Anger snapped along her nerve endings. The pain pressing in her chest, at being so close to him and yet so distant, quickly rendered the anger impotent.
He didn’t sit and she didn’t arise. They just stared at each other. He leaned his back against the oak and crossed his arms over his chest. His long leg easily bridged the distance and he braced a boot on the bench beside her.
It seemed a rather confrontational gesture and she jumped and scooted closer to the other edge of the bench.
“So do we just never see each other? Never speak to each other?”
At the sound of his deep voice, her heart seemed to jump all over again. Then the accusatory tone of his statement struck her. All her wits went dull. She shook her head, slowly, trying to regain her composure. To think of how to answer him. “It was your decision, this time, that we not try again.”
“That’s true but…” His voice trailed off.
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