Lady in Blue

by Lynn Kerstan

  Once, she had thought it difficult to go to his bed. Once, she could imagine nothing worse than damning herself irretrievably because she wanted to be there. Now she understood those torments were nothing compared to the agony of saying goodbye for the last time.

  When the ladies withdrew, leaving the men to their port and cigars, Bryn turned to Lacey with a serious expression. “Elizabeth’s father is dead,” he said flatly. “We must decide how to tell her.”

  “He was the one who shot you, of course.” Lacey swirled the wine in his glass. “Any fool could figure that out, except, apparently, the magistrate. Yes, a report of your near demise made it all the way to the local news rag. I assume you lied to protect Beth, but how did Landry meet his end? You were in no condition to see to it.”

  Bryn regarded his friend with new respect. He had thought to gloss over the truth, but changed his mind and outlined the details, omitting only Max Peyton’s name. A reliable source had assured him that Landry was butchered at a gin mill and that his body would probably wash up on the banks of the Thames.

  “I don’t want Elizabeth to know her father put a bullet in me,” he finished. “She already feels indebted to me, and guilty because he tried to force a marriage between us. Why is it, Lace, that victims take responsibility for the people who hurt them? Why do they protect the whoresons?”

  “Why, for that matter, do you insist on protecting Beth? Tell you what, old sod. She’s stronger, in her way, than you or I will ever be. And she would want to know the truth. I’ll be the one to tell her, though. It will be easier, coming from me.”

  Nodding, Bryn refilled his glass. “I haven’t told Clare, so make sure Elizabeth understands that.”

  Lacey frowned at him. “Damned stupid, if you ask me. Women don’t like being lied to.”

  “Clare and I have enough problems as it is,” Bryn said curtly. “Have you made any progress at the estate?”

  “Not to speak of. Still on my honeymoon, you know, and I never dreamed you’d swoop down for an inspection. Last week I hired workmen to sweep out the cobwebs and cart away the rotted furniture, but the place is a shambles. Hell, Bryn, what do you expect to see?”

  “Hell is precisely what I expect to see. Don’t worry, Lace. This is by way of a pilgrimage, not an inspection. I’m looking for the part of me I left at River’s End, and a few answers.”

  The viscount regarded him sternly. “The answers are perfectly clear. Thing is, you’re not asking the right questions.”

  Bryn gazed moodily into his glass of wine. “At this point I’m ready to listen to any advice, even yours. So what are the questions?”

  Lacey propped his elbows on the table. “Only one, really. Why are you hellbent to live out your father’s life instead of your own?”

  Bryn’s head shot up. “I’m not doing that.”

  “No? Well, not his real life, of course. Just the one he ought to have lived, the one without the gaming and whoring.”

  “And what the devil is wrong with declining to lose my fortune at the tables or kill myself with diseased women? You came a damned sight closer to both than I ever did, before you met Elizabeth.”

  “Point taken,” Lacey said with a grin. “Thing is, you’ve gone to extremes in the other direction. Oh, you’re no saint—far from it—but you just plain don’t see, Bryndle. Your mind is like your eyes, only a few colors you can take in. The others you are missing altogether, and one of them is named Clare.”

  “You know nothing about Clare and me.” Bryn gave him a scorching look. “Stay out of this, Lace.”

  “I intend to. But you did ask, so I’ll give you a last piece of advice. Tell her everything, from the beginning. Let her know who you are and how you got that way.”

  “You think that will make a difference? She has troubles of her own, ones that have nothing to do with me. Except they mean she cannot—” He waved a hand. “Knowing me better won’t change that.”

  “She might help you know yourself. Anyway, that’s the best I can do. Honesty. Try it.” Lacey came to his feet. “One other thing. Last time you were at River’s End, plotting out the rest of your life, you were fifteen years old. You ain’t too smart now, old boy. What in blazes did you know back then?”

