But this was progress of a sort. He was at least admitting the possibility of marriage. Not cutting it off altogether and refusing to consider it. All she had to do was be patient—and all would come right at the end. She was sure of it, sure enough for both of them.
But because he’d looked so conscience-stricken, so determined to do the right thing, whatever it cost him, she held her tongue, assumed a demure expression, and allowed him to escort her back to the house.
Seven
I told my love, I told my love
I told her all my heart…
—William Blake, “Love’s Secret”
Cornwall, June 1891
So this was what it came down to in the end: lies, deceit, and an implacable enmity that could no longer be concealed behind a mask of good manners.
Gripped by an icy rage, Robin stared into the face of the man whose vicious slanders had almost cost him his reputation among his new neighbors—and so much more. Nankivell stared back with equal loathing and no trace of remorse. Not even the disgust of Harry and James, whom he had also traduced, had cowed him. Clearly he regretted nothing about his scheme, except its failure.
“This upstart,” the baronet sneered, gesturing at Robin. “This Johnny-come-lately. Just what do you know about this fellow, Miss Sophie?” His voice dropped, became low and insinuating. “I could tell you things.”
He was bluffing, Robin knew. There was no way this man could know his history, but the words sent a jolt of alarm through him all the same. If Nankivell—or someone like him—ever found out…
A sudden presence beside him: Sophie, head held high, eyes flashing, as she confronted her former suitor. “I know that he’s a gentleman, Sir Lucas. That’s all I need to know.”
Oh, God. Her faith in him, so solid and unshakable, was at once a wound and a balm. Oh, my dear, if you but knew…
Startlingly, Sophie’s declaration took the wind right out of Nankivell’s sails. He flushed and turned away. In other circumstances, Robin might have enjoyed his adversary’s discomfiture, but now all he wanted was to get out, fast, before his control disintegrated and his last defenses crumbled.
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell…
Major Henshawe, the magistrate whose assistance they’d requested for tonight, was discussing defamation and recompense. Somehow, Robin summoned the composure to excuse himself. He’d abide by whatever Harry and James decided. He thought he saw pity in Harry’s eyes as they shook hands—Christ, how much had he suspected about Robin’s feelings for his sister?—and turned away from it as from a blow.
“Robin!” Sophie pleaded, stretching out her hand, but he stepped away from that too.
“Good night, Miss Sophie.” Such simple words, so hard to say. “And to all of you.”
He strode from the library, not looking back. Each step seemed to tear the heart from his body—he knew he’d already torn out hers—but he kept walking, not stopping until he was standing on the front terrace, surrounded by darkness, waiting for his horse to be brought up.
Such a fragile thing, hope—but ever since that kiss in the pavilion, he’d let himself indulge in it. Let himself believe there might be a future for them, someday… until Nankivell’s words had reminded him of how impossible that was.
The door flew open behind him, and she was there, breathless and urgent at his shoulder. “Mr. Pendarvis! Robin! Don’t go!”
Robin swallowed dryly, feeling her entreaty pull at him like a chain about his heart. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome, Miss Tresilian. Pray excuse me.”
She caught his sleeve as he turned away. “There’s no reason for you to leave! You, Harry, James—none of you killed Lord Trevenan!”
“That’s not why—”
She made an impatient gesture. “And forget what Sir Lucas said! He was talking out of spite—just as he was when he slandered you!”
“Perhaps,” he conceded with a taut nod. “But the essence of what he said is true enough. I do have secrets that I have kept from you and everyone else in Cornwall.”
“I don’t care about your secrets, Robin! I’ve never cared!” Passion—and tears—thickened her voice. He risked a glance at her, then wished he hadn’t. The moonlight bleached her upturned face to marble, showed her brimming eyes, the faint quiver of her lips. Sophie, who never cried, who was made for laughter and music…
“But I do.” He forced himself to remain calm, even distant. Not to take her in his arms as he burned to do. Not even to wipe away—or kiss away—her tears. Behind them came the sound of distant music that seemed to mock their shared pain.
