by Mary Balogh
“Yes,” he said quietly. “War is cruel on wives and mothers.”
They strolled in silence for a couple of minutes. He could feel the tension in her and could only walk quietly at her side and hope to bring her reassurance.
“Tell me,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “I want to know. I must know. You said you were with him when he died. Tell me how it happened. Tell me about those few days. I have to know.”
“I don’t think he suffered,” he said, curling his fingers beneath hers as they rested on his arm and holding her hand tightly. She had quickened their pace. “He did not die in agony, as so many poor men did. He just…went away, Ellen. I saw he had been hit and went to him. He recognized me, and he said your name and Miss Simpson’s name. But I don’t think he heard anything I said in reply. He went too quickly. And then I was hit immediately after.”
He could see that she was biting hard on her lower lip. “There was a man,” she said. “I had him brought to my rooms from outside the cathedral. He was getting wet. He was going to die, but I did not want him to die wet and alone. He was not unconscious, but he was halfway there into death. He was past pain too, like Charlie. I sat with him and held his hand while he died. I wondered if someone else was doing as much for Charlie.”
“He knew I was there,” he said. “He was not alone.”
He could see that her eyes were bright with tears, but she would not give in to them. “Tell me the rest,” she said. “Tell me the whole of it. He lived for three days after I last saw him. I want to know about those days.”
He began with the tedious hours they had spent at Mont St. Jean waiting for the order to march that had apparently gone astray. And he told her about the march south to Quatre Bras and the battle there and the trudge north the next day through the rain and the mud and with the French coming up on them and peppering them with shot. He told her about the night spent sleeping on the muddy ground and about the part of the Battle of Waterloo that he had seen.
“It was just one battle too many,” she said when he had finished. “But I hope it was the last. I hope it is all over now. For Mrs. Byng’s sake, and Mrs. Cleary’s and Mrs. Slattery’s. I’m glad you have told me. I have wanted to know for a long time. And have dreaded knowing. I have had nightmares in which he has been screaming and writhing in agony.”
“No,” he said. “You need not have them any longer, Ellen. I have told you the truth. I have not covered it up for your comfort.”
“That had crossed my mind too,” she said, smiling fleetingly. “Thank you, Dominic. I am glad you were there with him. If I could not be with him myself, I am glad it was you. He loved you.”
“I think the only thing that kept me going on that ghastly ride back to Brussels,” he said, “was my need to bring you the news myself. I didn’t want anyone else telling you. Or no one at all.”
She nodded and stopped walking suddenly. She was fighting an inner battle, he could see. He took her firmly by the shoulders and drew her against him. He did not kiss her. He laid his cheek against hers and rocked her in his arms.
“I shed all my tears for him long ago,” she said. “I am not going to cry all over you. But it is such a relief to know. Such a relief, Dominic. Perhaps I will be able to start letting him go now. A part of me still expects him to walk through every open door.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.” And he closed his eyes and rocked her and wondered at the enormous self-delusion that had ever made him imagine that he had mistaken his feelings for her in Brussels. He held her to him and allowed her to take from him the comfort she needed, and smelled that familiar fragrance from her hair and felt the slim grace of her body. Still slender—she was not yet swollen with their child.
She rested her cheek on his broad shoulder and closed her eyes. And gave herself up to the comfort of his warm and strong body, his circling arms. And was glad that she had asked him, glad that he had told her. And glad that he had come into Charlie’s life and into hers more than three years before. He had comforted Charlie as he lay dying, and now he was there for her too.
She raised her head finally and looked up into his eyes. She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “Dominic,” she said, “I have never stopped liking you, you know. You were a good friend to Charlie. I am glad we have been able to get back beyond that other again. Thank you for telling me.”
He smiled down at her.
“The others will think we are lost,” she said, stepping back from him and smiling more brightly. “Though I have not heard any stampede down the hill yet. Have you?”
“You cheated,” Lord Amberley called from the opposite bank as Lord Eden was handing Ellen back across the stepping-stones. “You did not climb after all. Susan and I were at least honest about our laziness, were we not, my dear?”
“Ah, but we put our lives in peril by venturing across these stones,” Lord Eden said cheerfully. “We did not cower on this side, did we, Ellen?”
“We also risked the danger of being run over by those exuberant children if they had chosen to come back down,” Ellen said. “Here they come now. Oh, dear, is that Jennifer shrieking? Or is it Anna? What hoydens! This is very good for Jennifer, my lord, though I fear it is sending her back into childhood. I am very grateful to you for inviting us here.”
The earl glanced from her to his brother and back again. “I dare to hope that it is good for both of you, ma’am,” he said, turning to lift Susan back into the saddle. “You are looking well. Is that my wife actually running down the slope? Perhaps it is a blessing that I do not have a quizzing glass about me. May I lift you up too?”
“If you will just give me a boost, my lord,” Ellen said, “I can mount myself.”
“No you won’t!” Lord Eden took the two strides that separated them. “I will lift you, Ellen.”
