If Sara looked lost in that bed, Cyril all but disappeared in it. Indeed, he looked scarcely larger than a child’s doll. Difficult to pin down his age, but judging from his size, Robin would have guessed no older than five or six months. And Nathalie’s very image, with her fair complexion and thistledown hair. He wondered, suddenly, about Cyril’s father. Norris had believed Nathalie’s latest lover to be an Englishman. Had Nathalie left him, the way she had Robin, years before? Or had the man abandoned both mother and child, leaving her with no recourse but to come here and appeal to a husband who wanted only to be free of her?
He felt a reluctant stirring of pity for her, but far more for Cyril. The cuckoo in the nest—the child who could most definitely not be his. Like his sister, the only true innocent in this wretched situation—and the one most likely to suffer, unless things were handled exactly right.
Cyril sighed and stirred restlessly in his sleep. Robin reached down to touch one half-open fist—about the size of a walnut—and astonishingly felt the child’s fingers curl about one of his own. Robin swallowed painfully; there was a squeezing sensation in his chest now, as if those fingers had closed about his heart as well.
Sitting down on the bed, his finger still clasped in Cyril’s fist, he forced himself to think rationally, even coldly, about the divorce and what it would mean—for all of them.
He could not be sure how much Nathalie knew of English divorce laws, but in recent years, he had become something of an expert in them. A husband could divorce his wife on the grounds of infidelity—but not without providing conclusive evidence of her misconduct. Proof of an illicit assignation or ongoing liaison, the identity of her lover, who would be named as co-respondent… a child obviously born out of wedlock.
Raoul or Philippe—to this day, he did not know with which one she had fled back in Rouen. Nor if either was still in France or could be easily located. The same could be said of Nathalie’s other lovers. He could hire Norris to track down some of those men and try to uncover evidence of an affair, but there was no guarantee of success and little chance that any could be made to testify, if found—especially if their own lives and reputations were at stake.
The surest, swiftest path to what Robin wanted—the divorce, his freedom, Sophie—lay directly over two lives. Two young and innocent lives: the daughter of whose existence he had been unaware, and the boy he could not possibly have fathered. Children who clung to Maman—not knowing or caring that she was flighty and unreliable—because she was their one constant in an uncertain world.
Will you risk losing both children, husband, simply to get rid of me?
Dear God, what was he going to do? What could he do?
***
“Oh, my dearest child.” Lady Tresilian folded her youngest daughter close.
Sophie leaned into her mother’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of lemon verbena that had comforted her since she was a little girl. Strangely, despite having the perfect opportunity to do so, she did not weep. Her eyes felt hot and burning, but whatever tears she might have shed after the evening’s debacle seemed to have congealed into a frozen weight inside of her.
Her family had been distressed enough for her. On their return to Roswarne, Harry had stormed about the parlor, his face like thunder, raging over what he called Robin’s duplicity and refusing to hear a word in his defense. It had been a relief to Sophie when Lady Tresilian had all but ordered her eldest son to leave the room until he had calmed down. John had prudently held his tongue and somehow influenced Peter to do the same, whisking the younger boy upstairs with him as soon as Harry’s tirade began. Arthur and Cecily had merely embraced Sophie with silent sympathy before retiring to their own chamber, leaving mother and daughter alone in Sophie’s bedroom.
“I cannot believe Mr. Pendarvis would deceive us like this,” Lady Tresilian murmured, distressed. “And you, most of all…”
“But he didn’t!” Sophie protested, pulling back from her mother’s encircling arms. “I knew, Mama. I’ve known for months that he had a wife. But he told me he was going to divorce her.” So he could marry me… She bit back the words just in time, but even unspoken they hung heavily in the air.
Lady Tresilian’s face grew stern. “Did he importune you, dearest? Cajole you into a secret engagement?”
“He didn’t need to cajole me into anything!” Sophie insisted. “I was the one who said I’d wait for him.”
