"Well, then. What is to be done?"
"You should return to the cottage and not come here again... for awhile, at least."
"I am thinking of leaving this place altogether. She hates me."
"Yes, I think perhaps she does... at this moment, at least. Nevertheless, a part of her does not hate you at all, and that is one of her problems." Mary looked at her distraught son, standing before her so tall, handsome, strong—yet broken. "She loves you very much indeed."
"How can you say so? You heard her tell me to go. Did you not see the look she gave me?"
"Yes, and I have spoken with her since. I have... planted a seed that she will think upon and mayhap ease her conscience. There is little I can do, David, to change the situation, for she is wed to your father, but when she is widowed... "
His head jerked up at her words, and he frowned at her. "He is recovering mother. Much as you may wish for his death, I cannot. I have grown to admire him, in spite of your efforts. I will leave what is between you just there—between the two of you."
"That is wise thinking. Yet, I would that you could know my suffering when he took you from me. Do you remember that day?" Her eyes withdrew from the study, going back in time to witness in her mind's eye the scene of her terrible loss. "Perhaps you might understand better my feelings."
"Nay, I recall nothing. I only know that one day I was in my grandfather's house, and the next day I was in that school." Reaching out, he touched her hand. "Tell me."
"I tried to stop him... I fell into the mud and clawed my way up his back, pounding him with my fists. David, he did not even speak to me, other than to tell me he could do so much better for you than I. He looked through me as though I was nothing. And he left gold... a bag of gold. Had I not already hated him, I should have done so then."
"Surely you knew that he was doing his best for me? Did he not speak with grandfather?" David, whose tentative feelings of forgiveness for his father were being shattered once more, desperately sought to find something... anything that would let him keep his respect for the man.
"Yes, he spoke to him. Giving his demands. Giving his orders... asking nothing, not even about whether you had special needs. He just swooped you up and left. My father tried to stop him, but he had two footmen who held him back. They did not leave the shop or let go of your grandfather until he and you were far down the road."
The silence in the room was fraught with despair and hate. Despair from David, who had so wanted to love his father, and hate from Mary Strongbow, who had indeed loved the man, and had suffered for that love. Mother and son looked at one another, sharing their pain.
Mary, her face twisted in bitterness, whispered into the silence, "Would that I could make him suffer as he has done me... "
The Marquis, assisted only by the three-legged cane, moved into the room. "And if you think that I have not suffered for my sins, Mary Strongbow, you have much to learn. I have come to speak with you. Give me leave to do so."
Dobson hovered in the background, silent and stoic. Mary stood as though to leave, and David stayed her with a hand, much as she had done when he had wanted to touch Hannah. She waited, poised for flight, an unfathomable look in her dark gaze.
"Let him speak... hear him out." David beseeched her with his eyes. "For me."
Mary relented, unable to bear the pain in her son's eyes. She went to sit far from the desk, near the fire, her face a mask of indifference.
"Your fine broth has brought me strength, and for that I thank you madam." The old man bowed gallantly in her direction and went to sit opposite her, suppressing a chuckle as she turned her face from him. "You are still a stubborn woman, I see."
"Nay, I am a woman who hates Milord. Stubborn has naught to do with it." She did not look at him still, her face reflecting the glow of the fire as she stared into the flames. "Speak and be done."
David, sensing the invisible circle his parents had drawn around themselves, quietly exited the room. Not able to go to Hannah, knowing his presence unwanted there, he went instead to the nursery for a visit with the child who, to all the world, was his half-brother.
Chapter Eleven
~~
Clayton Archibald Larkspur, Marquis of Darlington sat with his hands folded over his cane, his eyes on the woman who had once been his heart. He shifted in his chair as Darwin entered. "Have a light supper for two served here and see to it that Mistress Strongbow and I are not disturbed."
Darwin—ignoring Mary's protest that she would not share a meal with the Marquis, for he spoiled her appetite by his very presence—bowed his way out of the room and went to give the order.
