"Aye, our grandson no doubt will have a better life, for his mother is to the manor born. He will surely not suffer from a lack of social graces."
Their conversation had turned from a silent struggle into an open battle, though in truth there was no real hostility in their quips at one another. They had simply fallen into their old habit of quarreling. But where once this sparing had led them to make it up in a small bed tucked into the corner of the cottage, there would be nothing left for them this night but to part at conversations end.
"What mean you, our grandson? He is the heir, Mary Strongbow, and you will never say otherwise." Not surprised at her knowledge, he did not insult her with a denial. The Marquis was truly enjoying himself for the first time in years, and his spirits lifted, if only for this night.
"Well, I would not say it except to you. Think you my son would withhold from me such an important piece of news?" She looked smug and sly as she glanced at him, a habit she had had as a young girl when she knew she was winning an argument.
Her eyes were at half-mast and her mouth had lost its bitter line, and the Marquis could tell she would soon be asleep.
"Well, I am nearly finished then, so keep your eyelids apart and your lips closed, that I might be done with this." He tried to sound petulant, but it was the laughter in his voice she heard.
"You were once wont to say 'keep your eyes closed and your legs apart... "
"Be still, I tell you. 'Tis that behavior which got us into this fix... " He tried to speak sternly, but remembrance of the girl she had once been, coupled with the sight of her now precluded this. He began to laugh, heartily, his ancient body quaking, tears of mirth streaming from his eyes.
Mary, whose neat bun had slipped to the side of her head and whose eyes were owlish with drink, had slipped deeply into the chair, her skirts hiked over her knees as her long, still graceful legs, lay stretched before her on the ottoman. She waved the half-full glass in time to a tune only she could hear, and tapped her toes together in the same rhythm.
Quietly, with a very hesitant manner, he broached the subject uppermost in his mind. "Are we done with this quarreling then? I would that you could forgive me, sweet Mary Strongbow. I would have your regard, if not your affection."
"You have yet to explain to me... " She sat up at his words and clumsily pulled her skirt over her legs, "... how you came to steal my son and leave me groveling and mud spattered in the road."
Her voice held a note of pleading, though her face had once more turned implacably cold.
"I will tell you then. When you denied me the last time, I was mad with grief. I fled this place, thinking never to return. You had shattered me, Mary, taken away the one reason I had found for happiness... yourself.
"And of course, now there was the babe. I went back to wandering and living that life of uselessness, and began to drink... and I used opiates as well, which further befuddled my thinking. I vowed that I would come for the child once he was of an age to attend school. That I would see him raised as a gentleman and there is more... "
Bowing his head, he spoke into the fire, his voice lower now and so full of repentance that Mary—who had spent over a quarter of a century hating him—experienced a rising compassion that had little to do with the drink. "I would punish you, for I, too, hated. I had given myself leave to hate you. I had told myself so many times that you had deceived me and toyed with my affections that I was wont to believe it. By the time David was six, I was well addicted to the opiates, and my only goal was to avenge myself on you... by taking the child." He whispered so low as he finished, she barely heard him. "'Twas my obsession."
She waited in silence, sensing that he was not done, and when he lifted his tortured gaze to her, her heart thumped in sympathy, despite her desire to retain her hate. She leaned toward him unconsciously as he went on, her eyes glittering with interest.
"I... I cannot tell you how I regret that moment. When I looked back and saw you standing in the muddy road, screaming and calling to David, I nearly turned back. And he cried out for you as well. But the opiates had such control that I could not remember from one moment to the next what my inclinations were, and, in truth, I slept almost immediately."
"Were you then so unfeeling? How could you leave your son in his fear while you slept?"
"You would needs be an opiate eater to understand... the drug takes your senses... enslaves you with a craving so strong you might do anything for it. I also makes you sleep when you are most anxious and disturbed. I had trained myself over the years to rest at will, and the opiate would take over during times of distress, without my will involved in the process."
"But you cared for him, did you not? And he for you?" She prompted anxiously.
"David could not like me. He showed his resentment in so many small ways. He withheld all affection and no matter what toys or gifts I brought the boy, he shunned them... and me." Seeing the look of satisfaction on her face at that revelation, he was struck with pain.
"I began to resent him as well, for this child of my flesh was no son to me. He would not even call me father... he called me always, sir or Milord, as though he were a servant. I put him into the boarding school after a few months, thinking to give him time to adjust. But, each time I visited him, he had become more sullen and withdrawn from me so that at last I ceased my visits altogether."
"Did he... call for me?"
"Yes, in the beginning. I vow that was all he did. But I gave him such a stern set down for it that he ceased to do so... at least in my presence."
"Had you no compassion for a small boy's grief?" Her voice, though slurred a bit, had lost all gaiety and her eyes were turned inward, seeing the child alone and bereft. A tear drifted down her cheek, but she ignored it and asked, "Was it nothing to you that he needed to be loved?"
"I told you! I tried to gain his affection, but he would have none of it... just as his mother would have none of it when I asked her to wed me."
