by Brenda Joyce
Lizzie could not bear to contemplate that question now. She had no doubt that Ned belonged with his father. If she dared to think of a future without her child, she might change her mind and take him with her.
And then she heard Tyrell entering the sitting room, outside her bedroom door. She was overwhelmed with surprise, sudden, foolish hope and crushing dismay. His determined footsteps sounded as he crossed the salon, approaching her door, and relief flooded her. She would see him this one last time.
Her door creaked as he opened it. Lizzie closed her eyes, knowing she must pretend to be asleep. If he saw her expression, gazed into her eyes, if they even tried to converse, he would instantly know her scheme.
He crossed the bedroom.
Lizzie forgot to breathe.
The bed dipped as he sat down beside her. His hand caressed her shoulder, her cheek. He removed some tendrils of hair from her face.
She wanted to rush into his arms and hold him; she did not dare.
He sighed, stood, and began to leave.
“Tyrell!” She leapt up, dashing across the room.
He whirled and she went into his arms, holding him hard, as hard as he held her. She buried her face against his chest, trying to memorize the feel of him, the power that he cloaked her in, the strength that would always be the safest harbor she had ever known. He could not know, but this was goodbye.
“I thought you were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you. Elizabeth, I know how difficult this is for you.” He stroked her long, thick braid of hair.
Lizzie could not speak. All she could think to say was I love you, and that would not do.
His tone was rough. “Elizabeth, this is difficult for me, too.”
She looked up and saw the despair and regret in his eyes.
“We will get through this crisis.”
And Lizzie realized that he was suffering over their affair every bit as much as she was. She reached up to touch his face. “Do not blame yourself,” she whispered.
“But I wanted to make you happy. Instead, you have been crying.”
“I have been happy, Tyrell—”
“Many men have two families, two lives,” he said harshly. “I have thought long and hard about it. But I can see the doubt in your eyes, even now as I speak. Elizabeth! You must trust me.” He hesitated. “You must trust this.”
Some treacherous part of her wanted to stay then, for she trusted no one more. But that would change nothing. Lizzie closed her eyes. “I will always trust you, Tyrell.”
He took her face in his hands and suddenly kissed her with urgency and heat. Her body responded immediately, quivering against his, but she knew that if she took him to bed, even briefly, she would never keep her resolve. Somehow, she broke the kiss, shaken and shaking.
He gripped her hands and glanced back at the bed, clearly an instant from lifting her into his arms and carrying her there.
“No,” she whispered, her hands still on his chest. “No, Tyrell, you must go.” She pulled free. “Godspeed.”
Harrington stood at the window in the music room, which was just to the left of the entry hall. He watched Elizabeth Fitzgerald and her sister, standing in the driveway as their trunks were loaded into a carriage. He was grim.
He had truly expected a real whore, not a compassionate and pleasant young woman of good breeding. He was well aware that she was deeply in love with Tyrell, but she would have to get over her lover. He was sorry that she had to suffer now. He could see why Tyrell had been taken with her and he hoped, very much, that Tyrell did not love her too greatly.
But it did not matter even if he did.
For he must give his daughter a chance at living. If there was one thing he would achieve before he died, it was to see his daughter capable of real tears and real joy. And his own heart ached as it always did when he thought about his only child. Blanche was a beautiful woman now, and society praised her as perfection, for that was what it saw. No one knew the truth except for him, and now, Miss Fitzgerald. Blanche’s scars were invisible, but they made her a prisoner of a frightening dispassion.
Harrington watched the sisters climb into the carriage. He sighed with a regret he could not avoid, glimpsing Miss Fitzgerald’s tears. He hoped Tyrell would take care of her generously, as she had admitted that her family was impoverished. He made a mental note to investigate her family’s entire situation. If Tyrell did not compensate her, perhaps he would do so.