"Such bitterness Mary. You must have nurtured it well for it to have lasted so long."
"Aye, I have and will continue to do so. Speak and be done as I said, or I will leave this room and let you rot, for I care not what you say. I only do this for our... my son."
"If you so despise me, why then did you provide the nourishing broth to aid me in recovery? 'Tis certain all the medicines and purges of that demned doctor have not done me such good."
"I am kindness itself." Her sarcasm was not lost on him, but he detected as well, a certain note in her voice that told him much about her motives she was not even aware of.
"Mary... I have long owed you an apology. No, much more than that. If you will listen, I will tell my tale, and you might find forgiveness in your heart."
"You will not see the day—"
He stopped her retort with a thump of his cane, and fixed her with one of his autocratic looks, so comical upon his withered and powerless features that she nearly laughed aloud in derision.
He queried her with raised eyebrows, his look clearly waiting for her acquiesce.
Curious, despite her cold indifferent façade, she nodded a reluctant compliance and leaned back in her chair. As the Marquis began to speak, his voice—tired and strained—grew stronger, encouraged by her silence.
"This is not easy for me," he began, "for I have spent the entire seventy and three years of my life as the lord of the manor. I have never apologized nor shown remorse to any, though God knows my behavior has warranted it upon many occasions. Power has always been my driving force and obeisance, naturally, my due.
"I was orphaned at birth, losing my sire to the plague and my mother in giving me life. Of course, you know this, but I thought to remind you lest you had forgotten over the years... the long talks we used to have."
He looked at her and she stared obstinately at the fire, though his glance singed her. Sighing, he continued, "Mine was a lonely, loveless existence—being reared by indifferent servants and an absentee guardian, who was my father's solicitor. There were no relatives, excepting the distant cousin of my sire who held me in no goodwill. Had I not been born, he would have inherited. His grandson would be my heir—had he not died recently—but for the babe who lies now in this house."
"And what, pray tell me, does this have to do with me?" She did not look at him as she spoke, her voice merely flat and uninterested, though a small amount resigned.
Ignoring her question, he arose from his chair with some difficulty and went to replenish his drink. Returning, he sat once more, shifting his body so that he faced her more fully. She did not respond in kind, and he watched her obstinate profile for a sorrowful moment, and then began again his laborious tale.
"As I grew to manhood I discovered my only recourse from loneliness was to join the dissolute and debauched of my class, for among them I no longer felt apart. I was, by nature, a lusty fellow, and my tastes ran to the... ah, rather... "
"I know what your tastes ran to Milord," she interrupted him, a glint of spite in her eyes, "So spare me the squalid details."
Clearing his throat, he made as though to thump his cane once more, and she pointed her hand at the object, speaking slowly, as though to an obdurate child. "Do that no more, Clayton. It becomes you not to act in such a childish manner. I vow I shall toss that stick into the fire should you not de
sist."
Forestalling his action, he raised his eyebrows. "Should you choose to try, my sweet Mary, you shall find it more difficult than you would expect. I am old and frail, but not without some strength, and would have you know that I am quite capable of overpowering a mere woman."
"Finish your speech, old man, that I may retire to my bed." She twitched her lips as though she might smile, her voice disgruntled, nonetheless.
"Ah, yes, you had always a penchant for retiring... to your bed. 'Twas a neat way to win an argument, was it not?" He teased her with his eyes, and she drew herself up in indignation.
"I will not tolerate your insolence." She made as if to rise.
"Sit you down, Mistress Strongbow, and I will cease bedeviling you and get on with my speech, as you say." He was gratified when she relaxed into her chair once more, and thus, he continued.
"As you know, I married four times to four spiritless women who bore me sons either dead or too sickly to live. Only one child have I had that lives to this day, and that is David. Would that he were my legitimate son, but his mother—through her selfishness and cruelty—deprived the boy of his birthright."
