by Mary Balogh
Yet they had parted the night before with bitterness, poles apart, unable to communicate. He had left Granby, not even waiting for morning. There was no reason now for any future meetings. It was likely that there would be an estrangement between him and William Mainwaring. Even if they remained friends, it was very unlikely that they would come together to Ferndale again as long as she still lived with the Rowes. He had refused to divorce her or to allow her to divorce him. They had told each other their stories, yet had failed to understand what had happened. And they had parted. It was all over.
But why should that be? They had loved each other passionately six years before, had defied their families in order to marry, and had grieved for each other ever since. They loved and wanted each other now. Why should they be apart forever? Had they not suffered enough? And all because of the lies and the schemings of one man.
Robert had said that his uncle always acted out of devotion to his family. What a twisted devotion it was to destroy a nephew's marriage and his happiness in order to protect the great pride of the family name. The man had lied, of course. He had lied about that meeting she had had with him before the marriage, and he had completely fabricated what he said had happened afterward. But Robert had believed him, had believed all these years that she had preferred money to him. Although it hurt to know that he had had so little faith in her, she had to admit that Robert had known his uncle so much longer and had always trusted him. And he had been very young at the time. She too had eventually believed what her father and John had repeatedly told her, that he was a heartless scoundrel. And that had been equally untrue, although they had not deliberately lied to her.
Elizabeth gazed sightlessly through the window again. Was there any way that she could prove that Robert's uncle had lied? If she traveled to London and found him out, would he admit the truth to her? And, more important, would he admit it to Robert? But how could she, a mere woman, a mere governess, travel alone to London and seek out a man of Horace Denning's stature? It could not be done unless she took someone along with her. John? Would he go? Was it just a mad scheme, anyway?
Elizabeth was suddenly overtaken by a gigantic yawn. She realized how difficult it was becoming to keep her eyes open. She would think of it in the morning.
---
"Beth? Beth, where are you?" Cecily's voice preceded her up the staircase until she burst into the schoolroom, where Elizabeth was kneeling in the middle of the contents of a box of old books.
"Gracious! What are you doing?" Cecily asked.
"Your mama wants me to sort through your old books," Elizabeth replied, "and pick out any that may be of use in the new school that is to open in the autumn."
"Oh," replied Cecily. "Why, I remember this old reader." She bent and picked up a book with a worn brown cover and water-stained yellow pages.
"You sounded excited as you were coming upstairs," Elizabeth commented. "You were certainly yelling my name in most unladylike fashion. Is there another picnic planned?"
"Oh, much, much more than that," Cecily cried, dropping the book and dancing around the room. "Papa has said we are to go to Bath for a few weeks. Think of it, Beth. The Pump Room. The Assemblies. And you are to go with us. Are you not of all things delighted?"
Elizabeth smiled. "Delighted for you, Cecily," she said, "though you should not get your hopes too high, perhaps. Bath is not as fashionable as it used to be, I understand. You are likely to find mainly older people taking the waters, you know. However," she added, seeing the girl's crestfallen face, "I am sure you will enjoy the change of air and scenery. And at least you will see some new faces."
"Yes," Cecily added, "and I shall not have Ferdie glowering at me every time I smile at another gentleman. Oh, Beth, and we shall visit all the modistes and you shall help me choose my winter wardrobe."
"I am afraid not," Elizabeth said quietly. "I plan to your mother if I may take a month's holiday. I know I have just come back from a leave of absence, but I h;i‹ some pressing business that must be attended to. I shall not feel so guilty if I know you are all going to Bath, as I know your mama will delight in accompanying you every where."
"Oh, but, Beth, it would not be such fun without you," the girl wailed. "Must you go now? Can you not wait until after we come back?"
"I am afraid not, Cecily," Elizabeth replied, setting aside some of the books in a separate pile and returning the others to the box. In fact, she had made up her mind only when Cecily had mentioned Bath that she must go home and persuade John to go to London with her. In all likelihood nothing could be accomplished even if John agreed to go. Horace Denning would refuse to see them or deny all their accusations. The chances were very good, in fact, that he would not even be in London during these summer months. But she had to try. Her own love for Robert was a strong pain that she would have to bear for the rest of her life if she must. But if there was a chance that he loved her too and that their separation had not been of their own making, then she felt compelled to try to make possible a reconciliation. She had to put every ounce of effort into the attempt.
There was no point in delaying. Elizabeth immediately sought out Mrs. Rowe and explained to her why she could not accompany them to Bath. In the event, though, she did not ask for a holiday. She resigned from her position. Although she had not given herself time to think through the decision carefully, she knew that she was doing the right thing. Her usefulness to Cecily was over; she was not really earning her salary. If she must work for a living for the rest of her life, then it was time that she inquired after a situation as a governess again. And perhaps most important of all, it seemed only fair that she move away from the vicinity of Ferndale. William Main waring would probably not wish to return there as long as he knew that she was close by. Yet, that was his home and he had told her that he loved it and intended making it his principal residence.