He was about to leave the window when a movement outside caught his eye. Harrington turned back and saw Elizabeth leaning out of the window, handing an envelope to the butler. She had written Tyrell a letter. Harrington knew at once that he must intercept the missive. He was a very good judge of character and he felt certain that Miss Fitzgerald’s letter was some kind of emotional declaration. If so, its contents might encourage Tyrell to go after her. And that he could not allow, never mind his vast regret for Miss Fitzgerald’s heartbreak.
Harrington left the music room. The front door was ajar and he could see the carriage finally departing. The butler entered the house, letter in hand, closing the large door solidly behind him.
“Smythe.” Harrington came forward, extending his hand. “I shall take care of that.”
Smythe’s expression was instantly impassive yet deferential. “My lord, this letter is for his lordship.”
“I shall see that he gets it,” he said coolly, giving him such a look that any further defiance was impossible.
Flushing, the butler quickly handed him the envelope. It was, he saw, sealed. “That is all,” he said.
Smythe bowed and hurried away.
Harrington went to the library and found a letter opener in the desk there.
My dear Tyrell,
I have realized that I cannot continue on this way, as it is far too hurtful. A long time ago, I fell deeply in love with you. I have loved you from afar since I was a small child, and I shall love you from afar until I die an old woman. My grief knows no bounds, for already I miss you terribly, but I do not want to stand in the way of your marriage. I wish you a future filled with joy and happiness, and I am certain you will find such a future with Blanche.
Ned is your son, not mine. He was conceived the night of All Hallow’s Eve by the woman who wore my costume. I pray that you can forgive me for such a terrible lie but I have loved him from the day he was born as if he were truly my own son. Please love him well, my lord. Love him greatly, love him for me.
Eternally Yours, Elizabeth.
Harrington felt the oddest prickling of guilt. Miss Fitzgerald was so deeply in love. She was truly a noble woman, to sacrifice her own interests now and even encourage her lover to move on with Blanche. But he could not afford to be too compassionate toward her.
Harrington almost regretted what he had to do. Letter and envelope in hand, he crossed the room. A small fire danced behind the grate in the fireplace. He dropped the letter and its envelope into the fire and watched the flames consume it, silently hoping that one day, Miss Fitzgerald might forgive him.
Tyrell strode through the house, his heart pounding with anticipation. He had been informed that Harrington had gone to call on a neighbor, but even if he had remained in residence, Tyrell would not have cared. He had been disturbed all day by Lizzie’s behavior that morning, for it had filled him with the bitter taste of dread.
As he took the stairs to the second floor, he kept reassuring himself that the nagging dread was a response to his upcoming marriage. That terrible feeling of being trapped was consuming him now and he could no longer deny that he was uncertain about his commitment to Blanche. But dear God, surely the urge to escape his duty would pass. Surely, soon, he would be the man he had always been. Yet there was no denying that these past two months had been the most joyous of his life.
The rest of his feelings were undeniable, too. He was deeply in love with Elizabeth Fitzgerald.
His heart accelerated as he pushed open the nursery door. He hated seeing Elizabeth in angu
ish, and she had clearly been anguished since Harrington had arrived. Now, somehow, he would find a way to ease her distress. He had tried that morning to convince her not to worry, but he knew he had failed.
The nursemaid, Rosie, was sewing and his son was playing with his toy soldiers on the floor. Elizabeth was not in sight. He gazed at Ned with a father’s acute pride, smiling. The little boy shot a soldier and turned to beam at him. “Ned! Ned win!” He crowed.
Tyrell laughed and lifted him into his arms. “Someone is going to have to teach you modesty, my boy,” he said. “I fear your arrogance will terrorize the ton.”
Ned gave him a condescending look. “Ned win,” he said with great purpose.
Tyrell laughed again, ruffling his thick, dark hair.
“Papa! Put down,” Ned demanded. “Papa!”
Tyrell froze, not drawing a single breath.
“Papa!” Ned pushed at his chest.
Tyrell slid him to his feet. “Rosie!” he gasped, not even aware that he was addressing the nursemaid so informally. “He called me Papa!”