Lord Amberley looked in mingled amusement and curiosity at his brother and turned to grin at his wife, who was part of the group crossing noisily over the stepping-stones.
THE EARL AND COUNTESS invited anyone who was interested to join them in a walk on the beach during the afternoon, but they did warn that the outing was intended for the children and would be focused on them.
The dowager countess suggested a drive into the village of Abbotsford—after they had all rested from the exertions of the morning, that was. She had looked with particular significance at Ellen. The shops did not have a great deal to offer, she explained, but it was a pretty place. And they might call upon the Misses Stanhope, who would be delighted to make their acquaintance, or on the rector’s wife, if they could extricate her from her rapidly growing brood of hopeful children.
Ellen and Jennifer agreed to the drive.
Allan Penworth too was to rest after luncheon. Madeline walked upstairs with him, careful not to offer him any assistance at all.
“It is a beautiful day,” she said. “You will probably enjoy sitting in the churchyard or outside the inn while the rest of us look in the shops. You will like the village.”
“I intend to spend the afternoon outside painting,” he said. “I had a long talk with your mother this morning, and she has lent me all the necessary equipment.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “Where are we going to go? Onto the terrace?”
“We are not going anywhere,” he said. “You are going with the other ladies to enjoy an afternoon in the village. I am going to the other side of the bridge to paint the house.”
“You will need someone to carry your easel and your brushes and things,” she said. “I will be quite delighted to help you, Allan. I can visit the village anytime.”
“There are such people as servants,” he said. “All I need to do is ask for help. It is a very simple matter.”
“But I want to stay,” she said. “I miss those days, Allan, when we were always alone together. Let’s do something together this afternoon.”
“A few minutes ago,” he said, “you were full of enthusiasm for showing off your village to Mrs. Simps
on. You don’t need to give up that pleasure for me, Madeline. I will be quite happy painting alone. I prefer to be alone when I paint. I can concentrate better.”
They came to a stop outside his room.
“You really don’t want me with you, do you?” she said. “I am getting on your nerves, Allan?”
He looked exasperated. “No, you don’t get on my nerves,” he said. “Have I said the wrong thing again? I have, haven’t I? I have hurt you again. I don’t seem to be able to help doing so these days, though I never mean to do it. Stay with me, then, Madeline, if it is what you really wish to do. I would like that.”
“I think we should end our betrothal,” she said in a rush, her voice not quite steady. She looked about her hastily to make sure that the corridor was deserted.
“What?” he looked at her, incredulous. “Have I hurt you that badly? I must be a far worse brute than I thought. I merely wanted you to have a pleasant afternoon, free of the necessity of fetching and carrying for me. Come, Madeline, don’t overreact. Smile at me and say you forgive me.”
“It is not just today,” she said. “And it is not your fault. Perhaps this was inevitable, Allan. You are recovering and regaining your independence. You don’t need me any longer.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, reaching out for her hand, which she kept clasped in the other one in front of her. “I wouldn’t be alive now if it were not for you. Do you think I can ever forget that?”
“I’m not blaming you,” she said. “You did need me, yes. You leaned on me for a long time. And I made the mistake of thinking that you would always need me like that. It was very naive of me. You don’t need me now, and I have to be happy for you that you don’t.”
He tried to laugh to relieve the tension. “Can we not just love each other?” he asked. “Does there have to be any need? Any dependence? Can we not just have a normal, happy marriage?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t think we love each other, Allan. Not in that way.”
“I love you,” he said. “You are very, very special to me. I owe you my life and my sanity.”
“I love you dearly too, Allan,” she said. “But I don’t think we could make a marriage of it. We are too different from each other. We would bicker and bicker and come to thoroughly dislike each other before we had been married a year. I don’t want that to happen. I am too fond of you.”
He shifted his weight on his crutches and blew out air from puffed cheeks. “I can’t quite believe I am having this conversation,” he said. “You always seemed so unattainable, you know. Lady Madeline Raine, whom everyone admired. I did not think you had even noticed me. And now I feel as if I am the one who has let you down. I have made you unhappy.”
“No, not you,” she said. “You really are not to blame for anything, Allan. I am only unhappy with myself. My life seems to have been one string of self-delusions. Yet this time I was so sure. Oh, never mind. We must be thankful that we have come to our senses before it is too late.”
“I will make arrangements to leave tomorrow, then,” he said.
“Oh, no!” She reached out a hand to touch his arm. “No, Allan. That would cause unbearable pain and embarrassment. Please stay. You like Mama and Edmund and Dominic, don’t you? And you are painting and playing the pianoforte. You are gaining more independence here. Stay awhile.”
“I don’t want to cause you any unpleasantness,” he said, frowning. “If you want, I will stay for a few days longer, then. I’m sorry about this, Madeline. More sorry than I can say.”
“Well,” she said, smiling, “at least we have been able to put an end to a betrothal without hurling things at each other’s heads. We are still friends, are we not?”
“You will always be my friend,” he said. “I will always love you, Madeline.”