“Sophie—”
“And I meant it, Mama! I love him—I still do!”
“But a divorced man—”
“He married her when he was only a boy!” Sophie broke in. “And she left him for another man a few years later. Why shouldn’t he be free as well?” Her voice was climbing, taking on an alarming shrillness. She struggled for composure, determined not to sound like a hysterical female, then resumed in what she hoped was a more reasonable tone. “I know you and Harry would like to believe I was led astray, Mama, but nothing could be further from the truth! Robin tried to break with me before I left for London—and I wouldn’t let him.”
“Oh, my love.” Lady Tresilian stroked Sophie’s hair.
“I told him I would wait, as long as it took, for him to be free of her,” Sophie went on. Someone just had to understand. “He had inquiry agents looking for her, so he could initiate divorce proceedings. On the grounds of adultery,” she added, flushing at having to reveal so intimate a detail to her mother. “He did not know about the child. Children.”
“Clearly not, to judge from his reaction tonight. No man is that good an actor.”
Sophie just managed to suppress a smile. Right or wrong, she couldn’t help but feel slightly heartened by Lady Tresilian’s dry tone. “Robin never intended to deceive anyone, Mama. He just didn’t want that part of his past made public yet. Or to have people like that horrid Sir Lucas prying into his business. Surely you can understand that.”
Lady Tresilian sighed, but Sophie thought she saw her mother’s eyes and mouth softening with a reluctant sympathy. “Well, I can certainly understand wanting privacy in his particular situation. But I still think he should have been honest with us—with his friends—about his circumstances, especially once he started courting you.”
“He was going to tell you,” Sophie insisted. “He just wanted his wife found first, before he made any sort of offer to you or Harry. He meant honorably by me, Mama. He always has.”
“I am relieved to hear that. And to be frank, I have never doubted that Mr. Pendarvis’s intentions toward you were honorable, or I would never have permitted you to spend so much time in his company. But, my dear”—she regarded her daughter gravely—“have you considered how this latest development, with the children, may change things for both of you?”
“Of course it’s going to change things,” Sophie said, a little too quickly. “How could it not? But I know we can find a way to resolve this, in time.” She ignored the treacherous small voice in her head that was wondering just how this could be resolved, and forced another smile. “I love Robin, and I know that he loves me. I have complete faith in him, Mama.”
“Well, my love, I hope that faith will prove justified—for all our sakes.” Lady Tresilian sighed again, reached out to smooth Sophie’s disheveled hair. “I will talk to Harry and try to explain all this to him. And you should sleep now, dearest, if you can manage it.”
“I am rather tired,” Sophie admitted. Exhausted, really—but she could not afford to show fatigue, not while fighting for her future with Robin.
“That’s hardly surprising.” Lady Tresilian kissed her on the forehead and rose from the chaise they’d been sharing. “Let us hope the morning brings… rather better tidings.”
***
Morning brought Robin, soon after breakfast. Fortunately, Harry had left by then to oversee some business at the mine. Lady Tresilian had done her best to pour oil on the troubled waters, but he was still very angry with Robin, muttering direfully under his breath about fisticuffs and hors
ewhips. Difficult though it had been, Sophie had managed to hold her tongue, sensing that any defense of her love would only make things worse at this point.
She sat in the parlor with her mother, vainly trying to read a book even as her ears strained for a familiar voice, a familiar step in the passage. He would come. She knew he would. And once he did, they could work everything out between them.
Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she heard the front door open at last. Seconds later, Parsons appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Pendarvis is here, my lady. He wishes to speak to Miss Sophie.”
Lady Tresilian hesitated only a moment. “Very good, Parsons. Show him in.”
Sophie clenched her hands in her lap as Robin entered the room. He wore riding dress, and his face was pale and haggard, as though he had not slept any better than Sophie had.
“Lady Tresilian, Miss Tresilian.” His tone was almost painfully formal; Sophie’s heart ached to see him retreat into punctiliousness, as if he were among strangers instead of friends.
