by Mary Balogh
“With my blessing,” his mother said. “And home is the right word. Wren will make it home for you, Alex.”
“Now if you will all excuse me,” Alexander said, “I have some business to attend to.”
Wren went to see him on his way.
• • •
Lady Hodges lived with her eldest daughter and son-in-law on Curzon Street, in a home owned but not inhabited by her son. She did not go out a great deal, and when she did it was to a place, like the theater, where she would be fully on display but not exposed to sunlight or direct light of any sort—and, preferably, where she would be set a little apart from her beholders. At home she occupied rooms in which the curtains were drawn permanently across the windows and the lights, though many, were artfully arranged to give an impression of warmth and brightness and to twinkle off jewels without illumining the lady herself. She surrounded herself there with beautiful young men who were drawn by the gifts she lavished upon them and by the fame of her beauty, which had persisted for more than thirty years and become legend. Her eldest daughter, still lovely though she was now in her middle thirties, had stayed with her, though the others had left for various reasons, her elder son by reason of death. She liked to have Blanche with her so that people might flatter her by believing they must be sisters.
Her vanity knew no bounds. When she looked in her mirror—and she did so only after spending a couple of hours each day in the hands of a small army of maids and wigmakers and stylists and manicurists and cosmetics artists—she saw the seventeen-year-old who had once taken the ton by storm. She had captivated a dozen or more gentlemen, most notably a married duke who had offered her carte blanche and riches galore and a wealthy, handsome baron who had offered her marriage. Her only regret when she chose the latter had been that she could not switch the ranks of the two men. She would have liked to be a duchess.
She was at home and in the middle of her toilette when a footman tapped on the door of her dressing room and murmured a message to one of the maids who then informed a more senior maid who informed my lady that the Earl and Countess of Riverdale had called and asked to pay their respects to her.
She was surprised. Indeed, she was amazed and not at all pleased. It was the very last thing she had expected. She had heard—who had not?—of the ugly woman with a purple face whom the Earl of Riverdale had been forced to marry, poor gentleman, because his pockets were sadly to let and she was fabulously wealthy. She had looked curiously at the woman when she had seen her in the box across from her own at the theater, as no doubt everyone else had done. And at first she had wondered, with a twinge of disappointment, why the reports of the woman’s looks had been so inaccurate.
Then during the interval she had seen the countess full face. Blanche had seen her too. And Lady Hodges had felt a great unease. For the woman’s face was indeed purple—on the left side. And she was not unlike . . . But she preferred not to see the resemblance, which was doubtless imagined anyway.
But that night while she lay in bed memories flickered to life. Lord Riverdale had married Miss Wren Heyden, heiress to the Heyden glassware fortune. Megan had once shamed the family by taking employment as companion to an invalid—a Mrs. Heyden, wife of a very wealthy man. At least, she believed the name had been Heyden. The woman had died after a few years. What if . . . ?
What if anyone ever suspected that the hideously ugly Countess of Riverdale had come from her body as a punishment because she had ranted and railed against Hodges for burdening her with yet another pregnancy and because she had tried everything within her power to abort it?
Her first instinct was to deny her presence. But what if the rebuff set them to talking out of sheer spite? The woman surely was not expecting to be welcomed with open arms and kisses, was she? Had she come to make trouble? Was she really Rowena? Had plain, dumpy Megan really snared a wealthy husband? And kept Rowena and even changed her name? What sort of name was Wren? Was Megan still alive? Lady Hodges had neither seen her nor heard from her since that night when she had gone marching off with Rowena, all righteous indignation, the day before the child was to be taken to the asylum, where she ought to have been confined since her infancy.
“Have them shown into the rose salon and inform them I shall be down directly,” she said.
She was still no more than halfway through her toilette, but let them wait. She was certainly not going to urge anyone to hurry. This was the most important part of her day. “And have Sir Nelson and Lady Elwood instructed to be ready to accompany me. And Mr. Wragley and Mr. Tobin too as soon as they arrive.”
• • •
They sat side by side in silence, Alexander’s fingers resting lightly on her wrist as her hand clasped the other in her lap. Wren would not turn her head to look at him. Her mind was focusing, as it did when she went to work on anything to do with her business. It was not going to be allowed to admit distractions.
And Alexander was a distraction—supportive and silently disapproving. No, that was not quite the right word. Caring would be more accurate—silently caring. She knew he feared for her and wished with all his being to protect her from hurt. She knew too that he would not interfere, that he would let her do what she must do, that he would support her no matter what.
It was endearing. It warmed her heart. But it was a distraction.
She felt a little as though they had stepped onto a stage set. The room was in semidarkness—just as her own sitting room had been when she summoned the first three gentlemen on her list of potential candidates for husband. But because the curtains were a rose pink, so was the room, lit by many candles set in gilded candelabra and wall sconces. There were a number of other chairs in the room apart from the sofa to which they had been specifically directed by the butler, but one of them stood apart from the rest. It could be described, Wren thought, only as a throne. It was lusciously upholstered in rose-colored velvet, but its arms and back and legs were intricately carved and gilded, and the legs were longer than those on the other chairs. Two low velvet steps led up to it. It was quite extraordinary. Somehow the light gleamed off the gold, but left the chair itself in shadow. It all seemed uncannily familiar, though how it could when she had spent most of her childhood in her room Wren did not know.