“You should find someone else,” he continued doggedly, looking away from her and into the gloom. Through the darkness, he glimpsed the shadowy shape of an approaching groom leading his equally shadowy horse up to the terrace. “Someone with no secrets and no past to regret. You deserve—that kind of happiness, that security.”
“I’d rather have love!” she choked out. “Your love!”
He swallowed again, feeling as if his heart were lodged in his throat. “You say that now, but you’ll see that I am right. Good-bye, Miss Tresilian.”
Her breath caught in a sob that tore at his heart. Hating himself, Robin strode down the steps and all but sprang into the saddle, riding off as though the devil was at his heels.
***
Two days later
“Mr. Pendarvis is here to see you, Sir Harry,” Parsons announced from the doorway of the breakfast room.
Sophie froze with her teacup halfway to her mouth. Robin. After the way they’d parted two nights ago, she’d begun to fear he’d never return. That hope was lost, but now…
She set down her cup carefully, caught Aurelia Newbold’s sympathetic eye, and managed a smile. Then Parsons was showing him in, at Harry’s behest, and she could see no one else.
Her first thought was that he looked tired and anxious, and, in spite of everything, her heart went out to him—even more when she heard his first words. “Forgive the intrusion, Harry, but I’ve just heard there was some trouble here yesterday, and someone was injured?”
Sophie felt herself flushing as his gaze met hers, and a wild elation surged through her. He’d come because he thought she might have been hurt! Hope was alive, after all.
“That would be me,” James was saying. “But not seriously—a graze on the arm, nothing more. And I’m glad to say the trouble’s been resolved.”
As we all are, Sophie thought, repressing a shiver at the thought of the danger he and Aurelia had faced.
Robin relaxed visibly. “I’m relieved to hear it, Trevenan. Might I know the details?”
James directed him to Harry, as he and Aurelia were about to leave for Pentreath. The American girl thanked them for their hospitality as she rose from her chair. Sophie wondered if yesterday’s ordeal had resolved things between her and James; she liked Aurelia and her twin, Amy, but of the two, Aurelia seemed better suited to her cousin. But that was their business, she reminded herself, turning back to Robin. “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Pendarvis? Or a bite of breakfast, perhaps?”
“Yes, take a plate and join us, Rob,” Harry chimed in. “I’ll tell you what happened, once I’ve seen James and Miss Aurelia on their way.”
Alone with Robin—and how rare and fortuitous that was!—Sophie poured him a cup of tea. “Come and have something to eat now,” she urged. “You’ll be the better for it.”
“Thank you.” But instead of going over to the sideboard, he sat down beside her. “I am… very glad that you were not hurt yesterday.”
“I was never in any danger,” she assured him. “Indeed, I was safe at home at the time. But it was good of you to come and inquire.”
“I’d have come in any case.”
The admission startled them both. Sophie bit back an exclamation of triumph and saw that Robin was frowning. Not in anger, she thought—rather, he seemed to be wrestling with himself over something. “Sophie… do you mean to ride this mornin
g?”
“I was considering it,” she ventured.
“Then may I accompany you?” His eyes, almost midnight-dark, were intent on hers. “There is—something I need to tell you, and in all conscience I cannot remain silent any longer.”
From any other man, the words would have sounded like the prelude to a proposal. Because it was Robin, she knew otherwise, but her heart still gave a little bound. At least he seemed willing to confide in her again; surely that was a good sign. Hearing Harry’s returning footsteps in the passage, she said quickly, “Yes, of course. I can be ready right after breakfast.”
***
“Married?”
“Four years ago, in Rouen.” Robin’s face was expressionless, but the tautness of his body revealed more than those terse words ever could.
Sophie turned away, struggling to remain or at least appear calm, even as her thoughts fluttered and flapped wildly through her head, like a flock of birds unable to settle.