“Mr. Pendarvis,” Lady Tresilian returned with equal reserve. “I trust you are well?”
He nodded. “Quite well, thank you. And I hope you are the same?”
The stilted pleasantries continued for some minutes longer, with no reference to the events of the previous night. Just when Sophie thought she could bear it no longer, that she was seconds away from tipping over a table in her agitation, Robin turned to his hostess. “Lady Tresilian, may I have a private word with Miss Sophie?”
It seemed an eternity before Lady Tresilian replied. Then, “Very well, Mr. Pendarvis,” she conceded. “I understand that you and my daughter have important matters to discuss.” She rose from the sofa. “I will be in the morning room should you need me, Sophie.”
Once the door had closed behind her mother, Sophie sprang up from the sofa and held out her hands to him, the words escaping in a fervent rush. “Robin—I am so glad that you’ve come!”
He moistened his lips, his eyes searching her face, but he did not take her hands—yet. “I had to see you. How are you, truly?”
“I’m well enough,” Sophie lied, without a qualm. “A bit… surprised by everything, that’s all. But you must be in absolute shock,” she added, reaching out to touch his sleeve. “How are you holding up?”
Robin exhaled. “I’m managing. But it’s a lot to deal with, all the same.” He paused, then said almost abruptly, “They’re still at the hotel. Nathalie—and the children.”
Sophie nodded. Of course they would be. He would never throw them out in the street. She waited for him to continue.
He looked at her, raw misery in his eyes. “I didn’t know, Sophie. I swear I never guessed Nathalie might be with child when she left!”
“Of course you didn’t know.” She tried to keep her voice low and soothing.
“A lie of omission.” His voice was as bleak as his expression. “Or perhaps, to be fair, Nathalie wasn’t aware of her pregnancy either. But in all likelihood, she spoke the truth last night. The girl—Sara—is mine. Almost the image of my mother at that age. I’ve seen family portraits.”
Sophie swallowed. “She has your eyes. Your coloring too. But the boy…”
“Cyril couldn’t possibly be mine. But his father—whoever he is—doesn’t appear to be involved. Dear God, Sophie, he’s only a baby!”
“I know. And frail too, by the look of him.” Half against her will, she felt a tug of pity for that tiny, swaddled atom in Nathalie’s arms.
He nodded, raking a hand through his disheveled hair as he took a few agitated strides about the room. “Frail—and not quite well, even now. As near as I can tell, Nathalie’s dragged them across Europe, and all over England. Norris had so much trouble finding her, because she kept changing her name and location.”
He glanced back at Sophie, and she saw that the misery had given way to determination. “I have to claim them—both of them—as my own. They’ll have some security, some stability that way. Cyril may stand a better chance of survival here, with me: a warm bed, regular meals, a doctor’s attentions. Nathalie’s given precious little thought to all that.”
Not surprising. Nathalie Pendarvis—as she now called herself—wasn’t the sort to concern herself much with others’ needs. Sophie nodded, lacing her fingers together and trying to ignore the chill spreading outward from the pit of her stomach. “Of course you must claim them. They’re—they’re the true innocents in all this.” Somehow she dredged up a smile, though it felt stiff and unfamiliar on her face, like some ill-fitting garment. “You’ll do your best for them, I know. You always do. Only… how will this affect your divorce from Nathalie?”
He stared at her as though she’d spoken in tongues, the color draining from his already pale face. “Sophie, there can’t be a divorce. Not now. Perhaps—not ever.”
***
Not ever. A death knell in two words.
Sophie stood stock-still in the parlor as Robin struggled on with his explanation—the difficulty of locating Nathalie’s lovers or concrete proof of her adultery, the impossibility of repudiating the children, the cruelty of branding them as bastards—but only one thing seemed to penetrate the fog surrounding her.
That the future they’d both longed for, the life that had appeared just within their grasp, was slipping away from them, receding faster than a wave at low tide.