But Rosie wasn’t smiling. She was very pale and her nose was red, as if she had been weeping. “Yes, my lord,” she said hoarsely.
He became still, the glorious joy of this miracle vanishing. What was this?
But he knew.
“Where is Miss Fitzgerald?” he demanded.
She wet her lips. “I do not know, sir.”
For one moment he stared and then he strode across the hall, flinging open her door. The bed was made, the armoire open. It was completely empty.
He was in disbelief.
“Sir,” Rosie whispered, coming to stand in the door with Ned in her arms.
He barely heard her. He went to the bureau and opened it, but it was also empty.
And the comprehension began.
Elizabeth had left him.
He whirled, his heart beginning to beat, each pulse huge and hurtful. “When did she leave?”
“This morning, my lord.”
He stared but did not see her. Instead he saw Elizabeth as she had been that morning, anguish in her eyes. Elizabeth had left him.
A beast raised its head and howled madly, in pain and grief. The noise was deafening, he thought, deafening and tragic in its huge sorrow. He heard wood crashing, splintering, followed by shattering glass, the beast’s howls filling the room, the hall, the mansion. He wondered at what kind of animal it was.
It howled until it had no voice left.
And then the quiet came.
Tyrell stood in the center of her room, alone and still. He looked at the broken armoire, now on its side, its door torn off and broken into pieces. He looked at the glass littering the floor, shards small and large, from the smashed windowpanes and the broken mirror. He stood there, his hands dripping blood, staring at the fragments of his world.
Part Three
December 1814–January 1815
20
An Unlikely Attraction
Georgie was humming as she put the finishing touches on their Christmas decorations. Lizzie stood a small distance away, watching her sister, who was smiling as she fussed over the mantel. It was trimmed with gold-and-silver tissue and many sprigs from a fir tree. It was very pretty, Lizzie thought clinically. But she could not get into the holiday spirit. It was simply impossible.
They had moved to London’s West End in the fall. Georgina was hardly ever at Eleanor’s town home on Belgrave Square. She spent her days at bookstores, museums, art galleries and any public debate advertised in the London Times. Lizzie was glad that her sister had adjusted so well. Georgie had become a veritable whirlwind of intelligent social action and she loved living in town.
Lizzie had not been able to adjust so easily.
She and Georgina had gone directly to Glen Barry upon leaving Wicklowe that terrible summer day. Fortunately, Eleanor had taken one look at the sisters and had welcomed them both with open arms; Lizzie had somehow explained her predicament while begging Eleanor for forgiveness at the very same time. “I am very fond of you, Elizabeth,” Eleanor had said softly. “I understood your anger and now I wonder if the decision I made was the right one.”
Their move to London had come just before Tyrell’s return to Wicklowe with his bride. Knowing beforehand that he would return in October, Eleanor had decided to move the family to her London home. She had thought that Lizzie might have a change of heart, or that being in such close proximity would be too much to bear for Glen Barry was only two hours from Wicklowe. Lizzie had not objected. Living near Tyrell and Ned now would only prolong her grief.
They had not learned about the postponement of his wedding until they had passed several weeks in town. Lizzie had been stunned to hear that he had not married Blanche after all. Apparently she had been ill; the nuptials would now take place in May.
Lizzie refused to think too much of the matter, for if she did, she might foolishly start to believe the postponement had something to do with her. Well over four months had passed since she had left him and their son, and if he had any lingering concern or affection for her, surely she would have heard from him. But she had not. In light of the letter she had left him, it spoke volumes; he simply did not care.
No matter how she tried, her grief was a huge and heavy mantle she could not shed. Every day was gray, every night sleepless. But there were no regrets. She treasured every memory she had of him, from the moment she had first laid eyes upon him to the last time he had held her in his arms. If only the memories did not hurt so much.
