by Brenda Joyce
“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said, looking only at Lizzie, “but I must have a word with you, Elizabeth.”
Georgie took her cue. She nodded at Tyrell and hurried from the room, having the good sense to firmly shut the door behind her as she did so.
Lizzie hugged herself, not daring to meet his searching eyes.
“Lord Harrington has arrived unexpectedly,” he said, his voice hard.
“I know. I saw.” She managed to look up. His expression was stark.
He strode to her, pulling her hands away from her body and gripping them. “I am so sorry!”
Helplessly she shook her head. “He must have heard of our affair. There can be no other reason for his calling like this, so unexpectedly, without sending word.”
“He claims he spent a weekend with Lord Montague in the south and decided to call rather spontaneously.” He had not released her hands.
“Do you believe him?”
“No, I do not.”
Lizzie told herself, very firmly, not to cry. Tears would solve nothing now. “Perhaps he wishes to discuss your marriage,” she said, and she was horrified at how distraught she sounded.
His face tightened and he did not speak.
From Tyrell’s set expression, Lizzie realized that Harrington must have said just that. “So he does wish to discuss your marriage?” she cried, and her tone was terribly shrill.
He turned away. “It should hardly come as a surprise. We both know I am affianced. We have both known it from the start.”
Lizzie’s temples throbbed; it was hard to think. “What would you have me do, my lord? Should I pack my things and flee the house in the middle of the night while everyone sleeps?” Too late, she realized how bitterly she spoke.
His grasp tightened. “No! His arrival here changes nothing, Elizabeth—it changes nothing.”
“It changes everything, my lord,” she whispered unevenly in return.
He pulled her close, crushing her to his chest, seeking her mouth. Lizzie began to cry as he kissed her, again and again. She could not respond, not when her life was over. He stopped, holding her tightly. “Don’t cry. This changes nothing, Elizabeth. I still want you in my arms every night.” He tilted up her chin so their gazes met. “I will have your belongings moved into the adjoining room here with your sister. It’s only for a few days.” His tone was firm but kind with whatever sympathy he now felt for her.
But she hardly wanted his sympathy now. She tried to push away from him, but he would not let her go. She gave up, her hands pressed against his hard chest, which heaved with his own distress. She breathed deeply, finally finding some small shred of composure. “She must be in London even as we speak, in the midst of preparations for the wedding,” she said hoarsely. She had to ask about the future now.
He stared before finally responding. “I imagine so.”
She wet her lips, closed her eyes briefly. “Will the wedding be at Adare?”
“It will be in London,” he said tightly, his face impossible to read. He hesitated. “You have every right to know the details. We will be wed at St. Paul’s on September 15.”
“I see,” she said, finding her pride now and clinging to it, as it was all she seemed to have. She seemed to have moved outside of herself and it felt very much as if she were watching a drama on some theatre stage. She had managed to achieve an utter detachment from her heart. How long, she wondered, could she sustain that? If she were lucky, it would be for the rest of her life. “That is but a month away. When do you leave for London?”
He spoke as formally now, but his gaze was filled with caution, as if she were an adversary that he must fear, or a prey he must prevent from an escape. “In two weeks.”
He would leave Ireland in two weeks. He would leave her in two weeks. And the stage collapsed; the players she was watching vanished into thin air. There was only herself and Tyrell and her own consuming grief.
She had been living in a dreamworld of her own making. Since coming to Wicklowe, she had refused to think of the future, refused to think of the woman he would one day marry, even after Papa’s frightening visit. With the entire household treating her as a wife, not a mistress, with Tyrell treating her that way, she had spent her days dreaming about him and the time they had already spent together, the memories they had already created. Her nights had been spent in a passionate frenzy. Since Papa’s visit, that clock had been ticking, or had it been ticking since her parents had first marched her up to Adare with Ned? It no longer mattered. The clock had stopped when Lord Harrington had arrived, and now those few memories would have to last her a lifetime.