  MOUNTED IN FRONT of Bryn on a large bay horse, Clare regarded the derelict house with amazement. It was part medieval castle, part Tudor mansion, with bits and pieces of architectural styles tacked on here and there over the centuries.

  The crenellated stone walls had been torn down in front but still surrounded the house on three sides, as if the Talgarths had turned their backs on Wales. Ivy covered much of the house, and weeds had taken over the gardens.

  Bryn swung down and helped her alight. “The place is a mess,” he warned.

  “I can see that. Robert will bring it to life again, or as much as he can until someone makes it a home.”

  “That won’t happen for many years, Clare.” He led her up the steps to the unlocked door, which creaked when he pushed it open. “I want it restored for my heir, and to give Lace a job he can handle. I’ve no intention of living here myself.”

  Aware of the bitterness in his voice, she only nodded and followed him inside.

  The smell of damp stone and moldy wood nearly overpowered her. In the wide hall, stained paper curled away from the walls, which were hung with faded portraits, the figures nearly unrecognizable beneath decades of dust and grime. Empty niches and barren pedestals gave bleak testimony to better days.

  “The original fortress was constructed in the eleventh century,” he said. “Not much is left of it, except the great hall and the defensive walls.”

  She trailed him through an enormous arched doorway into a massive room, the stone walls blackened by smoke except where tapestries had previously hung. At the far end of the hall a veritable medieval arsenal was arrayed behind a platform that once held, she suspected, the table of honor at lavish banquets. There were crossbows and spears, pikes and maces, broadswords and long knives of all sorts. Two fireplaces, one on either side of the room, were tall enough for Bryn to stand in.

  From overhead, she heard the rustle of birds nesting on the heavy wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling.

  “It was not always so desolate,” Bryn said quietly. “When my father came home from his travels with a horde of friends in his wake, the hall was filled with music and laughter. I used to watch through one of the peepholes and imagine myself sitting there”—he pointed to the platform—“in his chair. He was like the king of a glittering court, always the center of attention. I wanted to be like that. Like him.”

  He laughed, the sound echoing hollowly in the vast room.

  “A child’s dream, built—like all dreams—on quicksand. Is anything ever the way we think it is, Clare? Or want it to be?”

  She gazed at him helplessly, but he didn’t appear to expect an answer. He had begun to wander around the hall, lost in his memories. “Would you rather be alone?” she asked after a while.

  He spun on his heels. “God, no. If you can bear my company and this house, I need you with me. We won’t stay long. There is only one other room I want to see.”

  She held out her arms. “As long as it takes, Bryn.”

  With a swift stride, he crossed the room and seized her hand. “Come upstairs, then. And thank you. I would sooner not face this alone.”

  The sheer size and odd configuration of the manor became apparent as he led her to a wide staircase and then down a seemingly endless passageway that turned first to the right and then the left before dead-ending at a wide doorway. The door itself hung drunkenly from one hinge and made a groaning sound when he pushed it open.

  “My father’s chamber,” he said without expression. “He died in that bed.”

  Only the carved wooden frame and canopy remained. Against one wall stood a heavy armoire, and a side table ran almost the length of the other. There were no chairs, no carpeting, no other furniture. Her eyes were drawn to a large painting, th
e sole touch of color in the room although it badly needed cleaning.

  Still holding her hand, Bryn moved to stand in front of the portrait.

  She gasped. The hair was powdered, but the blue eyes and forceful chin were more than familiar. “That could be you!”

  “Owen Talgarth, sixteenth Earl of Caradoc. Whenever I look into a mirror, I see him. Or rather, I see this picture. He looked nothing like it the last few years.”

  “When he was ill,” she said, gripping Bryn’s fingers tightly. Even through her gloves and his, they felt cold. “Will it help to tell me what happened?”

  He shrugged. “Lacey said I should, although I cannot think how it will change anything. I’m not even sure why I brought you here, or why I came myself. Can you work an exorcism, Clare? Rid me of these demons?”

  “I can listen,” she said simply.

