by Mary Balogh
“What if he is not?” Chloe said hopefully as the door closed quietly and she was left alone with Ralph. “What if—”
“He obviously is at home,” Ralph told her, “or his footman would not have gone looking to see if he is.”
Ah, the logic of polite society.
It was a visitors’ salon into which they had been shown, Chloe could see, a magnificent apartment with a high, coved ceiling painted with a scene from mythology, gilded friezes, and wine-colored brocaded walls hung with dark landscapes in heavy, ornate frames. Gilded, intricately carved chairs were arranged about the perimeter of the room. There was a wine-colored carpet underfoot and heavy curtains of a slightly lighter shade half drawn across the single window.
It was a room meant to reduce the visitor to size, to intimidate him. Or her. It was certainly having its effect upon Chloe, who came to a stop not far inside the door, her hands clasped tightly over the top of her reticule. Ralph had strolled over to the window and stood looking out.
Neither of them spoke again.
There was a nasty buzzing in Chloe’s ears. Her hands felt damp, even inside her gloves.
Perhaps they should assume the marquess was not at home and leave without further delay. She opened her mouth to suggest it, but she was too late. The door of the salon opened and a man stepped inside. An invisible someone closed the door silently behind him.
He was an older man of medium height and solid build. He was quietly, tastefully dressed. He had a pleasant, though not outstandingly handsome face and thinning hair that was turning to gray, though it must have been red in his youth. If Chloe had expected a towering, sneering monster on the one hand or a handsome, austere, thin-lipped aristocrat on the other, she was proved wrong on both counts. Not that she had tried to picture what he would look like. How did one picture in one’s mind the father one had never seen or even known about with any certainty until yesterday?
He ignored Ralph, who had turned from the window though he did not move away from it. He—presumably the marquis—stood looking at her, his lips pursed, a slight frown between his brows, his arms clasped behind his back. If he planned to feign ignorance, he was not making a good start.
It did not occur to Chloe to break the silence.
“Despite all that I have heard about you,” he said at last, “I expected that you would bear some resemblance to your mother. You do not. Not at first glance, anyway.”
“I wish I did,” she said. “Then I might have gone through life without ever learning the truth.”
“You did not know it?” He looked surprised. “You were not told?”
“Not until last evening,” she said.
“Last evening?” His eyebrows rose higher.
“My papa told me,” she said, laying slight emphasis on the one word.
“Yet last year’s gossip sent you scurrying home,” he said.
“The gossip was my first inkling,” she told him, “though I refused to believe it, and Papa denied it.”
He nodded his head slowly.
“I was sorry,” he said, “to hear last year of your mother’s passing—Chloe, is it not?”
“That happened more than three years ago,” she told him.
“For years I did not leave the north of England,” he said, shrugging apologetically. “I did not hear. I am sorry. I hope she did not suffer unduly.”
Chloe felt suddenly light-headed. Could this man, this polite stranger, possibly be her father? She could feel no connection to him.
“Your papa,” he continued when she said nothing, “made it very clear to me when he married your mother that he would consider it a personal insult if I should ever try to offer any . . . assistance or support for your upbringing or if I should ever try to see you or her. I respected his wishes.”
He had known, then. But he had never tried to see her—because he had respected Papa’s wishes. Or perhaps because he did not care. He had not even known until last year that Mama was dead. Or, presumably, that she was still alive. Had he even known that she herself was a girl, not a boy?
“You have recently made a brilliant match,” he said, glancing briefly and for the first time at Ralph. “I am happy for you.”
Chloe’s chin came up. By what right was he happy for her?
“I did not come for your congratulations,” she said. “Or for your approval.”
“No,” he said with a faint smile. “I do not suppose you did.”
Dizziness threatened again. Without this man, she thought, she would not even have life. He was her father.
“I came,” she said, “because we move in the same social circles and will almost certainly find ourselves at many of the same functions. Your . . . daughter was at the theater two evenings ago when we were there too, though we did not come face to face. I imagine she was as aware of my presence as I was of hers. It would be just too absurd if we were all going out of our way to avoid one another for the rest of the Season and pretending that there was nothing between us when we failed. There is something. I am your daughter.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm as she put the relationship into words, and she did not believe she imagined the way he flinched slightly.
“Yes,” he said. “You are. You came to confront me in private, then, so that in public we may acknowledge each other with apparent ease and unconcern for what everyone knows to be the truth? It may very well prove to have been a wise course of action. You are far more courageous than I, Chloe. I would feel proud of you if I had a right to such a feeling.”
She raised her chin again.
He opened his mouth to continue but hesitated before doing so.
