by Mary Balogh
“Jennifer.” Ellen looked acutely distressed. “I did not want you to find out like this. I wanted to tell you myself. I wanted to tell you the whole of it. There is a great deal to be said.”
Jennifer smiled brightly at her. “And I want to hear it all,” she said. “You shall tell me all about it sometime when we have the leisure. There will be lots of time, Ellen. Three weeks at Amberley Court. Oh, life suddenly seems very good again. But you are not looking happy. I am being very insensitive. There is a sadness for you too, as well as happiness. Papa isn’t here. He would never have known, would he?”
Ellen shook her head. “No,” she said, “he did not know.”
Ellen rose as soon as the men came into the drawing room, and stood behind the bench at the pianoforte, watching Madeline play. Jennifer stayed where she was, feeling her own happiness. Just a few months before, her world had seemed to end when her papa died. And yet she was now surrounded by family and friends at a party that was being given partly in her honor. And Grandpapa had said that she and Ellen must come to live with him when they returned from the country.
And Ellen was to have a child. She would have something of Papa left.
But Lieutenant Penworth was sitting alone in the darkest corner of the room. And he was shifting about as if he could not find a comfortable position, as if he were in some pain. Jennifer crossed to the tea tray, took two cups from her Aunt Dorothy’s hand, and carried them over to the corner. She took a seat close to his and smiled.
“Would you care for some tea, sir?” she asked.
“Thank you,” he said. “But you do not need to bother yourself waiting upon me, you know. You should be enjoying yourself with the other young people.”
“I can enjoy myself here,” she said, “with another young person.”
“There is no enjoyment to be gained here,” he said. “You should be at the pianoforte, singing or playing, and being admired.”
Jennifer laughed. “I am afraid that if I sang or played,” she said, “I would not be admired, sir. Would you not like to be closer to the pianoforte yourself?”
“It is better if I sit here,” he said. “If I went over there, everyone would be falling over themselves to find me a chair and to speak kindly, as if I were an infant.”
“You don’t like kindness?” she said.
“Not particularly,” he said.
“You would prefer that people ignored you or kicked your leg from under you?”
He stared at her rather coldly from his one eye. “You cannot possibly understand,” he said. “When you have been in the best of health, when other people have treated you as an equal, then it is hard to find that everything—and everyone—has changed.”
“But everything has changed,” she said. “Nothing can be quite the same for you again. But people have not been unkind to you, have they? Perhaps you should be thankful for that at least.”
“The very worst way in the world to be treated,” he said, “is with pity.”
Jennifer stirred her tea and lifted the cup to her lips. “You are right,” she said. “I don’t understand. I don’t know what it would be like to be in your place. But I would think that the very worst thing in the world is to feel self-pity.”
He was very angry. She could see that from the set of his jaw. “Self-pity!” he said. “To know that any stranger looking into my face for the rest of my life will either grimace with distaste or smile with embarrassed pity. To know that I will never again walk properly, never again ride, or sail a boat, or play cricket, or run. Or a hundred and one other things. I would be better off dead.”
“My father is dead,” she said, setting cup and saucer down carefully beside her. “He will never see the sun again. Or feel its warmth. He will never see Ellen again, or me. He will never know love again or laughter or tears. And we will never have him with us again. Only a great heavy emptiness where he used to be. And you dare to envy him?”
“Yes, I do,” he said curtly.
“Then you are greatly to be pitied,” she said. “Not because you have lost a leg, and not because your face has been disfigured. Not because your life must change beyond recognition. But because you do not have the character to cope with those changes. Because you have allowed yourself to crumble beneath adversity.”
“A very eloquent speech,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “I thank you.”
“I try to recognize the man I knew in Brussels,” she said. “I liked him. He was sunny-natured, and he had a love of life, and a passionate desire to serve his country. I think I even felt a little jealous at one time that he seemed to prefer Lady Madeline to me. I can see him sitting before me, even though one side of his face is covered with bandages, and a pair of crutches rests against his chair. But I have mistaken. He is not the same man. I am sorry. I would have mourned that man with my father if I had known that he died at Waterloo.”
His jaw was set very hard. He was choosing his words with care, she could see. But they were interrupted.
“Jennifer has brought you a cup of tea, Allan?” Madeline said, smiling warmly down at him. “That was kind of her. Did you hear me singing? I did so just for you. You are in some discomfort, aren’t you? Shall I take you home? I am sure everyone would understand.”
“We will stay here,” he said. “I want you to enjoy the evening, Madeline.”
“But I don’t mind leaving,” she said. “I don’t want you to be in pain.”
“We will stay,” he said, his eye straying to Jennifer. “I will play a hand of cards as soon as the tables are set up. I am sure I can see well enough to do that.”
“But of course you can,” Madeline said, laughing in some amusement.
Jennifer excused herself and moved away. How unforgivably rude she had been. She had said herself just a few days before that Lieutenant Penworth would need more time to adjust to the harsh circumstances of his future. And yet she had just ripped up at him as if he were a sullen schoolboy.