  And she did, for nearly an hour as he spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. With growing horror, she followed him through the years when he had idolized his father to the loneliness of mother and child when the earl abandoned them in favor of his own pleasures, and finally to the destruction of everything Bryn had believed in.

  He looked at the portrait as he told the story, as if addressing Owen Talgarth instead of her. And she looked at his face, reading the pain he tried to conceal as he skimmed over the worst details, making little of his own ordeal.

  It was a long time before she realized he’d stopped speaking. He had been describing the last night before his father sank into unconsciousness and seemed unable to continue.

  Finally he tore his gaze from the painting and looked at her. “I might have forgiven him anything, Clare. I wanted to. But he killed my mother.”

  Her heart gave a lurch. “Oh, God, Bryn. He murdered her?”

  “He might as well have done. She contracted the pox from him, or that’s my guess. He was sick from it when he came home for a few months but seemed to recover. The disease comes and goes for a time, and then it stays. I think he knew he was dying when he took off again for one last mad grab at life, gambling away what remained of his fortune—and left his wife to confront her illness alone. She could not. One day she walked into the river, and her body was found a few miles away. Everyone called it an accident, but I heard the whispers.”

  His voice hardened.

  “The hell of it is, he loved her. And she thought he walked on air. But love was never enough for him. He had everything that ought to matter, and he wanted more. At the end, he had nothing at all.”

  “Except you,” she murmured.

  “A skinny boy still trying to hold on to his illusions,” he said mockingly. “I had the senseless notion I could change everything, make it all go away, if I became what he ought to have been. I promised myself I would. But I’ve accomplished exactly nothing.” He gestured at the gloomy chamber. “The estate is a ruin. There is no heir. All I have done is make money and spend it on my own indulgences.”

  “Harmless indulgences,” she reminded him gently. “You earned your fortune and have not gambled it away. There will be a legacy for your children when you marry. You are not your father, Bryn. And any debt you ever owed was paid during the years you cared for him.”

  He mustered a faint smile. “It occurs to me that we both spent our childhood in much the same way, me tending a father blind and insane from his disease, you nursing a madwoman who left two children for you to raise alone. But I have failed my obligations, while you—”

  “Have also failed,” she said bluntly. “Joseph and Jeremy would be ashamed to know what I have done.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “Only if they are fools. You are the bravest individual I have ever met, and they would agree.” His grip tightened. “I’d have given you the money, Clare, without obligation, had you told me the truth from the beginning.”

  Tears burned her eyes. “I expect you would have, now that I know you. But I didn’t, not then. And even so, I would have been too proud and stubborn to accept.”

  “It appears we share any number of vices,” he observed.

  She leaned against his chest, grateful when his arms wrapped around her because her knees had buckled. “Yes,” she whispered to his lapel. “But you saved me, while I have given you so very little. And have sworn to give you no more. It isn’t fair, Bryn. You deserve better.” Crying in earnest, she lifted her gaze to his face. “What are we to do?”

  He regarded her gravely. “The last thing my father said to me, the last thing that made sense, was Do what you want. And so I have, for the most part, although I watched him suffer the consequences of that philosophy. If I was careful about money and women, it was only because I feared to die as he did, impoverished and insane. But now I am beginning to understand that I didn’t learn how to live. Not until, until I met you. We belong together, Clare. Can you not see that?”

  Her throat tightened. “I have promised otherwise, in exchange for your life.”

  “And you honestly believe God will hold you to that?” He shook his head. “I am not convinced that your vow of future chastity and my recovery are related.”

  “Perhaps not,” she admitted. “But don’t you see? It is a matter of personal integrity. You have spent twenty years haunted by promises made on behalf of a father who betrayed you in every way. How can I turn my back on a promise made to God?”

  He rested his cheek against hers. “You cannot, princess. You would never be happy with me if you did.” After a moment, he stepped back and took her hand. “I have found what I was looking for. Now let me show you what is beautiful about River’s End.”