Married. The confession rocked her to the core. And at the same time, it explained so much. Robin’s repeated assertions that he was in no position to marry. His careful discouragement of the hopeful young ladies’ desires of attaching the Pendarvis heir. And his continued attempts to keep her at arm’s length.
Sophie felt her face flame at the realization. For a moment, she wanted to do nothing more than fling herself onto Tregony’s back and gallop away before mortification consumed her. Only the knowledge of how difficult that would be while hampered by a riding habit and a sidesaddle kept her rooted where she stood. That—and the growing conviction that, whatever secrets lay in his past, Robin Pendarvis truly cared for her. Indeed, she would stake her life on the belief that what he felt for her was real. That was precisely what she was doing now.
She stole a glance at him. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on her part, but… he did not look to her like a man who still felt a strong attachment to his wife. But whatever his feelings for this unknown woman he’d married, Sophie wasn’t going to behave like a hysterical ninny and ride off in a storm of tears and recriminations. Not after he’d finally confessed the whole truth, at her urging, no less. The least she could do was to stay and hear him out.
She turned back to him, doing her best to speak calmly. “So, your wife was—is—a Frenchwoman?”
Gratitude flashed in his eyes, and for that, she was glad she was staying.
“Half-French, on her mother’s side,” he replied. “Her father was English, but died before she was born, and her mother died when Nathalie was four years old. Her uncle, Paul Gerard, was her guardian and my mentor, the architect I studied under. But he died suddenly—a fall from a roof—two years into my apprenticeship, and left her virtually penniless.”
“Did you marry her to protect her, then?” Knowing Robin, she could easily imagine how he might do something of that nature.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “In part, perhaps. I did feel some obligation to my late mentor. But it wasn’t quite that simple.”
Sophie grew very still. “Did you love her?”
“I—thought I did. It was a boy’s passion, on my side. I don’t know what it was on hers.”
Sophie swallowed. “What did she look like?”
He did not answer at once, and when he did, the words came out jerkily, as though forced from him. “She was tiny. Mignonne. Fair-haired—very fair, with light eyes. Almost silvery.” His mouth twisted, half-wry, half-wistful. “I used to call her La Belle sans Merci. She could be… enchanting, at times—willful, a little spoiled, but charming too. More than half the young men in the village were smitten with her.” He looked down, pulling distractedly at a loose thread on one of his riding gloves. “I was barely past my majority when we wed, and she was just nineteen.”
Nineteen, only a year older than Sophie herself. And Robin had been twenty-one—surely not as guarded and secretive as he was now. And an early, ill-starred marriage was a secret of some magnitude. She could understand why he hadn’t wished it to become public knowledge—or a weapon in the hands of someone like Sir Lucas Nankivell.
“She had no other kin,” Robin continued. “Her father had broken with his relations to marry her mother, and she did not wish to go to England. I was determined to take care of her, to earn a good living for us both. We weren’t married a year before she became restless, discontented. I worked too long, she said. Left her alone too much. And she did not like where we were living, in Rouen. She hoped we might go to Paris, to be closer to the heart of things. But it was beyond my means to relocate there.”
So lack of money had been one bone of contention. Sophie wondered if… Nathalie had known of Robin’s expectations as the Pendarvis heir, and whether the girl had set out to captivate him for that very reason. She forced herself not to voice that suspicion; it would be petty and unworthy of her to cast aspersions on a woman she’d never met. Moreover, she suspected the thought might have occurred to Robin as well.
“Before we’d been married two years, she left me. With one of her lovers.”
“One of—”
Robin’s blue eyes had gone starkly grey, and the faint stretch of his lips was no smile at all. “She had several to choose from, or so I understand.”
“I’m—sorry,” Sophie faltered, aware of how pale and inadequate that sounded.
“After she’d gone, I went rather off the rails at first. Drinking, mostly. And—other things.” He did not look at her when he said the last.