He gave a great, heaving sigh and shifted his body once more, away from the accusation in her voice and manner. "I was, in truth, well gone with my addictions and had no patience for a child. My mind was not a functioning thing, and I was probably quite delusional."
"How then, Clayton, did you rid yourself of the opiates? For you do not appear addicted to such now." Her voice was merely curious and as she spoke she reached for the bottle and splashed the liquor into both their glasses, waiting for his answer.
"I had an accident, my carriage overturned. Nearly crushed my legs. I was abed for months. Came close to dying. During that time I was fortunate that my body servant—Dobson, you know him—was a good man who saw beyond my abominable behavior and helped me.
"He nursed me through the withdrawal and would allow no laudanum to pass my lips, no matter the pain. He worked the muscles of my legs, willing them to respond. He allowed me to drink myself senseless upon occasion when the pain was so intense I called out to die. But never once would he allow me anything else against my pain."
"Aye, then you had not been abandoned by God, at all, had you Milord?"
"I did not see it that way at the time, but you are correct. And though I wound up badly crippled by my accident, I found peace, of a sort, during that time of recovery."
"And now? Do you find peace in this lie you have perpetrated? Whose lives will you ruin next with your scheming and manipulations?" The whiskey made her bold and she used the same words she had used to David when explaining her loathing for this man, but her voice had mellowed to a gentleness by now and her eyes no longer held anger. Though she could not like him, she no longer hated him.
"Madam, while I do admit I may have been mistaken to so involve these two young people, I have ruined no one as yet. And with your help, mayhap I can do them a better turn."
"My help?" She looked astonished, yet also interested.
"Yes, for I plan them to wed after I am gone, and I would that you could aid me with Hannah. I know you have been with her these last d
ays and David tells me of her improvement under your hand."
He grinned at her ruefully. "I fear I will need your help more with him, for he has already given me his ultimatum to cease my meddling. He is unwilling to be wed, though he loves her, and has said so." He continued, "He reports as well, that you have sent me to the devil more than once in your anger."
"And will again, I vow, if you give me cause." She grinned at him in return and poured yet another libation, dribbling the last of the good malt whiskey into their glasses. "Let us toast to an alliance, then. By my grandfathers whiskers, I swear to aid you in this." She lifted her glass as he did and they saluted one another grandly.
"And by my abiding faith in a girl I once loved, by God, I accept."
Clayton Larkspur downed his whiskey then looking pleased that he had not choked upon it in his haste, grew serious a moment later, drawing Mary into his confidence, telling her his secrets. "There is something I would tell you, and you must say nothing, for they cannot know this until I have departed this earth... "
Mary, for her part, listened with a growing hope for her son, and, at the same time, sadness as well. What the Marquis was telling her would mean only his death would release the young lovers.
.
* * * * *
.
David awoke to the sound of the squalling child and lifted himself from the chair, stretching his cramped body, rubbing the aching muscles of his neck. He had spent too much time sleeping in chairs of late, and he was not rested. When the night nurse came bustling into the room and spied him, she looked a bit startled, but saying nothing, went to the child and began to change his nappy.
David retreated, for the odor was noxious, and he was of a bent to be sick... just as a sea fairing man he would never be, for his poor stomach was not adverse only to motion.
He had sat with the babe, rocking him in Hannah's chair, taken a walk in the garden and fought the urge to spy upon his parents. At one point he had gone and sat beneath the window of the study, listening with pleasure to the murmur of their voices. His parents appeared to be getting on well.
When several times he heard his father's laughter, he had been hopeful, but when his mother's golden laugh trilled out as well, he knew all was not lost for them. Mayhap they are too old to become lovers again, David had decided, but friends they will surely be before this night is over.
How little he knew of this truth and how it would affect his life in the days, even years to come. Satisfied with the progress of their impromptu reunion, he had gone once more to the nursery, and fallen asleep in listening to his son's gentle baby breathing.
He now stole from the house and went to saddle his mount, leading him into the moonlight and walking him across the lawn. He paused at the edge of the woods and looked back at the house, his neck prickling as though someone were looking at him. In the window of Hannah's room a small light glowed, and her figure was outlined against the glow of the lamp as she stood looking out into the night.
Feeling her despair drifting on the cool night breeze, he ached to go back and draw her close, hold her and soothe her pain... and his own pain as well. Yet, he could not do so and thus, after a long moment of staring at her, he mounted and went slowly to the cottage, his head bowed in thought. How then, does a man deny his love and his life and leave the place where his heart had been re-born?
.
* * * * *
.
In her bed, Hannah lay sleepless, for the opiates had not been given this day. Mary, who feared a dependence on them, had begun to wean her. Sore and uncomfortable, she shifted her body around, and, finding no peace or pleasure in her lonely bed, arose.
Careful not to awaken Elspeth who snored softly by the fire—she went barefoot to the window. Drawing aside the heavy drapery, she stood breathing in the night, the scent of jasmine wafting to her from the oriental garden below her windows.
She drew back a bit as she spied David walking across the lawns, leading his stallion. Her heart pulsed hard and an aching began in that vicinity as well, for the tall man who was her silent lover.
