Addicted

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “Because I must,” he said, finally meeting his friend’s shrewd gaze.

  “I can’t quite figure it out. What has prompted you to get off your divan? Nothing else has worked these past weeks, so why would a church service inspire such energy? Do you mean to patch things up with Broughton by attending his niece’s baptism, then? Is that the reason you have dragged yourself out of your opium haze?”

  Lindsay let go of his tightly held facade for the first time in weeks. “Surely you can reason why I must do this. You of all people must know. Or have I been so brilliant at hiding what I fear I wear on my sleeve?”

  Recognition flashed in Wallingford’s blue eyes, then he sat forward and wrapped his arm around his shoulder in a very caring, very un-Wallingford manner.

  “I am so very, very sorry, Raeburn,” his friend murmured and Lindsay could hear the sincerity in his voice. “So sorry.”

  He nodded and looked down at his gloved hands. “Thank you for not asking me to say the words. I…I can’t say the words. They hurt too much.”

  Wallingford sat back against the squabs. “Words aren’t necessary. I see the truth in your eyes. I have only to think back to our conversation to know the truth and the depths of your agony.”

  “I thought you might have dragged the truth out of me that night I went to see you,” Lindsay muttered, looking up from his hands.

  “I wanted to, but I knew that you would tell me if you wanted me to know. You have my sincerest, most profound sympathies. I cannot imagine what it must be like, what you must be feeling right now—”

  “Rage. Pain. Hate,” he looked at his friend and his mouth twisted in a deprecating smile. “Lust, desire. I want to hate her for what she has done. I want to make her pay. Yet whenever I close my eyes I can think of nothing other than pleasure—the pleasure I find only with her. What hold has she over me, Wallingford, that I should wish to forgive her so easily, that I can forget that she has given my child to another man to raise?”

  “I can think of only one thing that could make a man forgive such a thing. Love, Raeburn, love is what hold she has over you. The same sort of elemental passion the poets talk of. The same, passionate, violent emotion that most men can only dream of finding.”

  “I did have that with her.”

  “You still have it, else you would not be trying to hate her, you would hate her.”

  “It was all I ever wanted from her—her love and our child. She deprived me of a chance. I should despise her for it, yet all I can think about is my future, and how bleak and utterly black it will be without her in it. The whole matter is perverse, is it not? What the hell can be the reason for such depredation?”

  “‘Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you,’” Wallingford said quietly and Lindsay saw that his friend was looking out the window at a place far, far away from the road they were traveling. “It is from Ephesians and the only passage of the Bible that I can recall. Perhaps I remember it because my grand mother would repeat it to me day after day as she fought tirelessly to reconcile me to my father. And to some extent, my step mother. She failed in that. I cannot forgive. But perhaps you have done just that. In your heart you have forgiven her. You have offered her the compassion of your soul. You share a pure love with her. A love that is so rare, so perfect, that it can survive anything—even betrayal. Even,” Wallingford said as he looked at him with eyes that shone sadness, “opium.”

  The church bells rang, heralding the flock to the fold. The carriage rounded the bend and St. Ann’s Church loomed to their right. People dressed in their Sunday best were climbing the steps where the arched doors were opened and the welcoming glimmer of candles could be seen flickering from the ceiling of the nave.

  Forgive and you shall be forgiven. For the first time, Anais’s quiet words had new meaning for him. She had forgiven him for everything he had done. The question now was could he forgive her?

  He must have spoke aloud, for Wallingford pressed forward and clasped a strong hand on his shoulder. “No, Raeburn, the question is, can you forgive yourself?”

  Lindsay looked away, back to the church steps and the couples climbing them. “I…don’t know.”

  “You must. To forgive is to free yourself from this opium prison you have built for yourself.”

  “I have nothing without opium.”

  Wallingford squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t you see? You have nothing with it, my friend.”

  25

  The choir sang the opening hymn as Anais ran her fingers along the gilded edge of her prayer book. Refusing to look up, she stared at the words before her, fearing that if she raised her chin and sang the words she would meet Lindsay’s green gaze from where he sat in his family pew ahead of her. He sat to her left, leaving her with a perfect view of his strong profile. He had only to glance over his right shoulder to find her. She could not look up, for she knew if she did, she would not be able to keep her eyes from the face that had once been so dear to her. That same, beautiful face was now the ghost of a man who haunted her dreams and plagued her thoughts.

