James snorted. The breeze picked up the scent of grass and sheep dung. Bile rose in Con’s throat and he wished they’d walked in a different direction. He brushed his hair from his brow with a shaking hand.
“You don’t have to believe me. I can’t expect you to. If it’s any consolation, I have hated myself far longer than you’ve hated me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Con heard the lack of conviction in his son’s voice. James spoke out of automatic duty, not affection.
“Please get down from there. Why don’t we walk to the lake? It will be cooler there.”
James swung his leg over and slid down, catching his jacket on the wire. Con tried to get him free but James pulled away, causing a robust rip instead. Con reminded himself to respect the physical boundary between them his son was setting, although all he wanted was to give James a hug and tell him how sorry he was for bollixing up all their lives.
Instead he followed the boy down a grassy track, keeping a respectful five paces behind. They entered the deep shade of the woods path that led to the lake and Con unwound his sweat-ruined tie. “I was just nineteen when I married your mother, not even of age. I’m not making excuses, but my great-uncle as my guardian had to give permission for us to wed. I was deeply in debt to your grandfather Berryman. There were many people who depended on me and the estate, and I was next to bankrupt. My uncle had seen to that.”
James had too much Berryman in him to ever be caught in so vulnerable a position, and Con was sincerely glad of it. His son would be spared from making decisions that rent his heart—if he had one—in two.
“Mama didn’t like your uncle. She had to send him money all the time.”
“She was wise, your mama. He and his brother, my grandfather, were always at odds, and when he inherited me and a ledger full of red ink, he saw his chance to stick it to the House of Conover. Whether it was all deliberate or a mixture of bad financial planning I’m not sure, but by the time I came down early from Cambridge, things were dire. My uncle had made a deal with your grandfather, and the marriage was arranged.”
The glare of the sun on the silvery water was blinding. Con turned his back to it and sat down in a bed of rusty pine needles. James lowered himself opposite, his legs crossed Indian-fashion.
“I’d had a youthful attachment with Bea’s mother. We—we weren’t very sensible when we knew I had to marry someone else. I’m sure you’ve heard—you go to school—you know what’s talked about in the dormitory. What happens between—”
“Yes, yes.” James’s face screwed up with disgust. Con nearly smiled. That would change in a few years. When he met the right girl.
When he met his own Laurette.
“Well, the girl and I broke it off and I married your mother. You know she was very pretty. Intelligent. She helped her father with his business. She was quite a bit older than I, and very—forceful. Marianna knew what she liked, went after it, and got it.” He paused, reliving the crushing oppression he felt under the thumb of the Berrymans.
He had confessed to Laurette—that he’d broken his standing stones vows to her and was about to become a father. Con trudged back, hands in his pockets. He fingered the stitched inch-square of sheer cloth he’d found in the tree limbs yesterday, filled with silver beading from Laurette’s come-out dress, the dress she wore to their “wedding.” He remembered her walking through the garlanded door of the modest assembly room the night of her debut on her father’s arm. The deep indigo of her gown had turned her eyes dark as she sought him out in the crowd of neighbors. Her hair gleamed bronze in the fading daylight. He had taken her virginity the next morning in the sheltering shade of their tree. The act had been too quick and awkward, but they had found their pace over the heat of the summer, contriving to meet as often as they dared. When they had made love after their stone circle wedding, their bodies had learned well.
He had lost her for good, now. The shock in her eyes told him he’d betrayed her for the last time. He had a duty to his wife and their child, duty to his dependents. He kicked a fallen branch savagely out of his way. Next year he’d get his allowance and be free of the Berrymans. He’d beg Laurette to leave with him. They could go anywhere in the world. He could follow in his feckless grandfather’s footsteps.
By then, he’d have a son or daughter. Pray for a son, his father-in-law had told him, for until his wife delivered an heir to Con’s misfortune, he was bound to Marianna Berryman by the complicated agreement his uncle had signed on his behalf.