“Allow me to say this, if you will,” he said. “Your mother was not a woman of loose morals, Chloe. I had assured her of my enduring affections and of my firm intention to marry her. I even believed at the time that I would defy all the factors that dictated I do otherwise. Perhaps I would even have done so if I had known in time that she was . . . Well, if I had known that there would be you. Though perhaps not. None of us is ever as free to follow inclination as we would like to believe ourselves to be. Please be assured, though, that any and all blame for what happened between your mother and me was entirely mine. I would not have your newly acquired knowledge sully your memories of her.”
She clenched her teeth hard as she stared at him. How dare he tell her how to remember her mother. She turned her head to look at Ralph.
“I have said what I came to say,” she said. “We may leave now. I daresay I will be seeing you again . . . sir. And you may expect an invitation to attend the ball we will be hosting within the next few weeks.”
Ralph looked gravely back at her with eyes that were no longer empty, she half realized. He had made no attempt to say anything and still did not, but his very presence was full of reassurance.
When you feel lonely or afraid or unhappy, it is to me you must come, Chloe. My arms are here for you, and my strength too for whatever it is worth. You will never be a burden to me.
“My wife and daughter are upstairs in the morning room,” the Marquess of Hitching said. “I was with them when Worthingham’s card was brought up and my footman informed me that the duchess had come with him. I have not been the most popular of husbands or fathers since last year, I must confess. I doubt my wife and daughter would have returned this year if they had not felt confident that after your hasty retreat last year you would certainly not be back. Word of your marriage did not reach us until after we arrived here and my daughter saw you in Stanbrook’s box. She was severely shaken. You are quite correct, though, Chloe. If we are all to remain in town without any of us fleeing and stirring up a renewed storm of gossip, it will be as well if we can all come to a point at which we are able to meet with some . . . civility at least. Will you and Worthingham come up to the morning room with me?”
Chloe gazed at him
in dismay. How could she possibly . . . ? But seeing and speaking with the marquess—her father—alone like this was dealing with only half the task she had set herself. She had hoped that perhaps he would undertake the other half and explain to his family.
She looked at Ralph again, but though he was frowning, he did not intervene. He was there to support her, his silence seemed to say, but not to act for her. And then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled.
You can do it.
Though how could she possibly know what that smile meant?
“Very well,” she said, looking back at the marquess.
He offered her his arm, but she did not take it or move closer to him. Instead she turned to Ralph, and he came toward her with firm steps and drew her arm through his. His free hand came up to cover hers and pat it a couple of times.
The marquess led the way up a broad staircase.
* * *
Ralph had mentally castigated himself all night. His suggestion had been an impulsive one. It might also have been a disastrous one. He had had no idea how Hitching would react to having his by-blow turn up at his door while the rest of his family was in residence there. And he had had no idea how Chloe would stand up to the ordeal. He had half expected, half hoped that she would change her mind when morning came. But she had not done so.
She had acquitted herself magnificently. He had been poised to intervene from the moment Hitching set foot inside the salon but had not needed to do so. He had watched her with admiration and pride—and an uneasy feeling that she was far more courageous than he would ever be. She had run in the past, it was true, most notably last year when she had first got wind of the possibility that Muirhead was not her real father. And she would have avoided coming back to London if she could this year. But she had come. And now she had come here.
Ralph had not thought beyond the meeting with Hitching, however. He had assumed that the marquess would himself undertake to speak with his wife and daughter and sons. Yet here they were, on their way to meet the women of the family.
Hitching opened a door at the head of the stairs.
Three people—not two—looked toward the doorway, and all three looked suddenly startled to see that the marquess was not alone. One was a plump, square-faced older lady with florid complexion and dark hair turned mostly to gray. Behind her chair stood a young man who had her dark coloring while in features and build he resembled Hitching. The young lady who sat on a love seat was fashionably dressed in russet brown, a color that emphasized the vivid redness of her hair and the green of her eyes.
She did not really look like Chloe after all, Ralph thought. Her face was narrower, her mouth smaller, her eyebrows straighter. She was not as beautiful despite the fact that last year, according to George, she had been known as the Incomparable. He was partial, of course. And she was noticeably younger than his wife. There was enough of a resemblance, however, to account for the rumors that had sprung to life last year.
“My dear,” Hitching said, stepping to one side and addressing the older lady first, “Angela, Gilly, allow me to present the Duke and Duchess of Worthingham. My wife, my daughter, and my eldest son,” he added, turning to his visitors.
Viscount Gilly’s fingers closed about the handle of a quizzing glass though he did not raise it all the way to his eyes. His mother sat very still. Lady Angela Allandale tipped back her head and fixed Chloe with an arctic stare along the length of her nose.
“How do you do, ma’am.” Ralph bowed to the marchioness as he advanced farther into the room, one hand firm beneath Chloe’s elbow. “Lady Angela? Gilly? I hope we have not interrupted you at an inconvenient moment. It seemed to my wife and me, however, that we really ought to call on you privately, and the sooner the better, since it is almost inevitable that we will meet in public very soon.”