It was over.
A huge weight, the weight of grief and loss, began to bear down on her.
Not moving, he said, slowly and carefully, “I will spend two weeks in London and return to Wicklowe. I still have to attend my post in Dublin,” he said.
Lizzie had never imagined suffering so much heartache. She heard him, but vaguely. And what about Ned?
Tyrell was talking to her. He wet his lips and said with the utmost care, “I have given the matter a great deal of thought. I will buy you a house in Dublin. Any house you wish, as grand as you prefer. You will live there with Ned and your sister and I can visit you every day.”
Lizzie held her chest, but the pain was intensifying, anyway. She gazed up at him, the man she had always loved when she had no right to do so. He thought to visit her every day—and go home to his wife every night.
“You are not leaving me,” he said, a vast and terrible warning.
Lizzie tore her gaze from his. If she tried to speak, her grief would rush from her body, heart and soul in a tidal wave, and he would know.
Suddenly he knelt before her, clasping both of her hands. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t cry.” He hesitated. “I am terribly fond of you. You know that, don’t you?”
She couldn’t even nod.
He tried to smile and failed utterly. “What would you have me do? It is my duty to marry Blanche. It is my duty to the earl, my duty to Adare.” He spoke in an odd rush. “I have never failed in my duty before, Elizabeth. Since the day I first breathed air, I have been raised to put the de Warenne name and family and the earldom first and last. Adare is who I am. I must think of the next generation!”
How odd it was, she thought, he spoke as if in a panic. “I do not want you to fail in your duty and I never have.”
He pulled her to her feet and brushed his mouth over hers urgently—or was it frantically? “Elizabeth!” he cried, as if reading her thoughts exactly. “Nothing changes!”
But everything had changed, she thought. She turned away from him and gazed out the window where the lovely mountains were, seeing nothing but blackness. Leaving Tyrell now, after all they had shared, would be the hardest thing she had ever done. She longed to give in, break down and wail in sorrow. But not in front of Tyrell. If he knew what she intended, he would never let her go.
Lizzie found a strength and resolve she had never realized she had. Squaring her shoulders, she spoke without turning to face him. “I am fond of you, too, Tyrell.”
His response was a stunned silence.
She slowly, carefully, faced him. “Tyrell, I need to be alone.”
His expression was alarmed. “I do not care for your tone!”
“Then I apologize.” She wanted to smile but knew she could not, not even if her life depended on it. But her life no longer mattered, did it? What mattered was Tyrell’s life and Ned’s future.
He suddenly took a step that brought him to her and he clasped her face in his hands. “Darling! Nothing will really change. I will buy you a home as grand as this—I will be with you every day and we will have more children!”
There would be no more children, not for her. “Don’t,” she said, closing her eyes tightly. The tears fell, anyway.
He crushed her in his embrace. “You are not leaving me,” he said, and it was a command.
Lizzie did not answ
er him.
It was only when she was alone in her room that she realized the ultimate consequence of her decision.
Ned was a de Warenne. Ned belonged with his father.
Leaving Tyrell now also meant that she must leave Ned. Lizzie loved Ned far too deeply to deny him either his birthright or his father, just as she loved Tyrell far too much to ever consider separating him from his son. Fortunately Tyrell had become very fond of Ned, behaving as if he really believed Ned were his own. Lizzie would have to tell him the truth now, before she left. Having no more courage, she would do it in a letter.
Lizzie wept until she had no tears left. Georgie had briefly tried to comfort her and, sensing what she intended to do, to change her mind. Lizzie would not speak with her sister now. Her strength remained far too precarious and she must cling to her resolve. It was time to face the future and do what was right.
She only left her bed because she wanted to spend the small time she had left with Ned. She did not want him to witness her grief and become distressed by it, so she changed her gown and washed her face with care. She was ready to go down the hall to the nursery when a series of rapid knocks sounded on her bedroom door. “Mum! Miss Fitzgerald!” It was Rosie and she sounded frightened.
