Andrew’s hand went slack in hers.
A silence grew, punctuated by only the crackling of the fire.
“Why do I…?” Andrew repeated slowly, stupidly, as if drunk.
“Why do you define yourself, your entire life and worth, in terms of the mistakes you made with Julia?”
“Because some mistakes are so great as to define one.”
Astrid sat up, hoisted herself off the couch, then turned and lowered herself to straddle his lap, her tummy bulging between them.
“You listen to me, Andrew Penwarren Alexander. You are a good man, an honorable man, and a loving man,” she pronounced slowly, as if he might have trouble comprehending her. “You faced a decision when you risked your life charging over here from Enfield. You could have let my sister quietly die, and her children with her, but you did not. You took a chance, you made an effort, and now Felicity, James, William, Pen, Joyce, and Gareth all have a chance to enjoy long, happy lives as a family.”
She framed his jaw in her hands. “Why don’t you allow those moments—those moments when your courage carried the day for all of us—to define you? Why don’t you allow the moments today when you again risked your life for me to define you? Why don’t you allow the moments years ago, when you also risked your life for me, to define you?”
She lowered her forehead to his and let her tears trickle onto his cheeks.
“I am not finished,” she admonished him, though where the fortitude to persevere would come from, she did not know.
She laid a hand over his heart, as if she’d prevent him from setting her aside and leaving the room, the property, her life.
“You were a friend to both Felicity and Gareth when they had no friend. You behaved honorably with respect to me when I was a girl, even if your notions of honor were misguided. You danced attendance on your mother when his blooming lordship, the marquess, couldn’t pause in his wenching long enough to notice she was lonely for her sons. You took yourself off to God knows where, Andrew, to try to protect the people who love you from yourself…”
She was crying openly now, but wasn’t sure all the tears on his cheeks were hers.
“You make me out to be some kind of bloody knight in shining armor,” he whispered, his lips seeking hers for a quick kiss.
“You hopeless man,” she said, kissing him back, “you are some kind of bloody knight in shining armor. You were prepared to let Henry m-murder you today, and I thought I would die right there with you if he did.”
He enfolded her against his body, letting her cry out all the fear and upset and loneliness and sorrow that was in her. She cried for him, and for Douglas, and even some for Henry, miserable, murderous, and mad though he’d been. She cried for Felicity and Gareth, who had come through such a frightening situation. She cried for the children who would have lost their mother, as Astrid had lost hers, and thus lost a part of their father…
And she cried for herself, finally. For her miserable excuse of a first marriage, for Herbert, so misguided and manipulated. For the child she might yet not safely bear. In the end, Astrid cried herself to sleep, her husband’s arms around her, his lips murmuring comfort against her hair.
Nonetheless, despite the revelations of the previous evening, despite Andrew’s presence beside her as she’d drifted off to sleep, when she rose the next morning, Astrid found she had, again, slept alone.
***
Douglas was escorted to the library the next morning by Fairly, who’d forced hot tea and buttered toast on him, then valeted him into proper morning attire. Greymoor and Heathgate were waiting for them, and to Douglas’s surprise, Astrid was also present, sitting beside her husband on the hearth.
Immediately beside him.
Douglas bowed to each, greeting them in turn. Fairly took up a post by the French doors, his back half-turned to the room, a clear reminder to Douglas he had no ally among the assemblage. Not now.
Heathgate perched on his desk, a particularly undignified choice for the marquess, but no more informal than Greymoor, hunkered beside his wife on the stones of the raised hearth.
Greymoor stood and gestured to the sofa.
“Have a seat, Douglas,” he said, the use of Douglas’s Christian name apparently deliberate. There were two explanations, of course, the first being that Greymoor intended humiliation by assuming an ungranted familiarity; the second, possible in theory, was that this was a family gathering, where one needn’t stand on ceremony.
Douglas took his assigned seat and waited, deciding silence was to his advantage. Though it ought to be beyond him, he could yet feel humiliation, whether Greymoor intended it or not.
“We have matters to resolve in this room,” Greymoor said, “and they are best resolved by consensus, but my wife has also requested an opportunity to put some questions to you, Douglas. I believe you owe her that.”
“Of course.” Douglas likely owed the woman his life. He’d not begrudge her a few painful answers.
“Did you know Henry killed your father?”
Astrid’s soft words landed with the force of a blow. Across the room, Fairly had turned, resting his shoulders against the doors likely the better to view the proceedings. Douglas’s gaze swept the room, and on each face he saw more patience than curiosity.
That puzzled him on the level still capable of thought after Astrid’s terrible revelation, but he marshaled his resources to address the question.
“No,” Douglas said. “I never even suspected, not before yesterday, for which I must bear the blame. Henry would have been an adolescent, but he was always keen for weaponry. I should have realized…”
Those words ought to be engraved on his tombstone. So much he should have realized. Douglas remained silent, the confirmation of every dark thought about his family he’d ever attempted to deny battering at him. Greymoor—a man whom Douglas would never understand—chose that moment to sit beside Douglas on the sofa.
