Illicit Love

by Jane Lark

  “I will wait, if I may? If you will give him that note?”

  “Sit then Ma’am.” He indicated a gilded red velvet chair by the door.

  Nerves making her tremble, still gripping her reticule over-tightly and moving stiffly, Ellen complied and took the seat, an unwelcome guest in what had once been one of the places she could have called home. She felt as though if it were possible she would have been swept beneath the carpet, the family dirt hidden from view. She had not even been invited to wait in a reception room because the butler thought her a woman of ill-morals. She felt sick—she had been a woman of ill-morals.

  No, I was never that. It was merely a circumstance I was forced into.

  Edward had made her able to say that. Edward was right. The sin had not been hers. It had not been her choice.

  I am a wife and a mother and the daughter of a Duke and I am going to make the man who judged me less face the sin he put upon me.

  More defiant words trailed through her thoughts as she rehearsed in her head the things she’d say, building her courage and refusing the terror she felt burning in her stomach as a clock ticked on the mantel to one side of the hall. Her heels tapped on the black and white chequered marble floor and the size of the room absorbed her making her feel minuscule as she waited, and waited.

  She looked up at the top of the shallow, wide, stone staircase several times. No one came.

  Had the butler forgotten her? Would her father not speak to her? How long did she wait? Should she just go upstairs and look for him?

  A footman stood across the hall by the stairs, watching her with speculation, no doubt wondering who this lone woman was, and what her connections to the Duke were.

  I am his daughter!

  She had not said it to the butler because bowing to her father’s will was too ingrained and she had known her father would not wish her to state the association.

  At last she saw the butler at the head of the stairs.

  She stood as he descended.

  “His Grace’s valet has put your note into His Grace’s own hands. He is reading it now Ma’am. I dare say he shall speak with you in a moment.”

  Ellen’s heart was pumping hard again but she sat back down. What else could she do? The butler stood beside the far side of the door observing her as though she was a curiosity. At least she still wore her bonnet and its brim gave her some protection from his view.

  She longed for Edward, for his hand to grip. It was probably wrong of her to have kept the visit secret but she could not tell him, he would not understand her need to do this alone. This was her final stance to set her past right. She had to break her father’s hold over her and she could only do that if she did it herself. If she hid behind Edward she would not be free and she refused to be imprisoned by fear any longer. That was the old Ellen.

  Her jaw firmed and her body stiffened, she had fled Gainsborough, she would fight her father.

  The clocked ticked. The butler coughed. The footman shuffled his feet and rocked from side-to-side. Her heart thumped like a fist against her ribs. Her head ached.

  Come, Papa.

  She was on the verge of rising and storming up the stairs in high dudgeon at the moment she heard his voice.

  “Is the person who brought this note still here?”

  Oh Lord.

  She stood.

  His tone was impersonal and judgemental. It had always been so.

  “P—Your Grace.”

  He was on the landing above, out of sight, though the butler was able to see him, he was looking up and he spoke too. “The Lady is here, Your Grace.”

  “Waiting in the hall? A woman?”

  Ellen felt as though her heart would burst from her chest. Was he about to ask them to throw her out?

  Then she saw him, he was wearing his formal robes. He looked God like, statuesque and stately. He walked slowly about the corner of the banister and into view. His hand gripping the rail, he looked down, and he looked at her, not past her, or beyond her, but at her, acknowledging her in a small way, but at least acknowledging she existed.

  Relief swept through her as she met his hard unfathomable gaze. It traveled over her face and then absorbed what she wore. She ached to be welcomed by him. He may have treated her with cruelty beyond imagining but he was still her father. She’d grown up with a desire to please him. It had always felt like heaven when she had won a smile from him or earned more than a moment or two of his attention, because those things were so rare.

  She felt as if she would faint again but she refused to let herself be weak, Edward had taught her how to be strong and she drew on every ounce of the courage she’d been given by his unswayable love.

  No matter what her father thought of her. She had her sisters and Edward, and she was here for John.

  “Will you let me speak? Will you listen?” She lifted her chin higher.

  He merely looked at her while she waited for his decree. Then finally he spoke. “I thought it was a messenger waiting. I did not realize it was you here. Had I known, I would not have left you waiting.”

  What did that mean?

  She felt suspended. She felt like screaming and scratching his face, she felt like weeping, she felt like dropping to her knees and begging him to give her John back. She did none of those things. She did nothing. Yet although her heart still beat steadily, too fast, and her breathing was sharp and shallow and would not catch within her lungs and the palms of her hands felt cold with sweat as she gripped her reticule, she realized she was no longer terrified—she was determined. “I want John back. He is my son.”

  “Do you?” He stared at her.

  “At least let me see him.”

  “He is not here.”

  She stepped forward several paces, frustrated by the staircase of steps separating them. “Pa—Your Grace?” There was a plea in her voice she did not like. She was not here to beg. She was here to make him regret what he had done to her. “May I speak with you, please?”

  He moved, his long fingers still gripping the banister, progressing along the landing above and then he began descending.

