by Amelia Nolan
He laughed mirthlessly. “Perhaps – but I would still become a fugitive from society!”
She threw down his hands. “If by ‘society’ you mean those drunken bastards, you would choose them over me?”
“They were boys – ” he said with irritation, as though she were being unreasonable.
“Yes, smug, arrogant, entitled ‘boys’ who will grow into smug, arrogant, entitled men, the same ones whose approval you so desperately seek.”
“Watch your tongue,” he snapped.
“Why? Because I am a servant girl and should know my place? Because I should not speak to my ‘betters’ so?”
The anger that bloomed in his face frightened her, but still she pressed onward.
“You do not care who I am, what my heart feels for you… only what house I was born into, and what titles my father holds?”
“You know that I love you!”
She thought for a moment before she answered. “I believe you do. Yes. Just… not enough.”
“It is a very complicated thing – ”
“No, actually… it really is that simple.”
All the voices in her head had grown quiet, leaving only one: her own.
I do not need to be Lady Blake. I am Marian Willows; that is enough.
She turned away from him and headed towards the bedroom, the tears running hot down her cheeks.
Evan did not follow her, but stayed in the drawing room instead.
When she returned to the hallway a few minutes later, he looked up in shock to see her carrying her valise and a small bag.
“Where are you going?!”
“Back to Pemberly’s.”
“At this time of the night?! You can’t – ”
“I can, and I will.”
He walked over to her and grabbed her by the arm. “Marian, stop – be reasonable! You’ve had too much to drink, you’re not thinking clearly – ”
“On the contrary, I am thinking more clearly than I ever have in my entire life.”
“You can’t walk that distance – ”
“I’ll get a hackney to take me.”
“You have no money!”
“You forget, I have fifteen pounds.”
He had forgotten that.
“It is too dangerous for a woman alone!”
From her bag she slipped the little lambskin sheath he had given her, with the knife tucked securely inside.
“That is why you gave me this, is it not?”
He seemed at a loss for more excuses. Finally he said, “I forbid it.”
She looked at his arm upon hers, then stared into his eyes. Her cheeks were wet with tears in the moonlight.
“If you truly do love me… if ever you did… then let me go.”
His face was a mask of fear and confusion.
“Please,” she whispered. “Let me go.”
Very slowly, he let his fingers slip from her arm. She opened the door and walked out into the night.
He followed her and watched from the steps as she walked a hundred feet, then hailed a passing carriage for hire. As she stepped inside, she gave him one last look.
And then she was gone.
32
Evan did not sleep all night.
He paced up and down the rooms, arguing with Marian in his mind, castigating her for her stubbornness and her unwillingness to see reality.
He had never promised her marriage!
Could she not see how unreasonable her position was? How unreasonable she was being?
I should never have gotten involved with her in the first place! Evan thought – and then stopped in his tracks.
No. That was wrong, and he knew it.
The moments he had spent with her had been the happiest in his entire life.
But he had known from the beginning that he could not marry her. She had known it, too, if she would only be honest with herself.
To ask him to throw away everything – to throw away his entire life! –
Dawn still found him an emotional wreck, pacing numbly through the house. Exhausted, he sat down on a sofa.
He wanted to run to Pemberly’s straight away, to take her in his arms and kiss her, and tell her that he only wanted her.
But she had to see that he could not give up his entire world and future for her. It was impossible. She had to see that.
But if he went to Pemberly’s now, it would be a sign of weakness. He would look ridiculous.
And a man in his position could not afford to look ridiculous.
So he decided to wait until the appointed time. Three o’clock, when he and Marian were supposed to have returned for lunch.
Though he tried to doze on the sofa, he found it impossible. Her words kept swirling through his head, denying him sleep.
At any moment she will come back, he found himself thinking. She will see how foolish she was acting, and return to me, and we will be happy again.
But she did not return.
She wants me to come to her, he thought. Fine – but I will not return as a whipped dog. I will go back as a man, with my head held high.
I have done nothing wrong.
I have not broken any promises. I never even made her any promises!
Can she not see how unreasonable she is being?
As the hours wore on, it took all his strength not to rush out of the house and return to Pemberly’s prematurely.
But wait he did.
After all, he had his pride to consider.
A little after noon he went to bathe and shave.
He dressed himself impeccably, then sat and waited, and waited, and waited.
At two-thirty he left the house and found a carriage in the street.
He had it drop him off a block from Pemberly’s. He waited five minutes at the corner.
Finally, at three o’clock, he walked up to his friend’s front door and knocked.
33
Williams showed him in to the drawing room, and Evan sat in a plush chair. He waited for Pemberly to walk in any second, escorting Marian on his arm. He played out the scene in his mind:
He would stand up.
Her eyes would fill with tears.
