by Allison Lane
Despite viewing Robert’s body, he could not accept the finality of his death. Nor could he banish blame. Somehow he should have protected him better. Surely there was something he could do to change the outcome, to recoup his loss. But he knew there was not. Despite all his efforts, despite his lifelong resolution, he had failed.
Robert had always needed protection. Never bright and lacking the athletic ability that might have incited approval in his peers, he had been the target of malicious bullies from the moment he arrived at Eton. When Thomas started school the following year, he discovered the treatment meted out to those who did not conform. He was appalled. Taller and far more athletic than his older brother, he quickly demonstrated that he would tolerate no more attacks.
Robert found Oxford easier, for by then he had a reputation for incipient dandyism, his expertise with wardrobe and cravat inspiring envy among those boys less adept. And his physique, a handicap to a sportsman, was marvelously suited to displaying elaborate fashions. His mind, unable to grasp the complexities of Greek or Latin, could recall any tidbit of gossip and retell it humorously. He soon earned a name for on-dits that equaled Lady Beatrice’s. Indeed, many preferred Lord Hartford, for his stories always carried his characteristic touch of humor rather than her acid condemnation.
Tears again welled and Thomas buried his face in his pillow. The memories marched inexorably through his mind. Games … scrapes … lessons … holidays…
But no memories could hold at bay the ultimate horror: Lawrence Delaney bursting into St. James’s behind the team of untrained chestnuts. If only he had bought the horses himself. Trained, they would be worth even more than Delaney had paid for them. How could he justify giving in so easily to an inept cawker? A few hundred pounds could have saved his brother’s life. It was another example of his own failed judgment. His childish prank had broken Mary’s leg. His abandonment of duty had killed his brother. He should never have allowed such wild horses to fall into such inept hands. Was this his punishment for mistreating Caroline?
The question arose from one of his nightmares in which he was pilloried in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, while his three failures mercilessly mocked him. He had failed to protect his brother. He had failed either to win Alicia’s hand or to respect her new position. And he had failed miserably with Caroline, creating a breach that might never be healed.
His admiration for his wife had grown markedly since he had admitted wronging her. For the first time he considered her with an open mind. Her handling of the household since Robert’s death was masterly – comforting his father, initiating the rituals of mourning, relieving the earl of all but the most important decisions; preventing Eleanor from disrupting the family with hysterics, leading his flighty, selfish sister into acceptance and even a recognition of how her own behavior could harm others; and supporting Emily, who swore she could not have dealt with either herself or their father without Caroline. And her presence at Robert’s bedside had helped him as nothing else could. Nor was anyone else in a position to run the house. His mother was prostrate, unable to make the simplest decision. Robert had always been her favorite child – a situation that he had never openly admitted but which he accepted in the same spirit he accepted his own protection.
How could he survive with Robert’s blood on his hands? His lapses were growing more serious. Never before had he been responsible for a death.
He forced his mind back to Caroline. Underestimating her abilities made him feel foolish. He owed her much more than the condemnation he had heaped on her since their marriage. In a few days they would return to Crawley. He would use it as an opportunity to start over. They must build a relationship they could comfortably live with for the rest of their lives. If that meant consigning Alicia firmly to the past, then so be it. A brief pang stabbed his heart at this decision, but he felt none of the wrenching agony he would have expected. Thank God, numbness had finally descended. Emotions under control at last, he rose to face the day.
* * * *
The earl was already in the breakfast room when Caroline came down. Given the disruption of their lives, she had not expected company. Nor did he appear capable of accomplishing much this day. Dark circles underlined his eyes and emphasized the grayness of his skin.
“Good morning,” she murmured, helping herself to eggs and ham. He nodded a response without speaking. At her signal Reeves departed, closing the door behind him.
“Caroline,” he finally began, but his voice cracked on the word, his fork absently pushing eggs and kidney around his plate.
“Would you like me to leave? Grief is often better expressed alone.”
“No, my dear. I need to talk, and Portia is too distraught. Robert was always her favorite.” His voice broke on the name, and it took a moment to reclaim his composure. “I fear I favored Thomas.”
“And you now feel guilty?”
He nodded.
“You should not. Much as a parent would like to love all their children equally, such an ideal is generally beyond a mere mortal. Thomas is much like you, just as Robert favored his mother. The preference was to be expected. But you never treated him badly. If anything, I suspect you eased his way a good deal.”
“Yet I frequently rued his position as the elder,” admitted the earl. “It is that which I cannot accept now.”
“You blame his death on your wish that Thomas succeed you? But that is blasphemous,” she chided gently. “You are not God that your preferences, however secret, can change the destiny of another. Nor is your position so exalted that God would strike down a life to satisfy you. Do not allow guilt to overpower the natural grieving of a parent for a child, lest bitterness follow. I will tell you the same thing I must tell Thomas – for he will also shoulder guilt for this tragedy. Robert’s death was an accident to which neither of you contributed. In human terms, there was nothing you could have done differently that would have prevented it. In heavenly terms, his span of years was appointed by God and ran its course.” She smiled. “Perhaps the angels had need of a fashion consultant with a delightful sense of humor.”