Time was supposed to heal all wounds. Lizzie even believed it, but clearly, not enough time had gone by to heal hers. And time had not eased the wound of leaving Ned with him, either. Sometimes she missed her little boy far more than she did Tyrell. But she was certain she had done the right thing. Leaving Tyrell and her son had been the hardest acts of her life, but Ned belonged with Tyrell and Tyrell belonged with the woman who would soon be his wife.
She spent every day determined not to think about them. She focused on whatever tasks were at hand, whether it was accompanying her aunt to a tea, Georgie to the mall or tending sick hospital patients at St. Anne’s, but in the end, that was futile, too. The memories would assail her unexpectedly, and with them, the grief would rise up all over again. In the midst of a stroll in the park she would recall a word, a touch, a look.
At least Ned was well. The countess had written her to tell her that he was doted on by his father and grandparents, that he had grown out of his shoes and that he was trotting a cavaletti on his pony. He could speak full sentences now, too. Lizzie wept over her letter. She dared to reply, thanking her for the news and begging her for more whenever she had the time to spare.
Lizzie was grateful that children had short memories and that whatever loss Ned had felt for her disappearance was by now blessedly over. Was Tyrell happy, too?
He was at Adare, or so she assumed, with his entire family, his fiancée and his son. She tried to imagine him with Blanche, smiling at her the way he had at Lizzie, but it was too painful. She prayed he was content and left it at that.
Georgie touched her arm. “Oh, Lizzie! Just when I think you are on the mend, you vanish from this very earth and appear so terribly sad. Do not think about him!”
Lizzie smiled at her. She had learned how to smile no matter how terribly she ached in her heart and her soul. “I am not sad.” It was a lie and they both knew it. “It’s Christmas, a time of year I love. Mama and Papa are arriving today and I am so terribly excited to see them.”
Georgie gave her a speculative look. “I am excited to see them, too, but I am also anxious. We haven’t seen Papa since that awful day at Wicklowe.”
Lizzie turned away. She had already worried about her encounter with her father and she really did not want to speak about it.
She had written to her parents on a regular basis and not once had Mama or Papa referred to that terrible day when Papa had claimed to disown her. In fact, Mama seemed to be v
ery popular now and rarely spent a night at Raven Hall without company. For some reason, the countess continued to invite her to Adare whenever she was in residence. Papa’s letters were mild in nature. Lizzie prayed it was completely forgotten by everyone.
She and Anna exchanged letters, too. Anna’s letters were always the same, filled with the happy details of her life in Derbyshire society and her marriage. She never referred to the past, of course, and nor did Lizzie want her to. Lizzie was grateful that Anna was happy and in love—in fact, she was expecting a child in the spring. But it was always hard for Lizzie to write back.
For what could she say? Lizzie could not share the details of her own life with her sister in a letter. Lizzie wondered if Anna had even heard of her affair with Tyrell. Of course, now it hardly mattered, being as it was over. So she wrote about the pleasant times spent strolling in the park at Glen Barry and the hectic nature of their move to town. She told Anna how thrilled Georgie was with life in the city, adding a few anecdotes that might entertain her sister.
But Anna had read between the lines. Her last letter had been far too intimate for comfort.
“But what about you, Lizzie? You never write about yourself! I want you to be happy and I worry about you constantly. Please tell me you love town as much as Georgie does.” Anna had gone on to invite her to Derbyshire the following summer instead of Lizzie returning to Raven Hall or Glen Barry. “You will love it here, I think, as it is the most beautiful spot in England! And you will not be bored, as we have many callers, and Thomas has some very handsome bachelor friends. Do say you will come, Lizzie, for I miss you so.”
Lizzie had yet to reply. She would love to visit Anna at some future time, but her wounds remained too raw to contemplate such a visit now, especially as Anna seemed to think she could match her up with one of Thomas’s friends. Lizzie was not deluded. Her reputation was such that she would never marry now—which was a relief. Even if her reputation would allow a marriage, she had no doubt that she would never stop loving Tyrell. There could be no one else, not for her.