Greymoor glanced at his wife before he spoke. “Did you know the missing funds were loans Herbert made to Henry? We think Herbert might have suspected Henry’s patricidal tendencies, and yet feared Henry could engineer things such that blame might fall on Herbert as the one in line for the title.”
Worse and worse. “I did not know anything regarding Astrid’s funds until Herbert’s death. I can understand, though, why you would make the mistake of misreading Henry. To my everlasting sorrow, I read him no more accurately.”
Everlasting being the operative word, for how was a man to transcend scandal and heartache of this magnitude?
Greymoor’s expression became terrifyingly compassionate. “Henry told Astrid he had killed both your father and your brother.”
Douglas had to stand, had to move, had to do something to avoid the truth of Greymoor’s words.
“I can’t—” He wanted to say he couldn’t believe it. But the brutal, unbearable truth was that he could believe it. He had overheard Henry in that stable and slapped a weapon into Greymoor’s hands, then allowed the earl to court death by entering the barn first.
Douglas had been stunned and sickened, listening to his younger brother chatter blithely with Astrid about murder and worse. Through the long, cold night since, Douglas had done nothing but think of all the signs he’d missed, all the clues he’d ignored.
“I don’t know what to say.” He came to rest like a rudderless ship against the end of a long set of shelves. The smell of books came to him over the pleasant scent of the wood fire. What would prison smell like? What was the scent of complete social ruin, and did Douglas care either way?
The assemblage seemed to expect more words of him, and his fool mouth obliged. “I simply do not know what to say. I had suspicions Henry was up to no good when he didn’t stay put with Mother, and he didn’t tell me he was leaving Town. Details, such as motive and opportunity, began to fall together, so when I got word he’d taken a notion to travel through deep snow in this direction, I trailed him here. Then I found his horse at the bottom of t
he lane, shivering, in a sweat such as a decent animal ought never to be left… But about all this… I am at a loss for coherent speech.”
Greymoor resumed his place beside his wife, a cozy couple in an informal posture before the hearth. Thank God they, at least, were alive.
Greymoor took his wife’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “If you want my suggestion, Douglas, you say as little as possible. We will inform the magistrate Henry’s gun, damp from the snow, misfired while he was cleaning it out in the stables. The magistrate can be given to understand Henry was not coping well with his beloved older brother’s death, and might conclude we are putting about a polite fiction—unless you would prefer to tell the magistrate something else?”
Douglas heard the words and comprehended them. Across the room, Fairly was once again studying the view toward the stables, as if covering up attempted murder and suicide were all in a morning’s work. Douglas reviewed the words Greymoor had spoken, and found they held the same meaning, still, and yet his mind must continue to examine them.
“Come on, man,” Heathgate growled from his desk. “We need to decide this before the bloody magistrate comes bumbling up the drive.”
Fairly didn’t turn, but rather, drawled over his shoulder, “The bloody magistrate can bloody wait in the bloody guest parlor, swilling your finest gunpowder and chatting up the rather buxom maid. Astrid, my apologies for the language.”
Douglas paid attention to not a word of that exchange—though Fairly was being protective of him, and that was remarkable—because he’d found a name for what was being offered here: sanctuary.
A safe place, a place where one need not be always on guard. He didn’t want to trust it, but his defenses were in shambles, and he frankly lacked the strength of will to resist the lure.
“That plan should suffice,” he told Greymoor, his voice shaking a bit. “What of my mother?”
“Mothers,” said Greymoor with a glance at his wife’s belly, “are always a complication. I see no need to provide the dowager Lady Amery any details at variance with what’s told to the magistrate.”
A look passed between members of the Alexander family, but Douglas was at a loss to interpret it. Pity, maybe? Dismay? His mental faculties had become like those of some mute beast, capable of observing human behaviors, but unable to make sense of them.
“All right,” Fairly said briskly, again facing the room. “If that’s settled, then what say I found the body? Went out to check on my mare, and alas, tragedy had struck.”
That turned the discussion to the story to be prepared for the magistrate. When that matter had been dispatched, the next order of business became Henry’s final arrangements.
“We have a family plot on the estate,” Douglas said, drifting back to the sofa. “I can deal with it there.”
Greymoor glanced at his wife again, an assessing glance the lady probably didn’t even notice. “I’d rather you held at least a memorial service in Town. Henry was well liked among the hunting set, and it would save both my wife and my brother the journey to your estate.”
The sense of sanctuary, of being protected, swelled again in Douglas’s chest. “You really need not make that effort.”
“Oh, yes, we really do,” Heathgate said. “The man we bury would have been uncle to Astrid’s child, and there will be no taint on the family honor if we can manage it.”
Douglas felt a faint inclination to smile at the fig leaf Heathgate had extended. This great effort, this show of solidarity and civility, wasn’t for him, it was for the child.
Of course it was.
“A memorial service, then,” Douglas said, “and a funeral at the estate. I will take my leave of you once the magistrate has finished, and you have”—he paused to look particularly at Astrid and Greymoor—“you all have my sincerest thanks.”
“One more thing,” Fairly said, pushing away from the French doors and taking a seat beside Douglas on the sofa. “Who shall have guardianship of Astrid’s child?”