A dozen times it occurred to her that her mother was playing games with them, that perhaps she intended to keep them here all day. A few times she was on the brink of getting to her feet and suggesting that they go back home. Each time she returned to her focus.
Alexander did not say a word, bless his heart, though his fingertips sometimes stroked lightly instead of remaining motionless on her wrist.
And then the door opened and five people came into the room—the younger of the two ladies who had occupied the theater box opposite their own, whom Wren now knew to be Blanche; the man who had been with her there, presumably her husband; two very young gentlemen, who were handsome almost to the point of prettiness; and . . . her mother.
Alexander got to his feet and bowed stiffly. Wren remained seated and looked at each of the three principal figures in turn. Blanche had not changed much except that she looked her age. She was tall, slim, blond, and very good looking. Her husband was also a handsome man, though he had the florid, slightly puffy complexion of someone who had been drinking too much for too many years. Her mother . . . Well, she had the slender figure of a girl, though there was evidence of stays tightly laced. Her white muslin dress was fussy with frills and flounces, with long, gauzy sleeves and lacy frills that covered her hands to the tips of her fingers. Rings glittered and gleamed on those fingers with their long, painted nails. A lacy white stole was draped artfully to cover her bosom and neck. Her hair was blond and youthful and artfully dressed high on her head with curls feathering over her neck and temples. It was without a doubt a wig. Her complexion was delicately pale, her eyes wide and guileless and fringed with long lashes a few shades darker than her hair and as artif
icial as it was. Her lips were plump and pink.
In the dim rose-hued light of the room she looked young and delicate and beautiful and so unreal that . . . Ah, yes. Jessica’s word sprang to mind. She looked grotesque. A woman who must have been in her mid- to late fifties ought not to look like a girl newly stepping out into the world of the ton.
The whole performance was extraordinary. Not a word was spoken as the five moved across the room and the two pretty gentlemen offered a hand each to assist Lady Hodges to mount her throne before one of them picked up a rose pink feathered fan from a table beside her and handed it to the other, who wafted it before her face. Sir Nelson Elwood meanwhile was seating Blanche in one of the more lowly chairs.
“Lord and Lady Riverdale,” Lady Hodges said in a sweet girl’s voice, which immediately sent shivers of memory down Wren’s spine, “I understand congratulations are in order. Young love is always a pleasure to look upon.”
Alexander had sat down again.
“Thank you, Mother,” Wren said.
The lady gestured elegantly and the man holding the fan lowered it to his side. “Ah,” she said, “so you are Rowena. Your looks have improved a little. It is a good thing, however, that you were left a fortune. I wish you happy in your marriage.”
“Thank you,” Wren said again.
“And what may I do for you,” her mother asked, “apart from wishing you well?”
“Nothing,” Wren said. “And even your good wishes are unnecessary. I came because I needed to come, because I needed to look upon you once more as an adult who has learned self-worth. I needed to confront the darkness of a childhood no child should ever have to endure, with no hint of love from anyone except my younger brother, with whom I was reunited yesterday, to great joy on both sides. Your cruelty to him in telling him I had died was only surpassed by your prolonged cruelty to a child who, through no fault of her own, was born with a facial blemish. I wanted to look you in the eye and tell you that you have missed so much joy you might have had in your life by putting your trust in self-worship and in physical beauty, which never lasts, at least not in its youthful blooming. You have ignored all the love and comfort you might have enjoyed with your family and others. All I ever wanted was to love and to be loved. I do not hate you. I have suffered enough and will probably never be quite free of the effects of what happened to me. I will not add hatred to that burden, which I will determinedly work toward dissipating for the rest of my life. I feel sorrow instead, for perhaps you cannot help your character any more than I can help the birthmark on my face.”
Alexander’s fingertips were on her wrist again.
“My dear Rowena.” Her mother had taken the feathers in her own hand and was fanning her face again. “I kept you and cared for you for ten long years when you were hideous to look upon and everyone begged me to send you somewhere where only those well paid to do so would have to look at you. It is trial enough to look at you now—I feel for Lord Riverdale—but perhaps you do not remember how you looked then. Megan made a martyr of herself by taking you in, it seems, and persuaded that old man, doubtless still grief-stricken after the death of his wife, to marry her and take on the burden of you. I assume she is dead now? Poor Megan. But you are rich and have been able to purchase a husband and even a title. I congratulate you again. You should be thanking me, not heaping recriminations upon my head. Mr. Wragley, my vinaigrette, if you please.”
One of the young men picked it up from the table and handed it to her.