"Am I not here before you? Why then should you need to speak of me as though I were somewhere else?" His words cut her to the quick, for in essence the truth. She squirmed uncomfortably, but did not refute him.
Satisfied he had delivered a blow to her reserve, he went on, speaking more confidently. "When she—you—came into my life, it was as a burst of sun on a dark day, for I vow I was by then a mere shell of the man I had been. My last wife, whom I had left to raise the child of that union without the benefit of my presence, died while I was in Europe.
"I came home to bury her and the boy. They had been taken by the cholera that swept our small village, taking as well, most of my servants... and your mother also, if I recall."
"Aye, my mother died then, 'this true. I was but a young lass and recall well the pain of that loss." Her comment required no response, and so he gave none, but went on, speaking more quickly now, as though desperate to be done with it.
"I returned to London and made to take up my old life, but found it sour, and I no longer had a taste for it." Remembering that long ago time, the Marquis sipped at his drink and waited for her to speak. When she did not, he continued.
"I came back here to live, tired of my dissolute life. Tired, in fact, of living altogether. I would roam the hills here about... restless and unsettled, empty and even a bit afraid. For the first time, I began to realize how futile and useless I was as a human being.
"I would go and stand for hours by those small graves, the wives and their babes lined up in a row, mocking me, proclaiming me a failure. I knew for a certain that God had abandoned me, for in my entire life I had not known nor given... love."
The silence stretched for a few moments, and the Marquis made as if to get up and refresh his drink. Mary forestalled the action, fetching the drink, and pouring one for herself. She handed him the glass in silence and regained her seat, not looking at him.
"I would say thank you, but it would only earn me another of your scorching looks. So I will tell you quickly, what happened to me, and you can be my judge and jury."
Sipping at the whiskey in her glass, she nodded for him to continue, her eyes inscrutable.
"One day as I walked in the woods beyond this house I came across a man sitting on the stump of a tree, whittling. We fell to talking and he, knowing I was the lord of the manor, but seeing my loneliness, invited me to dine at his home. His name was Gillian Strongbow, and it was in his house that I saw a young nubile girl, his daughter."
She interrupted him with a thrust of her hand. "I know who my father is, and who I am, and I remember well that event. Get on with it Clayton."
Her voice was only slightly impatient, her manner less rigid than when he had begun. The malt whiskey, it seemed, had loosened Mary's tongue, and tired as she was from her long vigil in the sickroom, she was drifting, nearly asleep, but hearing every word with clarity.
"As you say Mary, as you say. What happened to me from that day forward you know... except this. I dreamt nightly of her... you."
He cleared his throat, unaccustomed to such intimate revelations, and chanced a glance at her profile. She looked yet into the fire, seeming to ignore him, though she didn't.
"You were so fresh, so spirited and the promise of beauty, nay, the beauty you already were, fascinated me. I was enthralled as I had never been. Me, a man, aged forty and one, besotted of a girl barely fourteen years old. It was ludicrous and worse, but I burned for you. When I looked at you I saw not a child, but a young woman. Intelligent, quick of wit, hungering for knowledge."
"Aye, I was that. When you offered to teach me to read I near burst with excitement." Mary, falling into the tale, under the spell of the moment, forgot to be aloof. She came to herself in an instant, however, and fell silent with a muttered oath and a scowl.
"I began to dream of making you over... giving you the opportunity to become a lady of quality... not that you were not already, but you do know what I mean. It became an obsession with me and in my obsession I forgot for awhile who and what I was... am."
He paused to sip from his glass and choked as the liquid went wrong down his pipes.
Slapping him on the back, Mary laughed heartily... the sound making his head reel, for she had not laughed with him... or indeed, at him in nigh twenty-nine years. "You are a greedy old man, Clayton, to so gulp your whiskey."
"I did not gulp... have never done so. Be quiet and let me speak."
"Aye, you always must speak, but ever have you listened? I much doubt it."