Robin fell silent, his words stumbling to a halt. In the last five minutes, he looked to have aged ten years, the weight of the world—of fatherhood—bowing his shoulders. The shadows beneath his eyes were dark as bruises.
“You called the children ‘the true innocents in this,’” he said at last, his voice leaden with regret. “But you are just as innocent. And you deserve better, far better, than a man who can no longer keep his promises. Forgive me.” He spoke in a defeated whisper now. “If you can. And—forget me.”
He turned to go, shoulders still slumped—and all the happiness in Sophie’s world was going with him. That realization was enough to jar her from paralysis, though it took several tries to force words past the constriction in her throat. “Robin, wait!”
He turned back, his eyes as dark and hopeless as an eternal midnight.
Sophie swallowed and made herself continue. “I know—that your first duty must be to the children. You wouldn’t be… the man you are if you didn’t put them first. But I want you to know that—that my feelings are unaltered.”
His mouth curved ever so faintly, forming an almost-smile of mingled grief and tenderness. “As are mine, my dearest girl.”
“Well, then…” She cleared her throat. “If that is so, for both of us, then… why can we not still be happy? Even if it’s not—exactly the way we had planned?”
He stilled, his gaze sharpening. “Sophie, what are you saying?”
She took a breath, bracing herself for the leap over the next hurdle. “I’m saying… I can still be yours, Robin. I want to be yours—whether we are married or not!”
“My God.” Comprehension flashed across his face. “You’re offering to be my mistress.”
Spoken aloud, the words sounded unbearably stark. Sophie felt her cheeks burning, but there could be no turning back. She nodded, holding his gaze with her own. “It would be worth everything to me, simply to be together!”
For a split second she saw it in his eyes, everything she felt: the hunger, the longing… and the temptation. Then his face closed with that shuttered look she knew all too well, and he took another step back, shaking his head. “Sophie… no. This cannot happen. You would be sacrificing your whole future—your reputation, your career, everything you’ve worked for, even your family. I can’t let you risk that or give it up.”
“I don’t care!” She caught his hands, cold as ice in her own. “Love always finds a way—and we love each other, Robin! Don’t try to deny that!”
“I couldn’t, not ever. And it’s because I love you that I have to let you go. To have the life you were
meant to have, without me.” He freed his hands from hers, his face ashen but resolute. “I wanted to give you the world, not force you to make an impossible choice. I couldn’t bear to see you shunned—outcast—because of me.”
“Robin—” Just one word, just his name, struggling past the tears rising in her throat.
He shook his head again, moving inexorably away from her. “I am not worth so great a sacrifice. And in time, you will see that I am right.”
“Please, don’t—”
“Good-bye, my dear.”
And then he was gone, the parlor door closing behind him, his footsteps receding in the distance. Seconds later, she heard another door close with a terrible finality, marking Robin’s departure from Roswarne—and her life.
Sophie stood where he had left her, the tears thick and hot on her cheeks, pain like a slow evisceration opening below her breastbone and spreading outward to her chest, her abdomen, to every part of her body. Gasping, she doubled over, arms crossed over her middle… and the gasps deepened into ugly, retching sobs that shook her from head to toe.
Sinking to the floor, she rocked back and forth, unable to silence those wracking sobs or stem the tears now pouring from her eyes, running into her open mouth, soaking the bodice of her morning dress. The world shrank around her, dwindling to pain and the hot, ceaseless flow of tears down a face already raw with them.
Lost in grief, she never heard the door open or the footsteps that hurried toward her. But when soft arms enfolded her and gentle fingers stroked her hair, she turned her face into that familiar bosom and sobbed afresh, the words finally shaking themselves loose.
“I wish I could die, Mama! Oh, God, I wish I could just die…”
Eleven
A heavy heart, Belovéd, have I borne
From year to year until I saw thy face…
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese
London, July 1896
Pamela Sherwood Page 15