Con suppressed his urge to tear something to tatters. One hand worked around the smooth rock in his pocket, the other pressing the bag of beads into his palm hard enough to hurt. Two worthless signs of years of love and friendship. He could toss them into the Piddle and be done with them, but Laurette would not be uprooted from his heart so readily.
He entered the serene vacuum which was Ryland Grove. The house was hushed, the workmen packed up. Marianna’s Town servants moved with impeccable grace as they handed him off to his own chamber, a template for all that a nobleman’s bedchamber should be. Here at least was some color, dark red bedcovers to match the dark red walls, fur rugs before the hearth, a painting of a stiff stag ever on alert. There was no trace of Con’s collection of stones or his grandfather’s books, the fleet of boats he’d carved with Laurette to set sail on the river. Although it was full daylight, he threw himself down on the bed, boots and all, and let the silent racking sobs loose.
James could not possibly understand what he had felt, so he couched his next words. “I was resentful, I suppose. Felt outmaneuvered at every turn. I was still a stupid boy and your mother—she was a woman.”
James nearly smiled. “She was bossy. She bossed me around too.”
“I tried to make it work, James.” Con tasted the lie but hoped James would believe it. “Your mother was very excited when she knew you were on the way. We both were. But when you were born, I felt even more useless than I had before. So I left.
“I didn’t expect to stay away forever. But days turned into weeks, and somehow months turned into years, and I didn’t go home. I—somehow couldn’t.”
At twenty, Con had felt trapped in amber, a bug beneath the Berryman eyes, his every feeble attempt to twitch a wing impossible. He had dreaded returning, fearing his hard-won independence would soon evaporate under Marianne’s cool blue stare.
But he had a son. Con had come home for James, although it was too late.
“I knew your mother would take good care of you, and good care of herself. She was very capable, much more so than I was. I was ashamed that I left her on her own, but angry at the same time. I didn’t want to have to depend on the Berryman fortune, so I set about making my own. I realize now how wrong I was, but I cannot change what happened. All the money I’ve made and the things I’ve done will never make up for walking away from you.”
“What about Bea? What’s going to happen to her?”
Con lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve been assured she is happy as she is.”
“She is my sister,” James said, forcing Con to nod in the affirmative. “I told her I thought so. And she cried.”
There was too much smug satisfaction there for Con’s comfort. “Please let it go, James. This is not the time to tell her. Perhaps when she’s older.”
“A few years won’t make her any less of a bastard.”
Con inhaled sharply. “Don’t be cruel, James. She shouldn’t be made to pay for my mistakes.”
“I don’t know if I can keep it a secret. She’s not leaving until two days from now. She and Aunt Laurette are packing.”
Damn. Laurette had kept her end of their deal to the day. Perhaps they could leave tomorrow. Today. He wasn’t sure he could trust his son to keep so momentous a revelation to himself. He had given the boy power over all of them.
Power to hurt as he had been hurt.
“James, Bea is innocent in all this. And you like her. You’re friends. Please don’t say anything to h
er.”
Con watched the calculation in his son’s eyes. It was like seeing Marianna all over again as James deliberated his fate.
“Mama knew, didn’t she? That was why she always tried to throw us together when Bea came to visit Aunt Laurette.” A shadow crossed his face and he stood up abruptly. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “They were friends. Best friends.”
The last piece of the puzzle had snapped into place.
Con’s words had been broken, his sentences fragments. He’d done his best to explain why every important adult in the child’s life had lied to him, not that it made James’s expression look any less thunderous.
At last, Con let him go. But he had managed to get his son’s promise to keep Laurette’s secret, offering to share Marianna’s last letter when they returned home. When he read it, James would see his father was not a complete villain.
It was an extraordinary document, written in a spidery hand weakened by the fast-spreading cancer that ravaged her. Mr. Foster had remembered the letter’s existence and given it to him too late—after Con had made his ill-fated proposal to Laurette. It was clear Mr. Foster didn’t think Con deserved a word from his wife, but his attention to detail and loyalty trumped his antipathy to the man who had deserted his employer’s daughter.