Lizzie’s misery vanished. Thinking that something had happened to Ned, she rushed to the door. “Is Ned all right?”
“Mum, he is fine. But I dunno what to do! It is his lordship, mum. He is in the nursery. He is in the nursery with Ned!”
Lizzie did not understand and she had no wish to see Tyrell just then.
“It is his lordship the viscount,” Rosie said.
She ran from her bedroom, shocked that Harrington would visit her son and overcome with a terrible fear. Lizzie paused before the nursery’s open door, Rosie behind her, uncertain of what she might find.
Harrington was a slim man of medium height with iron-gray hair. He was very elegant and handsome, and undoubtedly his daughter took after him. He sat on the sofa with Ned, who was holding a stuffed animal and regarding the older man with a wary and aloof regard.
Lizzie’s instinct was to rush into the room and demand that Harrington get away from her son. Instead, she stared, breathless with worry.
Ned finally offered the stuffed animal to Lord Harrington. He took it and, rather gravely, said, “Thank you.”
Harrington had seen her and he now rose swiftly to his feet. He inclined his head. “Miss Fitzgerald, I presume?”
Lizzie managed a curtsy, and she simply watched the man who watched her as carefully in return. An awkward silence fell.
“Mama!” Ned cried in delight. He scrambled from the sofa and raced to her, falling when he reached her side. Lizzie knelt and hugged him, but he protested, pushing her away. “Ned up!” he declared, and he used her skirts to quickly stand up and beam with pride at her.
Lizzie praised him, somehow, and slowly rose and looked up at Harrington. “My lord,” she said. “What brings you to the nursery?”
“I should like to speak with you,” Harrington said in such a manner no one would ever think of denying him.
Lizzie did not want to speak with him, but, on the other hand, she had to know what he really wanted. “Of course.”
Harrington continued to study her. “The child takes after his father, I see. You must be very proud of him.” He spoke in a factual manner.
“I am,” she said as nonsensically.
His gaze held hers. “I confess, you are not what I expected.”
Lizzie could not respond, as his words were somewhat rude.
“I expected an older woman, a woman of vast experience. How old are you?”
“I have just turned eighteen,” Lizzie managed to say.
“And your family?”
“The Fitzgeralds of Raven Hall,” Lizzie said. She added, “We are impoverished country gentry. Once, centuries ago, my ancestor was the earl of all of southern Ireland.”
His brows lifted. “I see, but hardly understand. You flaunt society—as does Tyrell—on the eve of his marriage to my daughter.”
“I am sorry,” Lizzie said, meaning it. “I am so sorry!”
He started in surprise.
“I have loved him my entire life. Since I was a small child—when he rescued me from a certain death. I am not here for any other reason than that my heart has ruled my intellect.”
Harrington remained as rigid as a soldier. “Is Tyrell in love with you, too?”
She hesitated. “I’m not certain. Sometimes I think so—I hope so—I don’t know.”
He studied her before speaking. “Sit down, Miss Fitzgerald. I would like to tell you a story,” he said.
Lizzie tensed in surprise, wondering what tactic this was. But she took a chair, folding her hands in her lap.
Harrington did not sit. He paced to look out of the nursery window. The mountains, green and wooded, framed the blue summer sky. “Blanche has always known that I would allow her to marry for love.” He turned and looked at Lizzie, who was very surprised. “Indeed, I had asked her to choose her groom, some years ago.”
Lizzie felt her eyes widen. What was this about?
“We do not need funds and I am terribly well connected. My daughter is a great heiress, her title a minor one but her holdings so vast that I need not think of adding to the estate in any way.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Lizzie asked.
He raised his hand. “Blanche is nineteen years old, and for several years now I have waited for her to come to me aglow and in joy, telling me whom she has chosen to wed.”
Lizzie wondered if she had misheard Blanche at the engagement ball. Was she in love with Tyrell after all?