Her eyes were trained on the moon lit silhouette of his broad shoulders, noticing as well the grace of his long-legged stride. When he reached the trees he was shadowed, yet she knew that he stopped and looked back, for his gaze touched her like a caressing hand.
Shivering in pleasure, she tossing back her head and hugged her arms about her body, his longing reaching out to her from across the expanse of garden and lawn that separated them.
She stepped forward that he might know she was there watching him. She made no gesture that would indicate her knowledge of his regard, yet she wished that she could be so bold. Wished that things were different.
"Milady? What do you barefoot at that open window?" Elspeth scolded as she took Hannah's arm, leading her back to the bed.
"Should you catch a chill I will be in for it, for my cousin—" The maid corrected her speech quickly, "—Ah, I mean, Mistress Strongbow, will have my hide nailed to the stable door. Now back to bed with you, and no more going about without your slippers."
Hannah allowed the maid her scold, for she cared not if she caught a chill, but appreciated the servant's position, should she become ill while under the maid's watch. Though she knew a gentle, kinder side of Mary Strongbow, she sensed steel in the woman and a touch of ruthlessness as well. It suddenly occurred to her that sameness between the woman and the Marquis was probably the cause of their separation all those years ago.
She wondered at it and wished for the courage to ask for the story. Her young romantic heart, though broken and torn, was wont to love a good and tender story of love lost, and her very imaginings were a sign that she might be healing... in some things, at least.
Chapter Twelve
~~
"He has gone to London, I tell you. My stableman, Sparks told me he ordered the carriage early this morning. Said he would have it sent back." The Marquis stood, leaning heavily upon his cane, looking up at the woman who stood on her porch.
In the small garden to his left, a white butterfly flitted among the roses. They were enormous, proud blossoms; some red, some yellow. In a special corner of the garden, a single black rose, just opening, stood out regally from the others. He shifted his stance awkwardly, following Mary's eyes as they, in their turn, followed the butterfly.
She did not speak.
He tried once more. "Have you nothing to say? Did you not talk to him about staying?"
Mary Strongbow looked down at her one time lover at last and the sorrow in her eyes gave him a start. Her words only added to this alarm. "Yes... I spoke with him. He came to me last evening, very late. He cannot stay here Clayton. 'Tis better he is gone just now. Time and distance is what they both need.
"The gossip will die quickly in his absence. Would that my cousin had her mouth sewn shut... but there is nothing for it, the girl is a magpie and her observations much too keen." She paused a moment, then continued in a low voice, "He fears for her mental well being and the taint of gossip upon the babe, should he stay in this place. He tells me that he cannot help his visits, and he is bound to be away from here lest he give away the secret—" She stopped abruptly, realizing the presence of Dobson, the aide.
"Did he not leave a message for me?" The Marquis' eyes and voice held pleading.
"Aye, he gave me a letter for you." Softening her stance, she took pity on him, saying, "Come and sit awhile Clayton. You look weary to death and surely that sun does you no good. I'll fetch the letter... ."
The Marquis moved along the path, aided by Dobson, and climbed the short step to the porch. Once he was seated in the small wicker chair, he sent his aide along to the inn, for a libation. "I may be some time. Return in about an hour. Should I have need before then, I will send someone for you."
Nodding and bowing, Dobson went off down the road at a rather hurried pace. The sun was hot, and the servant was thirsty. The Marquis smiled crookedly as he observed his aide's hasty d
eparture then turned his attention to Mary as she returned, the letter held out to him.
She went to her chair and seated herself, speaking not a word while she waited for him to read it.
'Dear Father, I am sure by now my mother has told you of my decision... "
Clayton looked sharply at Mary, but she looked out over her small garden plot still, so he dropped his eyes again to the page,
"... And I am truly sorry that I had not the courage to tell you face to face. I know that you have wanted my assistance with the estates, and I shall give it, though perhaps not in person.
I promise you that I will oversee the guardianship of the heir, when the time comes, and I hope it will be not for many years. You must understand, father that I cannot stay near her. It can do her no good to see me about the place, feeling about me as she does. I've thought long and hard, and my decision did not come easy. I will be in communication with you very soon.
Once I've established my residence, I will go along to see Maguire and though him, I shall keep appraised of events at the manor. Please forgive my cowardice in not seeing you, but I knew you would want to dissuade me from this course. I wanted not to argue nor be swayed from this decision. Know that I love you, respect you and hope for the same on your part. Regards, David.'
The Marquis handed the letter to Mary and turned his eyes as well to the garden, while she read it. The black rose, its velvet petals opening just a bit, edges curling outward, caught his attention. He had seen such a blossom once, on Hannah's bedside table, when he had visited her on one of his excursions to throw a false trail to the servants.
It would not do were the master never to visit his wife's rooms, and she to produce an heir. His thoughts wandered to the girl, and he knew that, stay or go, David would be the cause of her pain. Mayhap David was right, he thought. Maybe time and distance were needed here.
The Silent Love Page 12