  How ill he looked. How tired. It was the opium, it was killing him, and so, too, was what she had done to him. When he had walked away from her that night, he had turned his back on her and welcomed another woman into his life. Opium was now his lover and her clutches were deep. So deep that Anais feared he was lost to her forever.

  Her fingers shook slightly and Garrett, who was seated beside her, reached out and settled his hand atop hers. She felt him looking at her, but she did not return his gaze. She could not hurt him any more than she already had. They had made their peace with one another. Garrett accepted her friendship, as she accepted his. There was love between them, but not the physical love that Anais felt—would always feel—for Lindsay.

  As if knowing her thoughts, Garrett squeezed her fingers, giving her hand a reassuring shake, a silent acknowledgment that he was, and always would be, there for her. Her rock. Her pillar of strength when she was weak. She wondered who Lindsay had to cling to. How would he weather the storm?

  The answer was etched on his face. Opium would be his safe harbor.

  The choir had stopped and Mr. Pratt, the vicar of St. Ann’s, stood at the pulpit, smiling down upon the faces of his faithful flock. Anais met his gaze and she saw a glimmer in his normally sedate brown eyes. The church was full and she could tell that Mr. Pratt was overjoyed to have the four aristocratic families of Bewdley taking up their family pews as they once had, many long years before.

  “Good day to you all,” he called, his melodic voice echoed from the plaster ceiling. “Today we welcome a new member to our church family.”

  As if on cue, little Mina squirmed in Margaret’s arms and let out a lusty, and a not at all dignified yawn. Anais’s gaze darted to Mina, who was stretching, then up to Lindsay, who was watching the babe. His mouth quirked in a lopsided grin when Wallingford pressed beside him and whispered in his ear. Looking away, she was not quick enough to escape detection from Lindsay’s knowing eyes. His gaze found hers and rested upon her until she could not bear the intensity a moment longer.

  Jane, her aunt’s companion, pressed against her and took her arm in hers. “Never mind him,” she whispered. “Pretend he doesn’t exist.”

  How in the world was such a thing to be achieved when her whole being was infused with the awareness of him? Her body was alive with memories of his heat against hers, his lips pressed to hers…pretend he didn’t exist? It was an utterly futile task when she could feel him in every corner of her soul.

  “Mr. Pratt is motioning for me to come up to the front,” Garrett murmured in her ear. “You will be all right, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” She attempted a smile. A smile she knew was sad and almost pathetic-looking.

  Mr. Pratt motioned Robert and Margaret to the front, and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest as she watched Margaret pass the squirming bundle in her arms to Robert. She not
iced how Lindsay went rigid as Robert pressed a kiss to Mina’s plump cheek. She also saw how Wallingford placed a comforting hand on Lindsay’s shoulder and she knew then, that Wallingford was Lindsay’s confidant.

  And then, as if he could feel the weight of her stare, Lindsay looked at her—those green eyes pierced her to her very soul and she saw the hurt and pain in them.

  “Who gives this child to God?”

  “We do, her parents,” Margaret and Robert replied in unison, and Anais could not conceal the gasp of pain that escaped through her pursed lips as scalding tears dropped from her eyes to roll along her cheeks.

  “Shh, dearest,” Jane purred softly. “It will soon be over. Put on your brave face, my dear. That’s it,” she whispered. “You are a very strong woman, Anais. You can do this. Show him he hasn’t broken you. Show him that you are not doubting your decision.”

  Ann, who was seated beside Jane, leaned forward and placed a protective hand on Anais’s knee, but kept quiet, as if her innate intuition told her the secret Anais was trying valiantly to hide.

  “Heavens!” her mother chastised in a low hiss. “What are you carrying on for? You’ll only make your eyes puffy and your complexion blotched.”

  “Be quiet, Mother,” Ann snapped while Mr. Pratt continued with his baptismal blessing. Ann sent her a look that spoke of her sadness and worry, and Anais gripped her sister’s hand and hoped that one day Ann would find it in her to understand the reasons Anais was unable to confide her secret to her.