His next words relieved her. “But that day never came. I have rued it ever coming.”
He had her absolute interest now.
Suddenly Harrington pulled an ottoman over and sat down. His face seemed ravaged, resigned. “My daughter is not like other women, Miss Fitzgerald. But, dear God, it is not her fault.”
Lizzie was perplexed.
“Do you know that no one has seen her cry, not once in thirteen years? My daughter does not cry because she does not despair. She never loses her temper, her calm, nor does she exult, not in anything or anyone. Just as she cannot seem to anguish, she cannot seem to find joy.”
“Why?” Lizzie whispered, stunned.
“When she was six years old, she watched her mother being brutally murdered by a rioting mob. I was there, but I could not get through the mob to rescue them. Blanche tried to protect her mother but it was too late. My wife was already dead. Some thug tossed Blanche aside and she lost consciousness. When she awoke, many hours later, she did not recall her mother or the murder.”
Lizzie was aghast. “I am so sorry.”
“Her memory loss was most fortunate, but that was the day my daughter forgot how to laugh and how to cry.” He stood. “You are not what I expected. I expected a flamboyant harlot. And I have shared this very private matter for a reason.”
Lizzie somehow knew what he would say next.
He looked right at her. “I chose Tyrell for her with the utmost care. He is a great man, honorable and kind, and as important, he is well versed in a genuine family. He is everything I want for my daughter, Miss Fitzgerald. And I fully expect my daughter to come to love him, one day—even if she must learn to do so.”
Lizzie felt a tear falling. If Harrington had thought to move her to great sympathy, he had succeeded.
“I know he will take great care of her. And I pray every single day that she will find love with him, no matter how long it might take. Does my daughter not deserve love, Miss Fitzgerald? After all she has been through?”
Lizzie nodded in misery. “Yes,” she said, feeling real anguish for her rival. “Yes, she does.”
“Mama?” Ned asked with worry in his tone, clearly aware of her distress.
Lizzie reached for his hand and held it. “Mama is fine,” she whispered, the greatest lie of h
er life.
Harrington waited.
Lizzie slowly stood. “You have nothing to fear from me,” she said unsteadily. “I have already decided to leave Tyrell. I am not a harlot, and my decision to reside here with him openly, with him about to be wed, was a terrible one. Now my resolve has been strengthened. I will not stand in the way of your daughter, Lord Harrington.”
Real respect filled his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
Lizzie closed her eyes against the renewed stabbing of pain. Then she opened them and managed to say, “I have one request.”
He stiffened. “Of course you do.”
“It is hardly what you are thinking,” she cried bitterly. “Ned belongs with his father. I want your word—your word as a gentleman of honor—that your daughter will be a good, kind mother to him and that he will not lack for anything.”
“You have it,” he said quietly.
Lizzie wiped the tears that fell freely down her face.
Harrington bowed deeply, and without a backward look, he left.
She had no tears left.
Lizzie stared up at the ceiling, watching as dawn crept over the plaster, absolutely numb with the extent of her grief. It even hurt to breathe. Once, within her breast, her heart had beat with so much joy, hope and love. Now every beat was dull and cold, hopeless. Now she understood the word heartache. There did not seem to be any way to soothe her pain.
Tyrell was leaving as usual for Dublin that morning. How perfect, she thought, as her departure was planned for directly after his.
She had not seen him since their argument yesterday. Last evening he had dined with Lord Harrington and she knew he was too respectful of him to ever try to creep into her bed after the evening was concluded. So he would depart for Dublin within an hour—and by midmorning, she would also be gone.
She had decided to go to Glen Barry, where she knew Eleanor was in residence. And then she would never see Tyrell again—or, if she did, he would be a married man, which was as it should be. Blanche’s past was a tragic one and Lizzie knew that she was doing the right thing. Even though it was wrong to love Tyrell, she would never stop doing so from afar. But would she ever see Ned again?