Then she would rush into his arms and beg his forgiveness, tearfully confessing how unreasonable she had been –
So it was quite a shock when Pemberly alone entered the room, dressed in the same robe as the day before, with his hair in disarray, his eyes bloodshot, and a shadow of stubble on his cheek.
“Well, old man, you look a damn sight better than I do, but I would wager I look a damn sight better than you feel,” Pemberly said as he sank into a chair across from Evan. “Drink?”
“No,” Evan said, and looked beyond him to the doorway. “Where’s Marian?”
“Suit yourself,” Pemberly said as he poured himself a small glass of scotch from a crystal decanter.
“Where’s Marian?”
Pemberly downed the drink and poured himself another, even larger glass. “Are you sure I can’t fix you up?”
Fear knocked within Evan’s ribcage. “Stop evading my question. Where is Marian?”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
Evan’s fear lessened. “Go and tell her she must see me. Tell her – tell her it will be all right, if she will just talk to me – ”
“I can’t do that,” Pemberly said as he stared into the depths of his glass.
“And why not?” Evan demanded.
“Because she’s not here.”
Evan froze in his seat.
His lips did not want to move, but he made them anyway. “Where is she?”
Pemberly took another huge swig. “If the winds are with her, quite possibly on a ship to France. She left at dawn for the docks.”
Terror filled Evan’s every limb. It felt as though ice had formed throughout his body, rooting him to the spot.
“…you are joking,” he finally choked out.
“Unfortunately, I am not.”
“You let
her go?!” Evan cried out, bolting to his feet.
Pemberly looked up at him, a scowl on his face. “From what she said, it was you who let her go.”
“I did not tell her to go to France!” Evan shouted.
“You might as well have,” Pemberly muttered.
“She can’t get to Paris on fifteen pounds!”
“Of course she can, and with a great deal to spare. Not everyone is accustomed to the extravagances of our modes of travel.”
“Well – she certainly can’t live in Paris! Not on that amount!”
“Of course she can. As I said – ”
“Not for long! Not in anything but misery and poverty!”
Pemberly sighed. “I know. That is why I gave her ten more pounds, and directed her to see the Paris branch of my banker when she arrives for the equivalent of seventy-five more.”
Evan could not believe what he had just heard.
“…what?
“I increased the advance, you might say.”
Evan sank weakly back into his chair. “You have to be joking.”
“I also gave her the name of a publisher I know in Paris – an old friend, actually the fellow who inspired me to try my hand at the game. Her works will sell well in France, of that I have no doubt. I told him in the letter of introduction that I’ll send him the first English edition within a month.”
Evan sat there in utter horror, unable to speak. Finally he choked out one single word:
“…why?”
“Do you really I did not argue your case? I asked her to stay. I begged her to stay. I told her she could live here as long as she wanted. I told her that it was a lovers’ quarrel, that she should not set so much store by it, that she should give herself time to think it over, that she was acting rashly and would regret anything she did in haste.
“Do you know what she said? ‘I shall be in Paris within a week, with your aid or without it.’ I did not think you would want me to abandon her to the wolves, so I did my best to help her.”
“Damn you!” Evan shouted, springing to his feet again.
“What was I supposed to do, keep her here by force?” Pemberly scoffed. “Put her under lock and key?”
“You know I love her! You had no right!”
“You have no right to keep her here just to break her heart.”
The words cut like a cold knife into Evan’s chest. He had to put his hand on the chair to steady himself.
“I never meant to hurt her.”
“No, of course not – but it happened anyway.”
“She has these unreasonable ideas in her head – which you have now encouraged!” Evan railed.
“Were you going to marry her?”
Evan could not bring himself to answer.
Pemberly shrugged. “Then what does it matter?”
“It matters to me! It matters the world to me!”
“I doubt that, or you would have come here with a ring in your pocket.”
“What, you too?! Did she infect you with her madness, as well?!”
“Ah – so, you wanted one last roll in the sheets before she left, is that it?”
“Damn you and your lies! You know that is not true!”
“No, damn you and your selfishness!” Pemberly roared. “You break her heart, and all you are concerned with is your own unhappiness!”
“You dare speak to me thus?! You, with your thousand whores?!”
“You seem to have forgotten your own past, sir!” Pemberly snapped. “Let me remind you, then: I pay them, I treat them well, and I never promise anything beyond one night’s wages.”
“I never promised Marian anything!”
“No, you just let her believe whatever it was that she wanted.”
“YOU were the one who urged me onward! If I am cruel, then what portion of the responsibility do you take upon yourself?”
“You mistake me. I do not believe you to be cruel for bedding her…”
Pemberly paused.
“…for loving her. You are cruel to demand she stay with you when it is quite clear you offer her nothing but heartache in return.”
“You know I cannot marry her!”
“Well, of course.”
“Then why did you send her off to France?!”
Pemberly laughed bitterly. “Because I know you cannot marry her!”