Three days later, therefore, having said her good-byes to all her acquaintances and given promises to write, Elizabeth took a tearful farewell of the employers, whom she now looked upon more as friends.
"Beth, I shall hate not having you to confide in or to scold me," Cecily said, hugging her hard.
"Now, you come back here whenever you wish, my dear Miss Rossiter," Mrs. Rowe said. "I am sure we shall always find a place for you. I have never met a more genteel young lady, I do declare." She kissed Elizabeth on the cheek and then blew delicately into her lace handkerchief.
Mr. Rowe drove Elizabeth into Granby, where she was to catch the morning stage. She had insisted on that mode of travel despite the objections of her employers. The stagecoach was in the inn yard already, but the coachman was taking refreshments inside.
Mr. Rowe turned to Elizabeth as she sat beside him in the gig. "Good-bye, Cinderella," he said, patting the gloved hands that lay in her lap. "I am sorry to see you go. I believe that Prince Charming has already won the prize but has not come with the glass slipper to claim it. Am I right?"
"Sir?" she asked, startled.
"Young Hetherington," he said. "He risked a great deal when he admitted that you were his wife, you know. I could not understand why you came back alone again afterward."
She smiled at him. "It is a long story, I'm afraid, sir.'
"Yes," he agreed, "they usually are. Come along, my dear. You find an inside seat and I shall see that your portmanteau is tied on securely."
Elizabeth was fortunate enough to secure a window seat. Mr. Rowe came to the door before the coachman closed it. "Good-bye, my dear," he said. "Dorothy and Cecily will wish to hear from you, you know."
She nodded, too choked to speak, and felt unspeakable relief when the coach lurched once and pulled out of the inn yard onto the cobbled street of Granby.
It was a very different journey from the one she had made with Hetherington. It was much slower and more tiresome. They stopped many times to pick up and deposit travelers. They snatched refreshments whenever possible and stopped for the night at an inn where the rooms were less than clea
n and the service less than courteous. By the time she reached the village two miles distant from John's house, Elizabeth was glad to leave her portmanteau at the local hostelry and walk home in the fresh air, despite her stiffness and tiredness and despite the gathering dusk.
John and Louise were dining when the butler let her into the house. There was great excitement when she was shown into the dining room.
"Elizabeth!" Louise shrieked, rising from the table to display slightly more bulk than when her sister-in-law had seen her last. "We were just talking about you. Oh, how splendid that you have come home again. Are you here to stay this time? And who brought you? Oh, how naughty of you to just come without letting us know. Are you hungry? I shall have an extra place set this instant."
John was laughing, though he too had risen to hug his sister. "Louise is not usually very talkative," he told Elizabeth, "but sometimes she starts and does not know when to stop. Come and sit down, love, and tell us to what happy chance we owe this visit."
Elizabeth sank down into the chair he pulled out from the table for her. "Oh, it is so good to be home," she said. "I have been traveling on the stage for two full days. And yes, Louise, I am home to stay, for a while anyway, though I hope to lure John away for a few days."
"Where?" asked Louise.
"Oh, I am so tired," Elizabeth replied. "Please may I explain everything tomorrow?"
"Of course you may, love," John replied. "Eat now, if you can, then we can show off to you our son, who has two new teeth since last you saw him, and you can go to bed. We will talk in the morning."
---
"No!" she was saying. "I won't believe it. No, please, no."
"I am sorry, Lizzie," her father said. "I am truly sorry. But he has made himself quite plain. He does not want to see you."
"No!" she protested. "It can't be true. He loves me. Oh, he loves me."
"He is a scoundrel, Lizzie," he replied. He sounded uncomfortable in his role as comforter. "You will have to learn to forget him."
"No! No, there is some misunderstanding, Papa. I can't believe it. I must see him. I must go to him. Please."
"He will not see you," he said again. "He wishes to end the marriage. The likes of us are not good enough for his lordship."
"No," she moaned. "I must talk to him. I must see his letter. Let me see his letter, Papa. There is some misunderstanding."
"I will not allow that," he said, his voice gruff with sympathy. "It would break your heart to read the words in his own handwriting, Lizzie."
"Oh, let me see it, Papa," she begged, "let me see him. Make him come to see me. He loves me. I know he loves me."
"He does not want you anymore, girl," he said.
"No. Oh, no, no. Please, no," she wailed.
John was kneeling in front of her, covering her hands with his, drawing her head down to his shoulder, murmuring soothing words.
"Don't, love," he was saying. "Don't torture yourself like this. Elizabeth, Elizabeth. Elizabeth!"
She woke up with a start to find John sitting on the side of her bed, gently shaking her by the shoulders. Louise was standing behind him, holding a candle in a holder. Both looked deeply concerned. She stared blankly up at them.
"The old nightmare, love?" John asked gently.
She nodded numbly. "But I was right, John," she whispered. "I was right. He did not abandon me. He did love me."
John smoothed back from her face a strand of hair that lay across one eye. His hand was as gentle as a woman's, "Louise will sit and talk to you," he said, "while I go and warm some milk for you. You are at home now, love, and we intend to smother you with so much love that there will be no room for nightmares or bad memories either."