“Like a sister,” she said. “It will be better that way. You are in some pain, standing there, Allan. Go inside your room now and lie down for an hour. And do it. Don’t pace the floor brooding on what has just happened.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, raising one hand in a smart salute and smiling at her rather ruefully.
RAIN STARTED AT SOME TIME DURING THE night and continued to fall for the following two days. A most miserable sight, Madeline declared to anyone who was prepared to sympathize, when one had been imprisoned in a city for months on end and now had boundless energy to work off. She promised Ellen and Jennifer that on the next fine day they would ride down onto the beach and perhaps even climb the steep path up to the clifftop.
“That way you can see both places during the same outing,” she said. “That is, if the rain ever stops and the mist ever lifts.”
But for the time being the mist hung low over the valley and a fine rain came steadily down. Lord Eden took Jennifer to visit the Carringtons on one day and the Courtneys the next. The earl and countess divided their time between their children and their guests. Madeline and Ellen sat in the music room a few times, listening to Lieutenant Penworth play. And the dowager countess spent time with him in the portrait gallery, the two of them discussing the paintings there.
Ellen declined the chance to be a part of both visits. She felt a little tired after the day of the ride and the visit to the village, and felt the need to spend some time quietly indoors. Alone, even, if she could be so without appearing rude to her hosts.
She was not actively miserable. Indeed, she felt a certain contentment that she had not felt since Charlie’s death. But she needed to live through those last days of his life as Dominic had described them to her. She needed to fill in the gap that had yawned empty and frightening for so long. She had said good-bye to him in their rooms—she could still see him, eager to be on his way, to have done with the pain of parting, his eyes devouring her—and then there had been nothing. Only Dominic, through his pain and his fever, telling her that Charlie was gone. And only her realization weeks later that it was true. And only that walk over the churned-up land south of Waterloo where she knew he was buried with thousands of other men.
She needed to live through in her mind what he had lived during those days. She needed to watch him die. And she needed to accept his death. She needed to let him go.
Charlie had been her husband. Dearly, dearly loved. But “had been” were the key words. He was dead. He was a part of her past. Always to be remembered. Always to be cherished in memory. But in the past.
And at last she could think of him with only a dull ache of longing. At last she could remember and smile at some of the memories. The terrible raw agony of her grief was over.
And she had a future to look ahead to. She had felt her child move in her.
“That climb up the cliffs is really quite dangerous, though very exhilarating,” the countess said to her as they sat together in the morning room, stitching. “And it is very strenuous to go up. The first time I did it was in the opposite direction. And Edmund would allow it only after I had promised faithfully to cling to his hand every step of the way. We were betrothed then.” She smiled at the memory.
“I am looking forward to seeing the sea again,” Ellen said. “It seems strange that we are so close and have not yet seen it.”
“English rain!” the countess said. “You know, what I have been trying to say as tactfully as possible is that perhaps you should not tackle that climb. I will stay down on the beach with you if you wish, and we shall stroll along like a couple of respectable matrons.”
“Because I am increasing?” Ellen asked.
The countess lowered her head over her work. “We have heard about that, naturally,” she said. “Your father-in-law did make a public announcement.”
“I am feeling quite well,” Ellen said, “and do not get as tired as I did at first. But I think you are right. I shall take the walk on the beach without the climb.”
“I am glad for you,” the countess said. “You are good with children. You are happy about it, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Ellen pu
t down her own work on her lap. “Oh, quite ecstatic. I didn’t think it would ever happen to me. I had quite resigned myself to being childless.”
“It is the most wonderful feeling in the world, is it not?” Lady Amberley said, smiling warmly at the other. “One feels heavy and uncomfortable and lethargic at the end, and then there is all the pain of the birthing. And when it is over, one feels that one could never ever go through such a dread experience again. But then a few months later, one thinks that perhaps after all one can do it one more time.” She laughed. “I am at that last stage at the moment, and very envious of you.”
The dowager countess too found the opportunity to advise Ellen not to do anything too strenuous.
“Young people are quite, quite mad, my dear,” she said, “and feel that they must ever be squandering their energy. But you must not feel that you have to keep up with them. Edmund and Dominic and Walter will see to it that your stepdaughter is kept safe, you know.”
“I have already decided not to climb the cliff, ma’am,” Ellen said. “I just wish the rain would stop so that I may at least see the cliff.”
They both laughed.
And Ellen marveled again how both ladies could be perfectly aware of her pregnancy and doubtless suspected its paternity, and yet could treat her with such quiet courtesy and even friendliness.
Lord Eden found her on the second afternoon when she had sought out some privacy in the conservatory. She was stitching at her embroidery. She smiled at him and returned her attention to her work.
But of course she was very aware of him, standing tall and straight with his back to her, looking out at rain-soaked lawns and trees. His hands were clasped behind him. They were fidgeting.
She stitched on, his tension conveying itself to her. And yet he did not look tense when he turned to face her. He was smiling.
