Abandon

by Moors, Jerusha

  “I am so sorry, Harriet. It was bad behavior on my part, going back to our childhood.” Lucy was remorseful, especially when confronted with Harriet’s embarrassment and indignation. “I’m sure that I should return home and let this scandal die a normal death. If I leave now, you’ll have time before the wedding for everyone to forget this incident even happened.”

  “No, you are not going anywhere,” Harriet had said emphasizing her order with a sharp tap on Lucy's hand. “You will be in my wedding party. And we will find a way to put this behind us.” She had rested her finger on her lips, tapping as she thought.

  “I have it,” she had exclaimed. “You will attend the theater tonight with George and me as well as Lovell. You will be nice to him and everyone will see that the incident just now was an unfortunate misunderstanding. And from now on at the events we attend, you must dance or even flirt with him.” By this time the carriage had stopped and Harriet had fixed Lucy with a gimlet stare.

  “I cannot tonight, Harriet. I promised Carlisle that I would attend the Etherington’s musicale with him. You know that he must leave in the morning for a few days at his estate and I cannot let him down. But you have a good plan. From now on I will attend whatever you wish.” Lucy had promised, caught by her friend’s tears and dismay.

  She bit her lower lip, thinking about her deceit. Carlisle had already left for his estates so she was staying at home this evening. Harriet would be furious when she found out but Lucy couldn’t bear facing Aubrey again so soon.

  She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the pane of glass as she gazed out at the small garden in the back of the town house. Aubrey had looked well. The gangly youth was gone replaced by a lean man with darkened skin and chestnut hair lightened by the sun. His face didn’t have the easy humor that he had had as a young man, but seemed more serious. Of course he had been tense, seeing her for the first time in all these years. He must feel some guilt for the way he had treated her.

  For a long time Lucy had thought that Aubrey had left without the least care in the world. One day he was going to marry her and then the next day he was gone, out of the country, without leaving a note or any word to explain. She had believed his protestations of love and loved him in return, with all the fervor of a young girl. She had given him her innocence and he had betrayed her, all because she was not born with the proper bloodlines.

  She had been raised as a lady but had found out shortly after Aubrey left her that her mother, Lady Sybil, the woman who had raised her, was not her blood mother. She had adopted Lucy at birth. She didn’t mind, Lady Sybil would always be her true mother and she didn’t even know the woman who had birthed her. Lady Sybil had explained and Lucy had hugged her and they had cried together. Lady Sybil had loved her as her daughter and Lucy had been distraught at her death.

  But what had most hurt her was that Aubrey St Clare would perceive her as less because her mother was not a lady. That he could see her as so inconsequential that he would seduce her with promises of marriage and then abandon her once he’d had her. Oh, she had been naive and that innocence had led her astray.

  Her first season had been bad. Her father's death had delayed it and then Lady Sybil’s death had followed. She had not wanted to leave Wakefield Hall but Richard had insisted. He promised her that she needed to go to London and enjoy herself with all the activities that a young lady of the Ton would relish.

  But it had been a disaster. Aside from Harriet she had not found any friends among the young ladies. Most were younger than her, silly in their innocence and youth. And only her fortune or her looks had interested the men. Once the rumors of her birth had surfaced, it had been her possible lack of morals that had attracted the men. Any of the respectable men who might have offered marriage drifted away. She had not been interested in a marriage offer, but she had promised Richard that she would try.

  All that was left were the fortune hunters, the rakes, and the dissolute, men who wanted her dowry or her body. Then had come the reckless night when she had let Rathburn take her into the garden at the Fifield’s ball. No one had danced with her and she was angry and bored. She had not cared about the matrons who eyed her askance. Her Aunt Sylvia had disappeared into the card room and Rathburn had appeared with a glass of punch, charming her and finally leading her into the garden.