“How do you do, ma’am,” Chloe said. “I do assure you that I intend you no harm or embarrassment. Quite the contrary, in fact. I have a family of whose members I am dearly fond and have no intention of making any claim on another. My only wish is that we can all agree to meet in public without stirring the gossip mill again. It is what we must all wish.”
Ralph did not release her elbow. They were not offered seats, for which fact he was relieved.
“I will never be able to meet this woman in public, Mama,” Lady Angela said, not taking her eyes off Chloe. “How could she dare set foot in this house? Why would any servant admit her? And how could Papa bring her up here?”
Lady Hitching ignored her daughter.
“How do you do, Duchess, Duke?” she said with awful civility. “I am quite sure I will always treat any member of polite society I may meet outside my own home with the good manners expected of a well-bred lady. And within my own home too when such persons are presented to me by my husband. I have raised my daughter to do likewise. You will forgive her, I trust, for the uncharacteristic outburst occasioned by your unexpected appearance in such a private apartment of our home. As for my sons, the younger two as well as Gilly have been raised by their father to behave as gentlemen under all circumstances.”
She was, Ralph thought with not a little admiration, a formidable lady. This must be a dreadful moment for her, but she had somehow taken command of it with a great deal of dignity.
Viscount Gilly, with little choice but to live up to her description, inclined his head stiffly and let his glass fall on its ribbon.
“Perhaps, my dear,” the marquess suggested to his wife, “you would ring for a tea tray? Perhaps our guests—”
“Oh. No. Thank you,” Chloe said hastily.
“We will bid you a good morning, then,” the marchioness said. “Duke? Duchess?”
The marquess led the way back downstairs. He nodded to the footman who had admitted them earlier, and the man opened the front doors. The marquess accompanied them down the steps to their waiting carriage and touched Chloe for the first time. He took her right hand in his and raised it to his lips.
“He has been good to you?” he asked her. “Muirhead? Your papa?”
She stared at him until he released her hand and smiled ruefully.
“But of course he has,” he said. “I remember him from all those years ago as a decent sort. I am sorry you inherited my coloring, Chloe. It would have been better for you if you had never known the truth. Better for me too, perhaps. Now that I have met you, I wish I might know you better. But it will not happen, will it? I wish you well. I will always wish you well.”
She nodded briefly and turned toward Ralph. He handed her into the carriage, turned impulsively to shake Hitching by the hand, and followed her up the steps. He took her hand in his as the coachman shut the door and climbed back to his box.
“I hoped that I would dislike him quite intensely,” she said as the carriage moved forward—she did not look toward the window, though Hitching raised a hand in farewell.
“But you did not?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Perhaps I ought to be glad,” she said. “I was not, I think, the result of a . . . sordid encounter.”
“No,” he agreed.
She did not say any more, for which fact he was glad. He kept hold of her hand, but he moved a little away from her and settled his shoulders across the corner of the seat. She had been incredibly courageous and dignified. Going upstairs to meet a family that surely hated and despised her must have been particularly difficult, but she had acquitted herself admirably. And she had made it possible for them all to meet socially without unpleasantness or undue embarrassment.
Part of him wanted to gather her into his arms. Another part of him wished there were not this carriage ride to be made together before they were home and he could be alone. She had stirred him to the very root of his being. He had not wanted to be stirred. He still did not. He wanted his life to be as it had been for the past seven years.
Safe.
A
lmost safe.
Unstirred.
He wanted desperately to be alone.
She had spoken words to him last night that he could not shift from his mind today. But you will not do it. You will not go to call upon Viscount and Lady Harding. And when he had protested that that situation was entirely different from hers, she had said, Is it? How?
The difference was that she had not done anything to shatter Hitching’s life. The difference was that she was not responsible for the death of any of his children, let alone his only child. The difference was that she was not so loaded down with guilt that sometimes even the mythical Atlas was enviable because he had had only the earthly globe to support on his shoulders. The difference was . . .
The difference was that she had the courage to do what she found almost impossible to do, and to do it all alone. Although he had come with her for moral support and support of a more physical sort too if she had needed it, she had not needed him for either. How she had done it, he did not know.
She put him to shame. And he almost disliked her for it. Certainly he resented her. For there was a difference. And if there was not, what business was it of hers?
You are content, then, to live out the rest of your life in hell?
She had said that to him too. What did it matter to her how he chose to live? Heaven was out of his reach anyway.
And such a wave of longing washed over him that involuntarily his hand closed more tightly about hers and he set his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
“Ralph,” she said, “thank you for coming with me. I could not have done it without you—or without your encouraging me to do it. But it was the right thing, was it not? I am glad I have met him, and I think he was glad to have met me. His family did not like my going there, and I cannot blame them, but I still think it was necessary and that they will think so too once they have recovered from the shock of seeing me. Thank you.”