Perhaps she should go back to him and apologize, she thought. But no, that would doubtless make matters worse. He would think she was pitying him. She went to the pianoforte and seated herself on the bench beside Anna.
ELLEN TOOK A SEAT between Edith and Mrs. Everett, and talked with them while they drank their tea. It seemed a safe place to be. But when their cups were empty, Edith took hers and Ellen’s and crossed the room to return them to the tray. And she stayed there to talk with Dorothy. And Mrs. Everett was called away to play the pianoforte while Anna and Jennifer attempted a vocal duet.
The rest of the company were beginning to take their places at the tables for cards.
Ellen did not react fast enough. One of the empty chairs beside her was taken. And they were somewhat removed from both the pianoforte at one end of the room and the card tables at the other. Ellen clasped her hands in her lap and focused her attention on one of the tables. Lieutenant Penworth was to have Susan Jennings for a partner, and Lord Agerton had Madeline.
“Well, Ellen,” Lord Eden said quietly from beside her.
There was no reply to such a greeting, was there? Or if there was, she could not think of it. She said nothing.
“It appears you forgot to tell me something,” he said.
“My lord?” Her eyes shifted to his legs, clad in blue knee breeches, but could not lift to his face.
“You forgot to tell me that our liaison had consequences,” he said.
“You are referring to Sir Jasper’s announcement at dinner?” They were very foolish words, she knew. But she could think of no others.
“I suppose there are not many men,” he said, “who find out in just such a way that they have fathered a child. But under the circumstances I suppose I should be thankful that I found out at all. Tomorrow your secret would have been safe. Tomorrow I leave for Wiltshire.”
“My secret?” she said. “It has not been a secret, my lord. I have told a few people. I had no occasion to tell you.”
“Ah, of course,” he said. �
��How foolish of me to think that I am of any importance in this matter. I merely planted the seed. I am merely the father. A quite irrelevant person once the seed has been sown. It is conceited of me to feel that I should have been told.”
“I think you are under a misapprehension,” she said. “It is Charlie’s baby.”
She could feel him looking at her. She watched the card games in progress at the other side of the room.
“I see,” he said. “It was a happy coincidence, then, that after five years of marriage he finally got you with child at the last possible moment. Nothing shows yet. It must have been the last moment.”
“Yes,” she said. “A happy coincidence.”
“Happy for the Simpson family,” he said. “Very happy for Sir Jasper, who has a new grandchild to look forward to. Someone to replace the son he has lost and comfort him in his old age.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And happy for Miss Simpson, who will have a new brother or sister.”
“Yes.”
“Happy too for Mr. Phillip Simpson, who has thought himself his father’s heir since June. He must be hoping with his father that the child is male so that the family property and fortune will be restored to Charlie’s line again.” He leaned toward her suddenly. “What did you say?”
She tried again. “Yes,” she said.
“Ellen,” he said, “I never thought you a coward. I have seen proof time and time again that you are capable of extraordinary courage. Now I see you are capable of extraordinary cowardice too.”
She looked at him for the first time, her eyes flashing. “Prove it!” she said. “Prove that I am lying. Prove that the child is not Charlie’s. That I am too cowardly to admit the truth. Prove it!”
He shook his head. “I cannot do so,” he said, “and would not, even if I could. But you and I both know the truth, Ellen. You are carrying a child that is mine and yours. And it always will be ours, however much you wish it could be Charlie’s, and however much you look for signs of him in the growing child. You will be fortunate indeed if it does not have green eyes.”
“Charlie did not have green eyes,” she said, “and I do not.”
His eyes passed slowly and almost lazily over the other occupants of the room, none of whom were paying them any attention. “You know, Ellen,” he said, “you are fortunate that we are in such a public place and must pretend to be holding an amiable and quite unimportant conversation. Very fortunate. For the past hour or so, I have been in shock. I am only just beginning to feel anger.”
“You have nothing to feel angry about,” she said. “This has nothing to do with you, my lord.”
“I want to pick you up with my two hands,” he said quietly, “and shake you until your teeth rattle. I want to take you across my lap and beat you until you are too sore to sit down. Both of which acts I am saved from committing under present circumstances. And it is as well. I have never abused a woman physically and have never thought to. But I want to do you terrible violence, Ellen. And I am deadly serious despite the amiable expression I must put on for the other occupants of the room.”
“I think we have already said everything that needs to be said between us,” she said, hearing her own breathlessness, and unable to control it. “You should not be here, my lord. You said good-bye to me at your mother’s house.”
“We have not said one fraction of what needs to be said between us,” he said. “I did not know at that time, Ellen, that you have my child inside you. You had chosen to deceive me, to keep from me what every man has a right to know. We have not by any means finished speaking, you and I. And will not be until you have the courage to look into my eyes and tell me the truth so that we can discuss like rational beings what we are to do about our child.”
“My child will be well-cared-for,” she said. “By me. You need have no fear of that.”
“But this child is not yours,” he said. “It is ours. It will be well-cared-for, Ellen. By you and by me. We will jointly decide where and how it will live.”