  That hand had never held hers as Edward’s had John’s. This man did not know how to be a father. Her son had been raised by him for the last ten years. She had to set her son free as she was now free and she was free, she no longer felt that this man ruled her life—Edward ruled it and Edward loved her.

  “Walk this way.” Her father left the stairs and walked past her not looking at her now. He had still not used her name.

  She wanted him to use her name.

  I am Eleanor, Papa!

  She longed for him to say it. For him to see his daughter and not a whore. It was who she was. That other woman was the one who was dead.

  He entered the library.

  The footman had moved to hold the door and when she passed through it too her father nodded and the footman withdrew shutting the door behind him.

  They were alone in the room and her father stood with his back to her. Numerous shelves of leather bound books surrounded them and an ornate ceiling towered above them. She could not quite believe she was here, but now was the time to push her case. He had let her stay. “Papa, I did not wish things to end as they did.”

  He said nothing, and she pressed on, her voice firm and persuasive. “It was not a choice I had made when you found me abroad.” She stopped, hoping he might turn and comment. He did not. Her chin lifted and her back stiffened. “I am soiled, I know I am. I was when you came for John. But I had no money to feed us. What was I to do? Tell me that, Papa.” The pitch of her voice rose. “Tell me? You stand in judgement of me, but you had turned your back only because I married Paul. What was so wrong with that? We loved each other, Papa. I know you do not understand love, but I could not have married anyone but him. It broke my heart when he died and I wrote to you and pleaded for your help but you did not come. I was forced into the choice I made by you. What else was there? I could hardly have become a governess with
a child and I was in the middle of the aftermath of war. Things were in chaos and poverty was rife. Tell me what else I could have done if you must hate me so much for choosing to survive rather than die? Tell me, Papa!”

  He had not moved, he still said nothing.

  “What could I have done differently!” She could not stop her words, they spilled out of her, anger and regret pouring into the space between her and this man who still turned his back.

  “Very well then Judge me if you will. But do not continue to cast my sentence on my son. It was not his fault and I am respectable again now, you have no need to be ashamed of me. I am here, Papa, I am here and alive and you cannot pretend I am not. Edward shall not let you. I will not allow it. Face me! Face me and see who I am, Papa! I am your daughter! The mother of your heir! The woman whom you have treated ill. I am sinful. But you are guilty. Where is the compassion and forgiveness you preached of to us as children?

  “I hope you regret what you did to me. I hope you have suffered. Penny has told me you treated them more leniently when you brought John back—that Mama, persuaded you to. Well you owe me something too, Papa, you owe me an apology. You could have saved me from the life I led after John’s birth. If you had accepted Paul, you could have even prevented it. You did neither. You stood back and let me suffer! Well I shall not suffer in silence anymore! Do you hear? Do you hear me, Papa?”

  How had she thought herself capable of shifting impervious stone?

  She wanted him to at least admit he could hear her. That she was real.

  Still gripping her reticule the storm of her outburst taking over she moved to walk about him and make him look at her.

  He turned. His eyes were bright and they seemed to burn into her.

  She stopped dead, feeling stiff suddenly, as though her body had become lead.

  “Papa?” Her voice was quiet now.

  “I hear you. I suppose Marlow has told you of the sum I offered him.”

  Sum? “No.” Had he tried to pay Edward to leave her? “What sum?”

  “He would not take it.”

  “What sum, Papa?”

  “An amount to take you abroad. If you went away—”

  “I am not going away! I am here! I am staying here! I will not let you deny me anymore! You must face me, Papa, you must, please…” her fight died.

  Why could he not love her as a father should? Why could he not forgive and let John have his mother.

  “Why must you be inhuman? John wishes to be with me. I cannot change what happened, Papa, nor can you, but must you let this go on, can you not simply give in and forgive me.”

  “No, how may I? Look at what you are…”

  “What I am is your daughter.”

  “You have done appalling things.”

  Tears flooded her eyes suddenly. “Appalling things have been done to me because you turned your back! You are my father! You should have protected me!”

  He merely stared, stiff and still.

  “Will you let me have John?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—because it is not done.”

  Her chin lifted once again, her fingers clasping her reticule even tighter if it were possible. “Say my name. Say it. Admit that I am here, admit you are wrong. You are wrong, Papa. John needs his mother—he needs me.”

  “The boy has his grandmother.”

  “Mama, is not me. He needs his mother. I love him and I want him back. You took him from me when I was beaten by life and too afraid to argue with you. I am not afraid of you now, Papa, I will argue with you. I will go on arguing with you and so will Edward until we have John back do you understand? I am never going to let you keep him willingly, not now.”

  “And so Marlow said this morning.” His eyes shone brighter as if fluid and then he turned away and walked to the decanters which stood on a chest across the room.

  He had been silent like this when he’d taken John. Her heart was still racing. Why would he not listen? She watched him fill a glass as she wondered what had happened with Edward.

  He would have been angry if her father had tried to pay him to take her away. He would have done what she was doing now, refused to go and promised to fight.