In it, Marianna had told him not only about Beatrix, but her role in keeping the child’s existence a secret. More Berryman bribery, but he supposed even knowing he had another child might not have brought him home. Con wondered if Laurette would have answered differently if he’d had a plan for their child back when he first proposed. Probably not.
After he met with Foster, his fury had ignited all over again until he thought he saw a way to right the past. This year had taken a toll on his emotions and pocketbook, and still had come to nothing but resentment from his son, and Laurette’s permanent refusal of his suit.
It was time he gave up, this time for good. There was no point harboring hope.
He started back to the house, sticking his hand in his pocket, absently rubbing the skipping stone. In Greece they strung stones together to ease the edge of despair; Catholics had their rosary beads. Con settled for his River Piddle rock, smoothed by the rush of water and blessed with childhood joy. He’d need something the size of the Rock of Gibraltar to tell Laurette that James knew everything now.
He trusted James. They had shaken hands, and if Marianna had done anything, she had raised their child as a gentleman. But it was an enormous burden to place on the boy. The sooner Laurette and Beatrix left, the better.
Aram opened the front door to him, an act of unusual propriety. Con had told the servants this was to be as much a vacation for them as it was for his family, although Nadia and Sadie probably did not see it quite that way, as they turned out delicious meals in the newly-refurbished kitchen. But the atmosphere was relaxed, or he had meant it to be. Sunday lunch was to be a cold collation of greens from Mr. Carter’s neat garden, rolls and cold sliced ham. Perhaps it could be wrapped up as a picnic so he wouldn’t have to sit through what was bound to be a meal fraught with tension.
“Where is Miss Vincent, Aram?”
“I believe she is upstairs in her room, my lord. Packing.” The older man emphasized this last word.
“Yes. My little scheme did not go as planned, I’m afraid, and it’s bound to go worse. When Master James returns, could you see that Tomas or Nico—or both—distract him? They can take him somewhere with a box lunch. Anywhere. They can go riding. Caving. And have Nadia or Sadie look after Beatrix. Perhaps they can bake.”
Aram looked at his master. “It is too fine a day to spend indoors in the kitchens, my lord. And it is Sunday. The baking was done yesterday.”
“Well, then, take her for a nature walk or something. I want her kept separate from James. There will be no formal luncheon in the dining room today.”
Aram raised an eyebrow. He knew everything there was to know, and had urged Con to return home to his responsibilities for years. Aram’s own sons were the light of his life. Con wished he had listened to him sooner.
He took the stairs slowly, each foot quite unwilling to step on the next tread. Smart feet. Laurette would give him hell in a few minutes and he supposed he deserved every epithet she was going to toss at him. But if she left tomorrow, perhaps disaster could be delayed if not averted altogether.
Her door was open. She stood over the array of muslins, silks and satins spread out on her bed and every available chair, a look of consternation on her face. “Oh! Con! You may come in, but please close the door.”
He did as he was bid, wondering what she would say next. Had Beatrix plagued her about the portrait? He thought not. She seemed too calm, although she was in the middle of crinoline chaos.
“I cannot possibly take all this home. People would talk, and I truly have no use for such finery. Perhaps you can give them to Charlotte Fallon. My neighbor on Jane Street.” Laurette blushed. “Of course, you can dispose of them any way you wish. It’s just that Sir Michael won’t buy her a stitch and she looks very shabby.”
Trust Laurette to be thinking of another woman whose man let her down. She had plenty of experience in that area. He cleared his throat.
“They are yours to do with as you want, Laurie. I’ll see to it. I have something to say to you. Please sit down.”