The earl smiled wanly at her small jest, but her words blanketed him in comfort, lifting the guilt that had weighed heavily on his shoulders since word arrived of the accident. He turned his thoughts to what else she had said.
“Why would Thomas feel guilty about Robert’s accident?”
“To begin with, he is much like you. But specifically, he tried to buy that pair of horses when they came up for auction at Tattersall’s. Young Delaney won the bidding by offering an exorbitant price. But Thomas knew they were half trained and knew that Delaney was a deplorable driver. He will convince himself that it was his duty to pay whatever was necessary to keep the team out of incompetent hands. Failure to carry out that duty makes him responsible for the injuries and death that resulted.”
“What fustian!”
“I agree, but logic rarely wins arguments over emotion.”
“Especially with Thomas.”
Both sighed.
“I will have to speak with the boy, I suppose,” continued the earl. “Thank you for your help. Portia could never have managed without you.”
“It is nothing. She has suffered a great shock. But she will recover in time. As will Eleanor and, despite what she believes, her life will not be irrevocably ruined by skipping the rest of her first Season.”
“You will continue as yesterday?”
“Yes. If you will excuse me, I must respond to the condolences. Are there any you wish to see to personally?”
He thought a moment, then listed half a dozen names and she nodded. “Portia will send her own responses in time,” he added so that she could include this information in her notes.
They parted company in the breakfast room doorway, the earl heading to his library, Caroline toward the drawing room to discover what new messages had arrived since she had retired.
“A visitor, my lady,” Sam announced as she crossed the hall.
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She continued for two steps before she realized the footman was addressing her. She had a hard time remembering she was now Lady Hartford.
“Who?” she asked. It was still too early for callers, and mourning precluded any but relatives.
“Lord Wroxleigh,” he reported. “He is in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Sam.” She nodded graciously. As her cousin, his presence was unexceptionable, but she sent for Dawson to preserve the proprieties.
Drew stood before the fireplace, his face radiating concern. “Caroline, I am so sorry this tragedy disrupted your first visit to town.” His eyes raked her appearance.
Dressed in an old gown of dark brown, her vitality suppressed by sadness and grief, she again appeared the dowd Thomas had first thought her. Not true mourning, of course, but there had not yet been time to acquire the prescribed black. Madame Suzette would arrive after luncheon with a selection of appropriate clothes.
“Thank you, Drew,” she acknowledged, her eyes suspiciously moist. “I was surprised at how much this affected me – nothing like the rest, of course. But he always seemed to be such a happy man. It is difficult to find him gone, and so suddenly.”
He handed her a handkerchief, ignoring her sniffs as he continued speaking. “Yes, this does force us to consider the uncertainties of life. None of us is immune to fate.”
“But why does it have to strike down someone so harmless?” She at last gave way to her own tears, as she had not permitted herself to do around Robert’s family.
Drew pulled her into his arms and encouraged her to cry. “You needed that, did you not?” he observed when she had finished. “I suppose you have been playing organizer and confidante for the family.”
“Who else is in position to? I am far less emotionally involved.”
“Just don’t submerge your own needs too far, Caro,” he urged, releasing her and straightening his cravat. “I admit I too will miss him. London will seem duller without his colorful presence and humorous tales.”
They chatted for several minutes, and then Drew rose to go. Even for a tenuous family connection, his call could not be properly prolonged.
“If there is anything I can do, please let me know,” he offered in farewell.
“Thank you, Drew. You are a true friend. I expect we will return to Crawley soon, so I will not see you for a while. Take care.”
“And you.” He briefly kissed her hand and departed.
Caroline turned to the task of sorting notes.
* * * *
Half an hour later, she was again interrupted, this time by the Earl of Waite. She straightened her hair, then asked that he be shown into the drawing room.
“Welcome, Uncle William.” She seated herself and gestured for him to do likewise. Reeves set a tea tray at her elbow and withdrew.
“My condolences on your loss, Caroline,” offered Waite as she handed him a cup.
“Thank you, Uncle. How suddenly things change.”
“Yes, which brings me to my reason for calling. It is more than time that I visit your parents, my dear. I am on my way to Sheldridge Corners now. Have you any messages?”
“Actually, I had just finished a letter when you arrived. I thought it best if they heard of this tragedy first from me.”
“I will gladly carry it for you. Are you bearing up?”
“Yes. Though I liked Robert and feel his loss, I did not know him well enough to suffer as his immediate family must.”
“How is Edward?”
“Devastated. As is the countess. Would you like to speak to him?”
“If he wishes.”
Caroline sent Sam to apprise the earl of this request, then retrieved her letter from a pile awaiting his frank and handed it into her uncle’s keeping. Instead of the expected summons, Marchgate himself appeared at the door. She tactfully bade Waite a good journey and left the friends alone.
* * * *
Alicia greeted news of Robert’s death with fury, which a night of reflection did nothing to mitigate. If she had succumbed to their mutual passion and accepted his suit, she would now be Viscountess Hartford, someday to become Countess of Marchgate with access to the riches that went with that title. To say nothing of unremitting access to Thomas’s lovemaking.