“We will see,” she said. “I believe you will find that you will not be allowed to harass me.”
“I will take the risk,” he said. “I have a child of mine to consider.”
They sat side by side, both watching the card players, both apparently relaxed, both taut with anger and tension and awareness of each other.
“Ellen,” he said at last, very quietly, “tell me the truth. Please? I loved you for those six days, and you loved me. It was a kind of love, anyway. At the time, it was very precious to both of us. It has gone and can never be rekindled, I suppose. But there has been that between us. Tell me the truth. I will not make trouble for you with your family. You may do what you wish with regards to them. But look at me and tell me the truth.”
She felt quite incapable of either moving or opening her mouth. It would be so easy to do. And the right thing to do. It was what she wanted to do, to have part of the burden of a secret guilt removed. Even if she could not look at him. Just to say the words—It is your child, Dominic. Just to say them. It should be so easy.
She said nothing at all.
“The silent treatment, then?” he said at last. “That is all I am worth to you, Ellen? You cannot even look me in the eyes and tell me once more that I am mistaken?”
She stared straight ahead, her mind forming the words, knowing exactly what the words should be. Knowing how few and how simple they were and how much better she would feel after saying them. Knowing how the words needed to be said. Knowing that he had every right to hear them.
She said nothing.
He got abruptly to his feet. But one of the card games had come to an end without their noticing the fact. Susan Jennings had crossed the room toward them.
“Such a pleasant evening,” she said, taking a vacant seat and smiling up at Lord Eden, who resumed his own seat. “Of course, Mrs. Simpson, you must feel, as I do, that it would be easier to remain at home alone and grieve. But one must make an effort to continue with life, mustn’t one?”
“Yes,” Ellen said.
“You are in many ways fortunate,” Susan said, unfurling a fan and fanning herself slowly with it. “You have a daughter to take about with you. And you have another event to anticipate.” She glanced archly at Lord Eden and laughed. “But we must not put his lordship to the blush by discussing such matters.”
“Is Mrs. Courtney staying in town long, Susan?” Lord Eden asked.
“She talks about going home,” she said. “Papa and the boys are so helpless when she is not there. But she knows that I need her. And she will not abandon me in my time of great need. It is a great comfort to have one’s mother close, Mrs. Simpson.”
Ellen inclined her head.
“You are going into Wiltshire tomorrow, my lord?” Susan said. “Your family will miss you dreadfully, I am sure.”
“After Christmas,” he said abruptly. “I will be going into Wiltshire after Christmas. I plan to spend a few months first at Amberley Court.”
Susan’s face brightened. “But how happy your mama must be,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “She will be happy to have her family all together again at Amberley.”
“Of course,” Susan said, “I must be going into the country soon too. Mama is restless, and Lord Renfrew is about to betroth himself to Lady Penelope Varley, I believe, though he has been obliging enough to assure me that I may always have a home with him. I shall doubtless spend what is left of my year of mourning quietly at home.”
“Then I shall look forward to seeing you there, Susan,” he said.
“You are very kind,” she said. “You will like Amberley Court, Mrs. Simpson. The valley and the beach and the cliffs. I am afraid of heights, of course, and can never enjoy the cliffs. I hope you are not as silly as I. I am sure I spoil everyone’s enjoyment. You will find plenty to do there. And the young people will amuse themselves. Your stepdaughter will be happy there.”
“I rather think Mrs. Simpson
might qualify as one of the young persons, Susan,” Lord Eden said.
Susan looked at him with large, remorseful eyes. “Of course,” she said. “Pardon me, ma’am. I did not mean to imply…Why, I daresay you are not above five or six years older than I. It is just that you were married longer, and your husband was older than mine. And of course, you are enceinte. But I did not mean to imply that you were old.”
“Mrs. Jennings, ma’am.” Sir Jasper was smiling down at all three of them suddenly. “Mr. Winslow is in need of a partner for the next hand. Would you oblige?”
“Why, certainly,” she said. “It is very kind of you to ask, I am sure, sir.”
Lord Eden too got to his feet, though he stayed for a moment when the other two had moved away.
“You will be able to get out the words at your leisure, Ellen,” he said. “You are to be at Amberley for three weeks? Or do you plan to change your mind about going? Do so, if you will. But you will not escape from me. You will tell me the truth, with your eyes on mine, before you can hope to see the last of me.”
“I shall be going to Amberley Court,” she said. “I do not change my mind as easily as you seem to do, my lord.”
He nodded and turned away. “We will talk further there, then,” he said. But he turned back after taking only one step in the direction of the tables. “Have you seen a physician, Ellen?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And is all well?” he asked. “There have been no recurrences of the fainting spell? I assume it was your condition that caused that.”
“The doctor says I am in the best of health,” she said.
He looked at her broodingly before moving away abruptly.
ELLEN DID NOT SLEEP at all that night. The accusation of cowardice had cut to the heart of her guilt. And the more so because she had no defenses against it. He had been quite right. She was a coward.