Laurette looked around the room and suppressed a laugh. It looked as though her closet had exploded. She watched as Con bundled up an armful of dresses from the chairs by the fireplace and tossed them to the floor. She wanted to chide him for his carelessness, but since the dresses really belonged to him, she kept quiet and sat down. She watched the muscle in his jaw leap as he grasped the mantel and then turned to her. She was not going to sit still for a lecture.
“You’re angry at me because I ran home. Well, don’t be. Just as I thought, the children did find the painting, but everything is all right. I didn’t make a fuss and Bea didn’t ask too many questions. She’s packing all the toys you bought for her now.” She frowned. He still was as tense as she’d ever seen him. “You look like you’re the one who needs to sit down. What is it? I thought we came to an agreement.”
“We did. And now James is part of it.”
Her heart stilled. “What do you mean?”
“He knows everything. And that means you’ve got to leave tomorrow.”
“Everything?” Her voice was the faintest scratch.
“He guessed you’re Bea’s mother. I did not tell him, but I couldn’t lie.”
Laurette stumbled up. “Where is he? If he tells Beatrix—”
“He won’t. He promised not to. He’s off somewhere cooling his heels. I think he’s disgusted with the lot of us, his mother included.”
“Oh my God.” Her mind whirred, too fraught to give Con a piece of it. Her instincts had been right, and now everything—everything she’d ever gone through to protect Beatrix was at risk. Laurette had come to terms with the past, or thought she had until Con managed to revive it.
“I know it’s all my fault, Laurie. Every bit of it.”
Laurette was sick to her soul. Her worst fears could come true at any moment. She sank back down in the chair, heart now pounding like a cannon.
“I can get him out of the way today, and you can leave at first light. If we limit his contact with Bea—with you—I think he can hold to his promise until he works it all out for himself.”
How could an eleven-year-old boy keep such a portentous matter to himself? “What did he say?”
“A lot of hurtful things, at first. But I explained about Marianna. And his grandfather. He knows now the man was not a saint, nor, it turns out, was his mother. I had hoped to spare him.”
“Marianna took lovers,” Laurette blurted. She had never intended to speak against her friend to Con, for really, Marianna had tried hard to make up for the unhappiness she had caused. She had been generous to a fault with Laurette and her daughter. What did it matter if she sought what comfort
she could in the face of her husband’s abandonment?
“I know. People told me. I don’t have the nerve to hold it against her. I was no husband to her and never would have been even if she had lived. You are—you were—the only woman for me.” Con paced, his expression anguished. “But that’s not what we talked about. We talked about how she and her father conspired to keep the truth about you and Beatrix from me. I was as blunt as I could be about the circumstances of my marriage, Laurie. Imagine if you’re an eleven-year-old boy, hearing how you came to be, the result of desperation and guile. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”
For a moment Laurette wanted to go to Con and put her arms around him. Only for a moment. Instead she sat, staring into the empty fireplace, her blood thrumming. She could leave right now, if it came to it, leave the rainbow of her “mistress” dresses behind without a qualm, but she’d have a more difficult task explaining to Beatrix why it was necessary to pack and flee in a whirlwind. Tomorrow morning seemed so very far away. She knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.
“We won’t eat together. There’s no use pretending everything is normal. I’ll tell Sadie to bring a tray up.”
“I’m not hungry.” She swallowed. “Should I talk to him?”
“I don’t think it will do much good. But you can’t make anything worse than I have.”
“I wish—” There was no point in complaining she wished Con had been honest with her from the first. If anyone had cause to protest secrecy and manipulation after all the Berrymans and his uncle had done, it was he. They would not be in this deceptively idyllic Yorkshire hell if Con had told her the truth, told her what he had planned. She would have never come, never allowed her daughter near him. “I’m sure it will be all right,” she said, not sure of any such thing. “He’s a smart boy. He’ll come to see that none of this is really your fault.”
Con gave her a bleak smile. “How can you bear to make excuses for me?”
Because I love you. I always have. I probably always will, but our time is past.
Mistress by Midnight Page 20