  She waited. She was not leaving she was not bowing down.

  “I did not wish to take your son.” He spoke to the wall his fingers gripping the rim of the chest while his other hand held the glass. What did he mean?

  “I knew then—I knew then things could have been done differently. But I could not change things, could I? You had become what you had become…”

  Ellen stared at his back, unbelieving, unemotional. He sounded as if he expected pity. She had no pity for him. He should have pitied her. No, he should have helped her and not taken John.

  “I have tried to help you since…”

  He had not.

  He turned then and faced her and looked straight into her eyes for a moment, but there seemed to be questions in his, doubt. She had never seen her father show any doubt before. He drank some of the brandy in the glass then set it aside.

  “I gave them all money to care for you, so you might have some security.” He said it to the bureau as he put the glass on it and Ellen felt the world tilt beneath her. She began moving forward to grasp the back of the chair which faced his desk. He continued, looking up and looking at her. “I cannot acknowledge you. I cannot. You have fallen. You are abhorrent to me, how can you raise my heir—”

  “My son!” Ellen cried gripping the back of the chair with one hand while her other still held her reticule. “He is my son above anything.” She took a breath, still unable to believe what he had just said. “You paid them?”

  He nodded. He looked pleased with the notion.

  She felt horribly sick. “You paid them to repeatedly rape me. I never gave them conscious consent. Did you know that? Did you know?”

  He said nothing but his eyes turned hard and solid as glass. She let go of the chair and pointed her finger at him. “I never chose it. I never chose that. I had to feed myself before John was born and Paul’s officer offered to take me in. He did not even mention there would be a cost. He insisted I repay him when John was born. With the money you gave him you could have freed me…”

  He opened his mouth but she did not let him speak. She did not wish to hear anything more he might say.

  “Did you know Lord Gainsborough is dead? Have you heard that last night he tried to kill me? No you would not have done would you because Edward, his friend and my brothers’-in-law have hushed it up. Let Edward tell you how cruelly Gainsborough beat me. How vilely he treated me, and you paid him to do that!

  “Do you understand it now, Papa, do you? And your money was the only reason he would not let me go. If you had not paid him I might have been free years before.

  “He told me if I ran from him he would find and kill my son, did you know that? It was the only reason I stayed to endure that evil—the only reason. That is why Edward and I rushed to fetch him from school when I finally left.”

  Her anger flying into a rage which was fuelled by disappointment and disempowerment she strode across the room, her teeth gritted not even knowing what she would do, too angry to think anymore. She picked up the glass beside him and threw the liquid in his face.

  His arm lifted to wipe it off, but as he did so, she recoiled. She had been hit too many times to prevent her instinctual reaction to a raised hand. He reached to catch her arm but she backed away. “I am not afraid of you and I shall never forgive you unless you give me back my son.” She was no longer shouting. She no longer cared what he thought of her. Let him think what he wished. She just wanted her son. “I want him back. You will give him back to me. You have to. How can you have treated me so poorly? I am your daughter and my name is Eleanor, in case you have forgotten it. It is Eleanor, Papa. I am unchanged, I am scarred and I have been bruised, but Edward is helping me heal and I will not let you put me down again. Do you hear?”


  He had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and was wiping his face as he watched her warily, questions in his eyes again. But she did not wish to hear anything else he might have to say.

  “I am leaving now. We are staying with the Earl of Barrington. Please write and tell me when I may see my son.” Her chin tipped up and she glared at him, as he had so often glared at her and then turned and left, striding away from him, as she was certain Edward must have done earlier. “I hope you never sleep again,” she said, just before she left the room. “I hope you live my nightmares for the rest of your life. May God be your judge.” She did not look back. She did not wish to see him.

  As she took the door handle it turned in her hand and footman drew it open, she walked out knowing the servants must have heard. Well, she hoped her father felt shame. Let him burn in it.

  Her hands were still shaking as she left the house, though they shook with anger now and not fear.

  How could he have done it?

  ~

  Edward leaned his elbow on the newel post at the bottom of the imposing polished oak staircase in his brother’s townhouse, as his gaze transferred from the magnificent five-tier chandelier to the woman who outshone it.

  His wife was descending, framed perfectly by the rich dark brown of the oak treads. She had chosen to wear a simple white muslin gown. Its waistline framed her figure, pinching high under her breasts. While the dress’s low square neckline bordered on indecent, a slither away from displaying the darkening flesh of each nipple. It presented a delectable décolletage, he might add. As if to highlight the point a thin delicate band of silk, scarlet red, ribbon, threaded through the bright white cloth, at her high waistline, then formed a pert little bow with trailing ends beneath the exquisite curve of her breasts. The vivid contrast of colors highlighted her slight form to perfection, and the color of the red ribbon flashed in clear glass beads sewn in star shapes throughout the dress, which also caught the light, glittering and sparkling about her figure giving her an ethereal air.

  She looked unique, incomparable in beauty and in bearing—but then he was biased.