Evan paced back and forth across the room. “She’s not thinking clearly – and you muddied the waters even more – ”
“No, it’s you who’s not thinking clearly. You want to convince her to stay here so you can continue to have your cake and eat it too. When you’re ready, you’ll give her up and find a nice little lady of proper breeding to wed. Are you really that cruel? To shackle her to you for your own pleasure, then set her free when you’ve had your fill?”
“I love her!” Evan cried out. “My heart is breaking!”
“And so is hers. Let her go and mend it. And pray God, do not break it again.”
His face full of pain and fury, Evan walked toward the doors to the drawing room.
“Where are you going?” Pemberly called over his shoulder.
“To the docks. I may have a chance to stop her yet.”
“I doubt it, but you can use my carriage, if you like.”
“YOU have done enough today, old friend,” Evan hissed before he burst out of the room.
Pemberly drank the last of his scotch, then poured himself another.
“No, not enough,” he said as he stared sadly into the distance. “Not nearly enough, I fear.”
34
Marian stood on the bow of the ship and stared at the Thames through tear-filled eyes.
She had found passage almost immediately, a small merchant’s vessel. The captain had told her that if the good weather and prevailing winds held, they would make landfall in Calais by nightfall.
Behind her in the distance, London faded from view. And with it her old life…
…her old love.
In the distance was Paris, the city of her dreams since she was a little girl.
Perhaps her heart would heal there, in time.
Perhaps.
35
Evan never found Marian on the docks that day. The sailors on the waterfront told him of a beautiful young woman who had gone up and down searching for passage to Calais. Apparently she had found it, for they had seen no more of her.
Evan considered finding a ship himself, but words from his last exchange with Pemberly echoed in his ears:
My heart is breaking!
And so is hers. Let her go and mend it. And pray God, do not break it again.
In the end, he returned to his quarters, packed his bags, and returned to Blakewood a broken man.
Andrew returned a week later. Neither of them spoke to one another.
A year passed.
Evan spent it largely in a drunken haze, alone in the deserted east wing of the mansion, his only company a bottle of liquor. He became a ghost, disappearing during the day, moving about at odd hours of the night, seldom seen, rarely speaking or spoken to.
Sometimes he would take his horse and ride the grounds, leaving at dawn and returning at nightfall. On these trips he would often visit the pond and gaze at it, though he never dismounted or swam in its waters.
He did not take his dinners with Andrew or their father. After a week of complaining, Lord Blake gave up and ignored his absence.
The only exception to this routine was when a package would come from London every other month.
Pemberly sent a printed edition of every work he published of Marian’s. Evan insisted that if he was sleeping when the post arrived, the servants must wake him. If the book came while he was out riding, a servant must inform him as soon as he entered the house. Then he would retire to the east wing with a bottle of scotch – and a lamp if it was night – and read the book cover to cover.
‘La Parisienne’ became an overnight success – if not exactly a literary sensation, then a publishin
g sensation. Her first novel was banned outright, and as a result sold a thousand copies within its first month. It was already in its fifth printing when ‘A Gentleman Of London’ appeared and sold twice as many in the same period of time. Within a year, her novels were bought from behind the counters of booksellers, vilified by the Church, banned by the censors, tut-tutted by elderly matrons of utmost respectability, and read by almost everyone else. Copies were smuggled into boarding schools where they sold for five times their normal asking price. Dogeared editions were passed amongst young mothers and servants and women too poor to afford copies of their own. The books could occasionally be found tucked away in the furthest recesses of the private libraries of the rich, or perhaps locked in a bottom drawer within a stately desk.
Evan devoured them, often rereading them twice or three times as soon as they arrived. Part of the reason was that they were quite good, and well-written for popular entertainment – especially for works of ‘vile pornography,’ as the village rector put it. The scenes of passion were heated and intense, but with emotions absent from other books of their kind. And the qualities and words of the characters fairly leapt off the page, enough so that they seemed more like real people rather than creations in a book.
The second reason was that they sounded so much like her. Her intonations, her choice of words, her wit, her forcefulness. He could hear her voice as the narrator of the stories, as clearly as though she were there reading them aloud.
But the final reason was that the books contained bits and fragments from their summer romance. Not the first stories; those were the novels she wrote before coming to Blakewood. But in the second year, she began to write scenes he recognized from their time together. The two lovers who first consummate their love by a lake, where the hero saves the heroine from a pair of brigands. A chance encounter in a dark garden at night. A trip to London, where the lovers steal away from the eyes of the world for a brief but passionate rendezvous.
And dialogue. She used scraps of conversations that he recognized immediately. Words he had said found their way into the mouths of the heroes, and the heroines spoke for Marian.
The books were a patchwork souvenir of his time with her, and they kept her memory alive within him.
But as much as they were a beautiful reminder, they were also a scourge that he used to beat himself.