“Blanche,” Wren said, moving her attention to her sister, “I never knew you well. I was never given the chance. I would be happy to get to know you as a sister if you would like.”
Blanche looked at her with cool disdain. “No, thank you,” she said, and her husband, who had not been introduced, set a hand on her shoulder.
Wren got to her feet. “That is all,” she said. “I shall not trouble you again, Mother. And I shall not deliberately expose your ugly secret, though I daresay it will soon be known that I am Lord Hodges’s sister. Colin and I loved each other dearly as children. We will love each other again now and on into the future.”
Alexander was on his feet beside her and spoke now for the first time in more than an hour. “I thank you for receiving us, ma’am,” he said. “It was important to my wife to see you and speak with you again. She will be happier now, I believe. And her happiness is important to me. Of greater importance than anything else in my life, in fact. I certainly did not marry her for her money. I love her, you see.” With that, he turned and offered his arm to his wife. “Wren?”
He escorted her from the room and down the stairs to the hall. A footman held the door open for them. They would no doubt have stepped out of the house without speaking again if someone had not called Wren’s name. They turned. Both young men were hurrying down after them. They did not speak again until they were down in the hall too.
“You have upset Lady Hodges,” one of them said.
“Ugliness upsets her,” the other explained.
“And when she is upset, then we are upset,” the first man said.
It was the second man’s turn. “It is our express wish,” he said, “that you stay away from her in the future.”
“We and her other devoted friends always see to it that her wishes are granted,” the first young man said. “And it would be in your own interest, Lady Riverdale, to keep silent about your relationship to—”
He did not have a chance to finish. The other young man did not have a chance to chime in with his next remark. It all happened so quickly that Wren had no time even to blink. First the current speaker was grabbed by the neckcloth and then the other, and both were walked backward until there was no farther to go. They were hoisted upward, their backs to the wall, their elegantly booted feet only just scraping the tiled floor, their faces turning an identical shade of blue.
“Wren,” Alexander said, his voice pleasant, “go outside, my love, and await me in the carriage.”
But she stayed and gazed in amazement. He did not appear to have exerted a great deal of energy or power, and his voice was not breathless. He looked from one to the other of the young men he held in place.
“I do not like the sound of my wife’s name on your lips,” he said, his voice soft but curiously menacing. “I do not remember giving either of you permission to address her directly. I do not recall her ladyship giving such permission. Such permission is withheld. My wife’s name will not pass your lips ever again anywhere I might hear of it. You will utter no warnings or threats against her ever again. You will offer no public opinion about her. If you ever encounter her again, you will lower your eyes and button your lips. If you are given orders to the contrary, you will obey those orders at your peril. And you will pass on this message to your cohorts so that I may avoid the tedium of having to repeat them. Do you understand?”
Feet and hands dangled. Eyes popped. Neither young man seemed able to mount any defense against a one-handed hold. Nor did they seem quite able to draw breath.
“It was not a rhetorical question,” Alexander said when there was no answer. “It requires an answer.”
“Yes,” the first gentleman squeaked.
“Understood,” the second wheezed simultaneously.
Alexander opened his fingers and let them drop. They both crumpled to the floor, then rose awkwardly and fled in ungainly haste back up the stairs. Alexander brushed his hands together as though they were somehow soiled. He turned to glance at the footman, who was still holding the door open and gawking. His eyes alit upon Wren.
“Ah,” he said, “the ever-obedient wife. Come. We are done here, I believe.”
She took his arm without saying a word.
Twenty-two
Before Alexander climbed into the carriage after his wife, he told his coachman to keep driving until he was notified otherwise.
She sat with rigid
ly correct posture on her side of the carriage seat, her face slightly turned away to gaze out of the window. She had taken him by surprise during that visit. He had expected that she would ask questions of her mother to try to understand the why of her childhood and the way she had been treated. He had expected her to plead for some sort of reconciliation, for some sign that her mother had maternal feelings after all and some feelings of remorse. He had expected emotion, tears, drama—some outpouring of passion and pain.
Instead she had been magnificent. And he understood why she had gone against his advice and that of her brother. I came because I needed to come, because I needed to look upon you once more as an adult who has learned self-worth. I needed to confront the darkness of a childhood no child should ever have to endure . . . I wanted to look you in the eye and tell you that you have missed so much joy you might have had in your life. . . . I do not hate you . . . I feel sorrow instead, for perhaps you cannot help your character any more than I can help the birthmark on my face.
But he could not ignore the fact that that woman with her eerily youthful appearance and little girl voice was Wren’s mother.
He took her gloveless hand in his. It was cold and lifeless at first. But it curled into his almost immediately, and the carriage jerked slightly as it moved off.
“Thank you,” she said. “How did you manage to do that? There were two of them.”
“They were a grave disappointment,” he said. “I was itching for a fight, but all they could do was dangle.”
“It is . . . hurtful to be told that one was hideous to look upon,” she said, “even when one is assured that there has been a slight improvement and even when one despises the person who speaks such words.”
“But she is your mother,” he said.