Instead, she had cold-bloodedly accepted the guaranteed viscountess title and wealth Darnley controlled. It had taken a week of tantrums and pleading before her parents had allowed the connection, but her determination won in the end. She had always won whatever she set her heart on.
But fate had played her false. Darnley turned against her early in their marriage, much to her satisfaction. His aging body and limited stamina could never begin to satisfy her needs, and his defection left her free to sample the lustiest bucks in town. Not until his death did she learn the ramifications of his rejection. His will left her nought but her own dowry – a mere ten thousand pounds – and use of Darnley House for but a year. Invested, the money would produce an annual income of a few hundred pounds. Adequate if she retired to a country cottage and spent little on clothes. Impossible given her extravagant tastes and addiction to ton pleasures. Nor could she count on her parents. Her father’s disgust over her escapades was clear.
She was still coming to terms with her dilemma. Within the year she must find a new husband. Yet capturing one seemed impossible. Only Thomas still believed her pretense of sweet innocence. In her quest for satisfaction she had badly overplayed her hand. Never expecting to wed a second time, she had made no attempt to preserve her reputation. But she would die before casting lures at a cit. Such people were beneath contempt. The future loomed as a terrifying choice between country obscurity and abandoning all pretense to society for life as a courtesan.
If only Thomas was not married! His devotion and blind adoration made him a perfect match. He would instantly accept her hand and count himself lucky in the process. But Caroline stood in the way. Again the country vicar’s chit had bested her. That humiliating musicale still haunted her nights.
Her breakfast tray crashed against the wall.
* * * *
Thomas moved through the early days of mourning in a fog. Only three images remained in his mind: Caroline offering silent comfort and support when he had broken down beside Robert’s body; his fury when he learned of Wroxleigh’s blatantly improper call, particularly the report that they had been shamelessly embracing; and Caroline, swathed in mourning, head bowed over the casket. Black did not suit her.
Yet as he analyzed his conflicting emotions, confusion reigned.
He should have felt utter humiliation at breaking into tears in front of her. But he didn’t. Despite the hours in George’s rooms, he had needed the release. And Caroline’s presence actually helped. It was as though he had transferred some of the pain onto her shoulders, easing his own burden. Nor was he ashamed of such a display. She would never criticize him or think less of him for such weakness. Nor would she mention it to others. How did he know that? He had no answer. Yet the certainty remained.
He watched her move confidently around the house, directing the servants, making arrangements, soothing Eleanor, comforting his mother, supporting his father, a rock in a sea of grief, the one anchor that kept them all from drowning. He had badly underestimated her worth and felt more than a bit foolish as a result. But oddly enough, the feeling engendered no anger.
Her appearance was very like the dowd he had first met rather than the elegant society matron she had become. Yet he could no longer think of her in those terms. She had forever changed. He wondered at this new perception. Was he beginning to care for her just a little? Not love. That emotion was reserved for Alicia, whatever steps he took to remove her from his life. But his spirits rose whenever she entered a room. And he thanked fate for providing a mate he could rely on.
On the other hand, her continued association with Wroxleigh infuriated him. Even his new tolerance would not extend to accepting that. Oh, he could understand how she might have begun th
eir liaison. But it must cease. How could he bring this about? He had already tried the direct approach without success. And given his own negligence and mistreatment, any further demands would meet the same fate. Even if she agreed with his reasoning, she might ignore him out of sheer pique.
Perhaps he should do nothing while in London. They would return to Crawley within the week, as soon as he finished the painful business of settling Robert’s affairs. Once they were home, he would begin anew to forge a partnership with Caroline. If they could rediscover their aborted friendship, perhaps then they could discuss Wroxleigh. She would have little need of an affair at that point. At least he hoped so. Visions of those two together haunted his nights, forcing his other nightmares aside. Dear Lord, please help us find a way to live with each other.
* * * *
It had rained continuously since the evening of Robert’s death. Almost as if heaven itself mourned him, reflected Caroline. She was busy enough that she had barely noticed the weather. Nor had she been accorded much time for thought. Which was just as well. Robert had been almost a caricature fop, but he had possessed a sweetness that was very endearing. Remembering him raised a lump in her throat, but she dared not break down. Everyone else’s composure was too fragile.
Finally, two days after the funeral, the rain ceased.
She rejected taking a turn around the square. Such a public appearance would not accord with accepted mourning practice, particularly in such a popular location. Sunshine brought all of society outdoors. Carriages clustered around Gunter’s, and dozens of people wandered through the square. Sighing, she settled for several turns about the Marchgate garden. Though not extensive enough to allow any real exercise, she could at least benefit from fresh air. And they would return home very soon. Crawley beckoned invitingly.
The garden glowed in a rainbow of colors, spring flowers massing before shrubs feathery with new growth. High walls separated it from adjacent houses, providing privacy, their only break a decorative iron gate leading to the mews. The height muted the noise from the square, allowing her to relax as though in the country.