  He had merely stolen a kiss and Lucy had allowed it, curious to see how it felt to kiss someone other than Aubrey. But of course they had been caught, Rathburn had immediately proposed, and she had just as quickly refused him. It was stupid to have to marry a man just because he had kissed her and she had no feelings except loathing for Rathburn. He apparently had feelings for her dowry, because he had tried to insist. Richard had sided with her but it had caused a terrible scandal. Gossip abounded that it had been more than a kiss and everyone except for Harriet had refused to associate with her.

  Richard had finally allowed her to return home, much to her relief. Harriet had remained her friend and they corresponded, confiding in each other. Lucy had been truly glad for her when Aversley took an interest that developed into true feelings on both sides. Harriet was a good woman and deserved happiness.

  So, Lucy was glad for her friend and, though she hated leaving Yorkshire, had taken the long journey to London to help Harriet celebrate her nuptials with Aversley. Richard could not accompany her as Anne, his wife, was carrying their first child. So he had insisted that Carlisle would escort Lucy and watch over her in Town.

  Carlisle was an old friend of his from his school days. Lucy knew that he liked her and she liked him in return and enjoyed his company, but she had been right to refuse his marriage proposal. He was not in love with her, but he needed a wife and was being protective of her. But she did not need protection, not from any man. She had learned at a young age to protect her heart and she would never fall in love again.

  The door to the drawing room opened and the housekeeper, Mrs. Brundage, stood there.

  “My lady, would you like some tea?” she inquired.

  Lucy shook her head. The town house had minimal staff as Richard thought that she was staying with Harriet. Lucy preferred being alone.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brundage, but I would prefer a supper tray in my room a little later. Whatever you have on hand is fine. I will be staying in tonight.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Mrs. Brundage curtseyed and left.

  Lucilla turned back to the window and sighed. Aubrey being here certainly complicated things. Well, she would be polite and otherwise ignore him. He had ignored her for the last five years, so presumably he was no more anxious to be with her now. And it was only for a few weeks.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the miniature that she had slipped into it earlier when she had returned to the house. It was a picture of her painted when she was seventeen, her hair flowing down her back, thick and unruly, and the glow of first love on her face. Aubrey had done it and she had treasured it when he gave it to her. Now she kept it to remember his betrayal.

  Her resolve firmed and she nodded to herself, determined to get through the next days with poise and grace. He would not take her unawares again.

  Chapter Five

  Aubrey strode in his front entry way, dropping his hat and gloves on the table before the footman even reached him. He had spent the evening at home, begging off from his invitation to the theatre with Aversley, and had indulged in a little too much brandy after leaving the club. An early morning ride had cleared his head and now he was anxious to find his mother.

  He reached the breakfast room, but it was empty. His mother had been out the previous evening and he had missed her at dinner so he had sat in his library and brooded.

  The footman had finally caught up with him and put together a plate of food for his breakfast from the dishes on the sideboard. Aubrey might have missed English breakfasts most of all during his sojourn in Italy. He took a bite of cold veal pie and sipped at his tea. There was nothing like English tea. Even if it was no
t grown in England, it seemed to taste differently here in England. Maybe it was the cream.

  Aubrey shook his head, wondering at his wandering thoughts. He glanced at the doorway, but it was too early for his mother to be up and about yet. He grimaced to himself, the questions he wanted to pose to her running through his mind again.

  “Is everything to your liking, my lord,” the footman had noticed his frown.

  “This is fine,” he replied. “Has my mother arisen yet?”

  “No, her ladyship usually does not appear for some time yet, unless she has an event to attend during the day.” The footman bowed and backed away into a corner.

  Aubrey nodded absently and drummed his fingers on the table. He unrolled the newspaper that sat on the corner of the table and pretended to read it, but his mind was far away again.

  He had rushed into his mother’s drawing room where she was sitting with some needlework, her head bent over the frame as her slender fingers pulled crimson thread through the cloth. Her dark hair was prematurely shot through with gray and he paused for a moment, watching her and hoping that she might find some happiness in the news that he had come to share. She had so little joy in her life. Aubrey’s father was a bluff, jovial man, but seldom at home. He would rather spend his time with friends, gambling or hunting, than home with his brittle wife. And he had many other women that he would consort with and did not care if his wife or heir knew of his affairs.