"Hush your impertinence, woman, and let an aging rake make his demned amends in peace." He glared at her, though his eyes twinkled despite the angry thrust of his jaw.
Mary snorted at his remark, and rising with none to steady a gate, went to pour yet another whiskey. Her taste for it was strong and her need for surcease from the rigidity of her posture was more so. The drink was doing its work... she was feeling rather peaceful.
"Are you of a mind to have another?" She did not turn to look at him as she spoke.
"Yes... but not so full this time, please. My eyes are becoming blurred. But you, my dear, are still a beautiful sight. Indeed you are quite the woman, Mary Strongbow."
Mary stiffened at his words, affronted at the lust in his voice, even after all these years. Did he think to woo her? Nay, not with his withered body. Still, it was an insult to her dignity that he thought he could be so familiar with her. Trying once more to retain her angry stance, she spoke with a sneer in her voice.
"Cease your foolish prattle. Are you then done with this confession? For I vow you will have me not in tears. I am beyond those and beyond your scheming. Do your worst, master arse, for I have not much time left before I sleep... right here in this chair."
She handed him his glass and plopped into her seat.
Her use of the insult, the last thing she had said to him that final day in the cottage, did not fail to irritate the old Marquis, and his cane thumped heavily upon the carpet, the jarring motion spilling his drink. "Told you not to fill the glass... "
"Ha! As if you could not see that your stupid thumping has caused the spill!" She reached across him, and, grabbing his cravat, whipped it loose from his neck and began to wipe at the stains on his shirtfront, her eyes gleaming darkly.
He clutched her wrist in his bony fingers, his strength naught compared to the last time he had touched her, but still, he was not so weak that he could not stay her hand. "Leave off and stop fussing. I will finish, and you may sleep where you will."
He then grinned at her and began to laugh, for Mary had reared back, pulling her hand away from his grip so suddenly that the whiskey soaked cravat slapped back into her face. She looked stunned, and slightly blotted—her normally severe demeanor having disappeared into the glass at her elbow.
He could not help hoping there might yet be a chance t
o gain her forgiveness. It sobered him, and he sat up straighter, ignoring yet another derisive snort she sent his way.
"I wanted, for the first time in my life, to gain the favor of another. For that brief time it was important to me... what you thought of me, if you could... come to love me. I tutored you in order to prepare you to be my wife. When you were sixteen... "
"Leave off. I recall when I was sixteen, you need not expound on that."
"Oh, but I must. For it is part of the tale."
"Aye, and your tale has begun to turn into an epic, for I vow I am sleeping already. Let me aid you so you will more quickly reach an end to this pointless drivel. You seduced me with your handsome person, your fancy clothes, haughty manners, your promises and your lust."
"My promises were true and as for my lust, Mary Strongbow, I was not alone in that. Every buck in the county who had blood in his veins lusted for you. Though, with me it was more. And you know it well. I loved you... "
She snorted again and grinned foolishly at him. Her eyes were not quite focused, and her hair had come undone from its neat pins. Mary was well in her cups. Something softened in her face as she looked at him, and she swung her feet up onto the ottoman, proclaiming with a sweep of her glass in his direction. "Ye well may be crippled but 'tis certain that you will have to refill this for I am less able to walk than to drink. Be quick about it, old man, my throat is parched dry."
She had adopted the manner with which she had dealt with him so many years before, teasing and coquettish, but now, with the passing of years and the drink muddling her brain, she was not so delightful to behold. Yet the Marquis found her behavior charming still, and he went to do her bidding.
He arose from his chair and leaning heavily upon his cane, went to the drinks tray and brought back the bottle, setting it on the floor between them. "Fill your glass and be silent. I have not done."
"Aye... and it sounds as though you never will be."
At her words he stilled and looked straight into her eyes. "It is certain that I will not be until you have forgiven me. 'Tis unseemly that you should hate the father of your child... and now there is the heir."
The Silent Love Page 11