Other women, Sophie deduced. Well, that did not surprise her, under the circumstances. Robin might consider her sheltered, but a girl with three brothers could not grow up wholly ignorant of the ways in which men could… misbehave.
He exhaled, glanced up again. “Work saved me. After several months, I put down the bottle, crawled out of the gutter I was wallowing in, and took up the tools of my trade again.”
“I’m glad,” Sophie said at once. “At least she couldn’t destroy that for you.”
The ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “Well, it was better for my liver, certainly. I moved into cheaper accommodations, continued my apprenticeship with one of my mentor’s colleagues, and got on with my life in general.”
“Did you think Nathalie would come back?” she asked gently. “Did you want her back?”
Again Robin hesitated before replying. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Perhaps I did at first—but in time, I realized how ill-suited we’d been. We were too young to know that when we married, of course. Too young—and on my side, too infatuated.”
There was a wealth of self-condemnation in his voice—far too much, when only half the blame was his, and by far the smaller half, in Sophie’s view. She said in her most bracing tone, “Well, you wouldn’t have been the first young man to make that sort of mistake. What happened after you finished your apprenticeship? Clearly you chose not to stay in France.”
“No. In time, I concluded there wasn’t anything left for me in Rouen. Besides which”—his smile was faint but genuine—“I actually began to feel homesick, so I came back to England. Found work in London, assisting another architect, consulting, and designing. And—I resolved to find a way to end my marriage, as soon as I had the means.”
Relief flooded through Sophie, along with a sharp twinge of satisfaction. So he didn’t wish to remain married to—that woman, after all. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how afraid she was that he might still care for his wife. Or still desire her, if she was as beautiful as he described. La Belle Dame Sans Merci… No one would ever think to bestow such a sobriquet on Sophie. Fortunately, Robin seemed to like her just as she was.
“Of course, divorces take time and money to obtain,” he continued. “I didn’t have a great deal of the second, but I had plenty of the first. Or so I thought.”
“Did you tell your mother’s family?”
He shook his head. “They didn’t approve of my studying in Rouen. I shudder to think how they would have reacted to my marryi
ng a Frenchwoman, especially one who conducted herself as Nathalie did. Besides, I got into this coil by myself. I wouldn’t have felt right using their money to free myself of it.”
And if he’d hesitated to tell his own kin about his ill-starred marriage, he certainly wouldn’t have divulged it to a county of people who were comparative strangers, Sophie mused. It warmed her, eased a secret worry, that he was telling her of all people. Trust… in spite of everything, they did have that.
“What must you do, then, to free yourself of it?” she asked, deliberately prosaic. Men always seemed more at ease when discussing the practical details on how a problem should be solved, and Robin was no exception. “Have you sufficient means to pursue a divorce now?”
He nodded. “Yes, now that I’ve come into my inheritance. Although I might be best served by launching the hotel first. If I can make it turn a profit, that should expedite matters. As for the rest…” A shadow crossed his face. “I daresay that can be managed as well.”
“Will it be very difficult to bring a suit against,” she couldn’t quite bring herself to say your wife, “Nathalie?”
“She was unfaithful, and she left me, so, no, I don’t think it will. But I need to have her found, first. And name her lover as co-respondent. It will take time to track Nathalie down. Even today, I’m not wholly sure which man she fled with, or if they’re still together.” Robin’s face grew even more somber. “It’s going to be an ugly business, I’m afraid.”
“But at least you’ll be free in the end. To begin again.” Even to marry again, though she did not dare voice that thought aloud.
But she did not need to. From Robin’s expression as he looked at her, she knew his mind had arrived at the same conclusion. “Sophie, divorce—carries a stigma. I would not have you hurt by it.”
“A foolish stigma—you and Nathalie were both young and made a mistake. Why should you have to suffer for it for the rest of your life? And why should anyone hold it against you for removing yourself from a miserable situation?” she added with increasing vehemence. “Don’t you think plenty of others would do the same, if it were possible? Honestly, as dark secrets go, yours could be so much worse!”
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