  She looked up, her lips tight. “Slowly, my son, slowly. Behave as a gentleman, there is no need to rush about,” she rebuked him.

  “Yes, mother, of course.” He had immediately gone to sit at her side. She had glanced at him, curious, but turned back to her embroidery.

  “Mother, I have news.” Aubrey bit his lip, but she still did not look at him. He took a big gulp of air and laid his hands on his knees, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

  She finally finished the stitch and placed her needlework in her lap. She looked at him, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed. If only he could please her, he would do anything. But he had learned long ago that he could not control her happiness.

  “Yes, Lovell, what is it?” She never called him by his name, never touched him. Lady Lovell stayed remote and cool to everyone around her, treating servants and her son alike.

  “I am to be married.” Her eyes widened slightly and her lips tightened even more, but she did not respond otherwise.

  Aubrey continued, watching her. “Lady Lucilla has consented to be my bride. We are to be married as soon as it can be arranged.”

  “No.”

  Aubrey started, certain that he had not heard her, her voice had been so soft.

  “You may not marry Lady Lucilla Blount. You are both too young.”

  “I am a man now, mother. I have finished university and will be taking on the duties of the estate, helping father. And Lady Lucilla does not want a season anyway. There is no need to delay.”

  His mother clenched her hands together, the knuckles turned white. “No, you do not understand. You may not marry Lady Lucilla.”

  “You are correct, I do not understand. We are in love and it is a good match. She is the daughter of an Earl and…”

  His mother interrupted with a caustic laugh, her mouth tilted up to one side in a sneer. “She is no Earl’s daughter. She is the daughter of a Viscount.” She abruptly stood and crossed to in front of the fireplace, then turned back to face him.

  “Lady Wakefield was one of your father’s paramours,” she said bitterly. “Lady Lucilla Blount is your sister.”

  The room spun around Aubrey and his stomach roiled. “No, no, that cannot be. Lady Wakefield is devoted to her husband. My father would never…” But he stopped, knowing that his father indeed would, if he had the opportunity.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the sofa. True, Lucy and he had the same coloring, different from her brother, Richard, but he had never thought anything of that. Oh, God, he and Lucilla had…but that intimacy was a grave sin, even if they did not know. Aubrey stood and staggered to a corner where he cast up his accounts, all over his mother’s prize Aubusson rug.

  His mother stood with her hands folded at her waist, watching him impassively, until he finished emptying his stomach. He wiped the back of his hand against his mouth, tasting the bitterness and the bile.

  He had left for Italy the next morning without leaving word for either of his parents or Lucy. It was better that she thought him a cad who had toyed with her affections and taken her innocence then that she knew the truth.

  Where was his mother? He was impatient to confront her. At the time he had believed her story. There was no reason for her to lie and what she said was plausible, except that he knew in his heart that Lady Wakefield would never betray her husband. The differences between his parents’ relationship and Lucy’s parents loving affection was night and day.

  If the story that Blakesley had told him was true, then he had left for naught. He and Lucy might have married. He should have waited, investigated further, asked his father. He had never stopped loving Lucy and now she hated him. Aubrey put that thought aside. He would resolve that matter later, once he had confirmed Blakesley’s story with his mother.

  He pushed away from the table, intent on finding his mother immediately. He thought he might burst out of his skin if he did not talk to her directly. He strode briskly down the parquet floors to the stairway. His boots clicked on the steps as he took them two at a time to the second floor. He knocked at his mother’s door and waited. Surely she was up by now.

  “Yes,” Aubrey heard from within the room.

  “I wondered if I might have a word,” he called.

  “Come in.”