He left the room before she could reply, and Louise took his place at the side of the bed. She talked cheerfully and without pause until he returned with the promised milk. She told Elizabeth all about her pregnancy and her growing contentment as she felt the child move inside her, about her hope that this child would be a girl, though it really did not matter as they intended to have several more babies, "and surely one of them must be a girl, do you not think, Elizabeth? And, of course, girls have to be properly married when they grow up, and they need decent dowries, so maybe it will be just as well if they are mostly boys. Do you think, love?"
Elizabeth was smiling by the time John came back. The smile covered a great surge of gratitude that she felt for these two people, who were so wrapped up in their own love for each other and for their son and unborn child and yet could open their lives to include her too. She drank her milk like an obedient child and allowed Louise to plump her pillows and tuck in the blankets before kissing her on the cheek. John too kissed her before following his wife from the room.
"You are safe now, love," he said. "I shall look after you now as you looked after me when I was a boy. Go back to sleep. There will be no more dreams."
Elizabeth smiled and felt herself obediently drifting off. In just such a tone of voice John must talk to Jeremy. But it felt so good, so good to let someone else carry her burdens for just a little while.
Chapter 15
It was after luncheon the next day when Elizabeth finally managed to have a private word with John. She got up late in the morning, having slept surprisingly soundly after her nightmare. She could not remember when she had slept so late before, in fact. Then she sat chatting with Louise over a late breakfast. She was persuaded to go up to the nursery to visit Jeremy, and finally the three of them ended up outside in the morning sunshine, walking across the lawn and through the trees to the lake. Elizabeth had a sharp stab of memory of the last time she had come this way, with John and Robert in addition to the present group. By the time they returned to the house, it was time for luncheon.
Louise was going out afterward to visit a friend. "Do come, Elizabeth," she urged. "You will like Sophia. She has moved here since you left, I believe."
"No," Elizabeth replied. "Some other time, perhaps, but today I must talk to John if he can spare the time."
"I am not that busy that I cannot give a moment to my own sister," he said with a smile. "Besides, I am curious to know what has brought you back home so soon, love."
They went to his office, where they could talk without interruption. John ordered their tea sent there.
"Now, love, what has happened?" he asked, accepting a cup from her and seating himself in the chair behind his desk. "I know you well enough to be sure that something extraordinary has sent you from your employment so soon after you returned with such determination."
"I had a visit from Robert less than a week ago," she said.
His jaw tightened. "Will he not leave you alone?"
"I must confess that he had some reason to come," she added breathlessly. "His friend, Mr. Mainwaring of Ferndale, made me an offer, you see, which I accepted, and he went to see if Robert would divorce me."
Elizabeth gave a brief account of William Mainwaring's courtship and of Hetherington's refusal to set her free.
"Poor love," John said. "Are you quite devastated?"
"No," she assured him. "I am afraid that William might be, for I believe that he truly loved me. But I do not love him, John, and I know now that I did him an injustice by agreeing to marry him. I do not know, but I believe I would not have been able to go through with a wedding even if Robert had not thrown a rub in our way."
"But you still felt obliged to leave the vicinity of Ferndale?"
"Yes," she replied. "But that was not the only reason. Robert said more, John. We finally spoke of what happened six years ago."
"Yes?" John's voice was tense.
Elizabeth told him all that Hetherington had accused her of and all that he had said of his uncle's part in the dealings.
"You see," she concluded, "if Robert's uncle told him these things, he must have been guilty. He deliberately told terrible lies to separate us. I want you to come to London with me, John, to find him. I must get him to admit to what he did. Will you?"
<
br /> John had turned very white. He was gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. "Are you sure," he said, "are you quite sure, Elizabeth, that Hetherington did not delegate his uncle to act for him? Are you sure he is not guilty?"
"Oh, yes," she said, wide-eyed. "Yes, I am very sure, John. I could tell from his manner that he was as badly hurt by our separation as I was. Besides, there were no ten thousand pounds."
"Oh yes there were," he said in a tight voice.
Elizabeth stared at him.
"When I came home from Oxford," he said, "I tried to learn the business of the estate as quickly as I could. I was somewhat surprised to find that I had no debts to contend with, though I was by no means wealthy. But at the time my mind was occupied with my courtship of Louise and then by our proposed marriage. It was more than four years after your departure when I finally decided to go back through the estate books to examine all the business that had been done before I succeeded. I discovered that my father had been a very poor manager and that, in fact, he had been hopelessly in debt at about the time of your marriage. As you will remember, Papa did not cope easily with adversity."
"No," Elizabeth agreed. "He drank and he gambled."
"Yet soon after your marriage, he paid all his debts," John said. "I could not understand how. I reckoned that somehow he must have got his hands on about ten thousand pounds. It seemed unlikely that he could have won such an enormous sum at cards, but that was the only possibility that presented itself to me for a long while. I made many discreet inquiries in likely quarters, but never with any success."