  He led her outside and up a stone stairway to the narrow walk along the fortress walls.

  She caught her breath. The view was spectacular. In the distance, a ridge of mountains lifted to the blue sky. Where they fell off to a valley lush with trees, a river curled like a silver ribbon, sunlight flashing off the water.

  “The Black Mountains,” he said. “Between them and the river Honddu, you can just make out the remains of Offa’s Dyke. It runs all the way from the north coast to Chepstow. For a long time the dike marked the border between England and Wales, although the territory was often disputed. The first Earl of Caradoc built on this promontory at William the Conqueror’s behest, to hold off the barbarians, although I suspect the Normans did more harm to England than the Welsh.” He grinned. “I rather lean to the west, because Welshmen are great lovers of music.”

  “How beautiful this is, Bryn,” she said in an awed voice. “No wonder you want to preserve it.”

  “The village of Talgarth is located across those mountains,” he told her. “I have no doubt my ancestors tended pigs and herded sheep there, until some ambitious young rogue betrayed his heritage and fought on the winning side. If Harold had prevailed against the Conqueror, I would be a peasant instead of an earl.”

  She chuckled. “Unimaginable. No shepherd was ever so arrogant.”

  “Nor any earl,” he said seriously, “with so little reason.” He put his hands on her cheeks, gazing resolutely into her eyes. “Marry me, Clare.”

  She blinked. He was out of his mind to even suggest it. “You cannot mean that. What a crackbrained notion!”

  “I have never meant anything more. You promised not to sin with me, but if we are married there is no sin. You can keep your meaningless vow to God and we will both be happy. It is the obvious answer. And don’t try to tell me otherwise, because I know you want me almost as much as I want you.”

  Stepping back, she squared her shoulders. “And what of your own vow, to marry well with a woman of your own class? Don’t be absurd, Bryn. I am the daughter of a country vicar, ineligible even had I not turned whore. You are not thinking clearly.”

  His hands tightened to fists. “On the contrary. I am thinking clearly for the first time in my life. And if I ever again hear you refer to yourself as a whore, I will take you over my knee. You became my mistress for reasons the whole world would applaud, and even your strict God has a
lready forgiven you. Now put an end to this charade and be my wife.”

  She took a deep breath. “No, I will not. No.”

  Bryn regarded her with a stunned expression. “Why the hell not?”

  “At this moment,” Clare said slowly, “you think it a perfect solution. But when we leave here, and you’ve had time to consider, you will know otherwise.”

  “I have considered. Listen to me, princess. Lots of men marry their mistresses—Charles Fox for one—and nobody that mattered gave a damn. Prinny tried to marry Maria Fitzherbert. The Duke of Clarence had ten little FitzClarences by Mrs. Jordan. These things are forgiven and forgot.”

  “Bryn, I don’t know how to live among people who dishonor their marriage vows and breed children who will carry the stigma of being born out of wedlock all their lives. What little taste I’ve had of aristocratic disregard for fidelity only convinces me that I want no part of it. A careless nobleman took his pleasure with Ardis and left her pregnant and alone. I doubt he has ever given her a second thought, and he doesn’t even know he fathered two wonderful boys.”

  “What is all that to the point? You and I will be married, Clare. Our children will be legitimate. I shall always be faithful to you.”

  She drew herself up. “I believe you mean that. And I also believe you would come to regret allying yourself with a woman of common birth who sold herself for money. You cannot change overnight, Bryn, and would despise yourself for setting aside the promises you made years ago. They would come back to haunt us both. I won’t let you do it.”

  “By God, Clare, how can you be so bullheaded? I was wrong before, and now I’m right. If l can change, so can you.”

  She regarded him somberly. “I have done a great many things I ought not. Even enjoyed them, to my shame. But I will not take advantage of your impulsive whim. And you are impulsive, you know, with a lamentable tendency to fly off the handle. If it is any comfort, I care enough for you to save you from yourself.”