  Aubrey turned the doorknob and entered the room. It was a large space, done in cream and crimson with touches of gold. The curtains had been pulled back and French, his mother’s maid, was bustling about, clothing in her hands. His mother sat in bed, a tray on her lap, taking a sip of her favorite chocolate. Aubrey stopped and studied her. She was a thin woman, her hair pulled back severely, her face unlined, one eyebrow raised as she looked up at him.

  “Yes, Lovell, what is it?” the dowager Lady Lovell put her cup down and waited.

  Aubrey glanced at French and she curtseyed and disappeared into the dressing room. His mother put her cup down and crossed her hands across her lap, waiting for him to speak. Aubrey thought that her foot would be tapping if she had been standing.

  “I met Lady Lucilla Blount yesterday when I was doing errands.” Best to be direct, Aubrey thought.

  His mother’s lips tightened into a sneer. “There was talk at Remington’s soiree last evening. I understand there was an incident.” She picked her cup up again, but Aubrey saw her hand tremble, just a little. “She should not have involved you. Bad breeding there.” She sniffed and narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I could hardly avoid it, Mother.” Aubrey realized he was getting off track. “But there was talk at my club afterwards. Interesting talk.” He realized that he had clenched a fist, his whole body tense. He deliberately relaxed, knowing that she would recognize his tension and take advantage of it.

  She just sipped her chocolate, her eyes studying him over the rim. Lady Lovell was an old adversary and Aubrey needed to be careful. She was so much better at this than he was.

  “I supposed you would like to hear what the gossip was at my club?”

  “Not really. I don’t care for gossip.”

  “It was about her parentage.” Aubrey drew in a deep breath and waited.

  Another sniff and his mother put the cup back down on the tray firmly. She picked up a biscuit, breaking off a small piece and brought it to her lips.

  “Mother, why did you tell me that she was my half-sister?”

  “Did I?” She did not look up, just studied the piece of biscuit.

  Aubrey held on to his temper. “Yes, you did. But she’s not, that was never true.” He clenched his fists again, but this time he did not
try to relax them. “Why would you tell me that?”

  “Oh, Aubrey, what does it matter now? It’s over and done with.” She sighed and finally looked up at him. “You were too young and she was not good enough for you, but you were infatuated with her. I did not mean for you to run away to Italy though.”

  “No, mother, it is not over and done with.” Aubrey strode to the window and looked out, wanting to put his fist through the glass. Five years gone by, he thought, five years lost.

  “Really, Lovell, you are making too much of this,” his mother sounded nervous. “You have moved on, the girl, I presume, has moved on so what is the difference now?”

  Aubrey whirled around. “What is the difference? Five years that I lost with the woman that I love.”

  Lady Lovell’s eyes widened, but she attempted to regain the upper hand. “Lovell, you are acting like a child deprived of his favorite toy. We do not marry for love, but for money or status. From what I hear, you can have the girl as your mistress. Meanwhile, I can look for a suitable wife for you, now that you have returned home. I had already thought of a few young ladies of appropriate rank….” Her voice trailed off as she took in the look on his face. Aubrey had never been one to put on appearances as many of the Ton did, but his face had turned to stone, a mask that she could not penetrate.

  “I think you have said and done enough. I would like you out of the house. Perhaps your sister would be amenable for a visit, but I do not care especially where you go. I just want you out of my affairs,” as he strode towards the door, he tossed back over his shoulder, “Immediately.”

  He stood trembling outside his mother’s door and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. Scattered thoughts and visions ran through his mind and he rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension there.

  He walked down the hall to the room at the back that he used as a studio. It was well lit, suitable for his painting. He had had the carpet removed and his easel stood, ready for him to work, but he definitely was not in the mood to put brush to canvas now. He walked over to a stack of canvases piled up against the wall and started to go through them, pulling them out one by one. The first few were landscapes, views of the Tuscan hills or the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean Sea. Then he reached the portraits and he took them and placed them in a row against the wall, displaying them to his view.