Astrid’s husband squeezed her hand before turning his gaze on Douglas. In the two years Herbert had been married to Astrid, Douglas hadn’t seen his brother so much as touch the lady’s hand once.
“You, Douglas, are head of the Allen family,” Greymoor said. “What would your decision be regarding the child?” The use of the conditional was not lost on Douglas, who heard the question as: What would your decision be, had you the authority to make it?
For there was no Allen family worth the name. Perhaps there never had been.
Douglas opted for honesty—no point in abandoning that course at this late stage.
“I want no responsibility for any child, ever.” A man who could not sense a murderer in his own family dared not assume such responsibility. “If this child is a boy, and Greymoor had the raising of him, it would relieve me of having to deal with the succession, and that would be the answer to a prayer.”
Fairly’s expression went carefully neutral, but Greymoor and Heathgate exchanged a relieved glance. Astrid’s head was bowed, but Douglas could see she, too, had been prepared for him to fight on this.
Fight them, with what? Funds, truth, and honor resided on their side of the ledger.
“I guess that’s settled then,” Greymoor said.
“Douglas should at least be the child’s godfather,” Fairly interjected musingly. “Appearances, you know.”
Douglas stiffened, resisting the notion he should have anything to do with a child others were better suited to nurturing, but he found Fairly staring at him with particular intensity.
This idea of Lord Fairly’s was a challenge, and a chance to make some small reparation for the harm Douglas’s family—and Douglas—had done to the child’s mother. Moreover, the light in Fairly’s eyes guaranteed Douglas would be given no opportunity to harm the child.
“Very well,” Douglas conceded. “I shall be a devoted, though lamentably distant, godfather.”
“My wife will stand as godmother,” Heathgate added thoughtfully. “That should serve well enough. And if it comes down to it, Amery, even if the child is a girl, you might petition Privileges to have her offspring inherit the title. Your family has had a run of… bad luck, with respect to its male line. In our case, a similar lack of surviving adult males resulted in tremendous leniency when it came to imposing the barony and earldom on Andrew.”
“That,” said Douglas slowly, “is an encouraging thought.” Though leniency tended to show up where coin had been bestowed, and Douglas had nowhere near Heathgate’s resources.
“Are we finished then?” Greymoor asked. “Anything further from anyone?”
“Yes,” Astrid said firmly. “Something needs to be said, and I will be the one to say it.”
Douglas braced himself for the tirade she was due to unleash, the invective he and his brothers had earned, the scathing denouncement she would ring over his head. To feel the lash of her scorn and rage would be a relief, provided any feeling at all penetrated the numbness enshrouding him.
“Douglas,” Astrid said, tears filling her eyes, “we are all so sorry for your loss. For your losses…” She went to him and put her arms around him in a swift, fierce hug.
He was so stunned, so unable to comprehend the gesture, he simply sat for a moment, blinking rapidly. He might have eventually mumbled his thanks, but he was saved from worse mortification by a servant announcing the arrival of the magistrate. The gathering broke up, but Douglas only knew Fairly shoved a drink in his hand and got him back to his room before he embarrassed himself.
Twenty-one
Andrew stared at his wife, incredulous. “You are leaving me?”
She shot him a pitying look and continued tossing clothes into the valise sitting open on the chest at the foot of her bed.
“For God’s sake, why?” Andrew yelled. “You said—”
“Yes?” Astrid gave him that same look, laced with mild curiosity. With only mild curiosity.
“I said,” Andrew began again, lowering
his voice, “I said I loved you. You seemed to take that sentiment to heart.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she merely tossed another pair of shoes into a trunk made of dark wood, like an old coffin.
“And you said I was a decent enough sort of fellow…”
Apparently, those were not the right words, if right words even existed. She slammed the lid on the valise and folded her arms, her mulish expression speaking volumes.
“You said…” Andrew turned his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes, the pain of this parting lancing through him and lodging in his chest. “You said I was… honorable, and good, and… loving.”
“I did say that, but I don’t think you heard me, Andrew Penwarren Alexander.”
Oh, she was mad, all right. Use of his middle name meant matters were serious with Astrid.
“I heard you.” He shifted to stand before her, but using the advantage of his height was not appropriate somehow, so he sat on the bed and put himself below her eye level.
“I heard you,” he repeated more softly.
Astrid latched the trunk, the little snick of the locks sounding like manacles closing around Andrew’s heart. “Well, Andrew, what are you going to do about these words you heard from me?”
“What am I going to do?” Begging came to mind, but some stray male intuition suggested this was not what she sought from him.
She pushed past him to go to the wardrobe, and began pulling dresses off their hooks. “You are hopeless, Andrew, and I wash my hands of you.”
“You can’t,” he said, panic clawing at him. “I won’t allow it.” Inspiration struck. “You love me.” He seized her gently but firmly around the middle—she’d long since lost her waist—when she attempted to reopen the valise, and caused her to drop her load of dresses.
“Damn you. Take your hands off me,” she spat, plucking at his fingers.
“You love me,” Andrew growled now, his hold more firm. “You can’t just say those things, Astrid, not to me. A woman who loves her husband doesn’t leave him.”
Andrew; Lord Of Despair Page 29