  “I baptise you, Mina Gabriella Middleton—”

  Anais’s head came up. She saw Lindsay’s eyes narrow and Wallingford’s hand press into his shoulder at the same time Jane gripped her arm. It was the first time Anais had ever heard her child’s full name spoken aloud—a name that was foreign to her ears. A name that should have been Mina Gabriella Markam, daughter of the Viscount and Viscountess Raeburn. The enormity—the finality of it all hit her and she let out a broken sob that she attempted to cover with her trembling fingers.

  It was like giving her up all over again. Anais bit her lip, trying to prevent herself from breaking out in uncontrollable sobs. She wanted to run up to the front of the church and proclaim that she was not Mina Middleton, but the daughter of the Viscount Raeburn. That she had been conceived during a night of incredible passion and love, that it was not a night of regret, but of rejoicing.

  No, Mina’s conception had been out of beauty and passion.

  Blinking back her rapidly falling tears, Anais suddenly found herself back in the cottage, standing over Mina’s bassinet, watching her sleep, allowing her tears to fall down her cheeks and land atop the lace blankets that covered her daughter. She had not allowed herself to hold Mina. She had not permitted herself to touch her or whisper to her for fear that she would never be able to let go of the child she loved so desperately—the piece of Lindsay that was so very dear to her. She had only allowed herself to look at her innocent daughter and weep for what she was about to do and for what might have been.

  Her arms had ached to hold her, her heart had throbbed with the desire to tell her child how much she was loved and adored. Only she knew how she had lain awake at nights crying as she smoothed her hand down her empty belly, trying to relive the time when Mina had been a part of her. How she ached with the memories, how her body was shaking with the desire to run up and take Mina out of Mr. Pratt’s hands and run with her, stealing her away from everyone.

  “Oh, dearest,” Jane murmured, rifling through her reticule for a kerchief. “Please don’t cry, please don’t—”

  “Allow me,” a deep voice murmured ahead of them and she saw that Lord Weatherby, Lindsay’s father, was reaching out to her, his handkerchief in his hand.

  “Thank you,” Jane whispered before pressing the white linen into Anais’s hand. “These ceremonies tend to make the fairer sex quite emotional, I fear. Why, I think even I might be succumbing to tears,” Jane mumbled as she waved a hand before her face.

  “I understand,” Weatherby said as he looked at Anais. His yellow eyes were watery, but not from drink. “They can be quite emotional for what some might term the stronger sex, as well.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Anais mumbled before a fresh crop of tears sprung to her eyes.

  “You are welcome. I pray you will find relief for your tears quite soon.”

  Lindsay caught her gaze and she looked away, ashamed of how she was acting, afraid that her behavior was going to cause unnecessary speculation upon her. She could not bear to look at Lindsay and know that it was over between them, to know that she, and she alone, was responsible for killing the love he once had for her. She could not stand the torture of seeing her daughter lowered to Margaret’s arms and Robert placing a protective arm around his wife’s waist as the three of them—a family—huddled lovingly together.

  Mr. Pratt smiled widely and addressed the congregation with his arms spread wide. “From a letter to the Corinthians. ‘If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophecy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.’”

  The ripple of movement and sound from the congregation quieted—an unnatural calm that unnerved Anais settled over the church. It was so eerily peaceful and quiet that she feared her rampant thoughts and dark secret that shouted in her brain may be discovered at any second by the entire church.

  “‘Love is patient, love is kind,’” Mr. Pratt continued and she saw his gaze stray to her, then to the pew before her where it rested upon Lindsay. “‘It is not jealous, love is not pompous, it is not inflated. It is not rude, it does not seek its own interest, it is not quick tempered, it does not brood over injury. It does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things.’”

  And then she felt Lindsay’s burning green gaze upon her and she lifted her face to meet his.

  “‘Love believes all things. Hopes all things. Endures all things—’”

  Anais smothered a gasp as Lindsay’s eyes darkened and she felt him reach out to her with a penetrating look that had consumed her so many times before.

  “‘Love never dies,’” Mr. Pratt said emphatically as he looked out upon his congregation.

  Love never dies… but it does, Anais wanted to cry. It does die. It withers and dies on the stalk of betrayal.

  “In Psalms we are told, ‘When the just cry out, the Lord hears them, and from all their distress he rescues them.’”

  She wanted to be rescued from this pain, from this heartbreak that made her unable to sleep or eat or to think of anything other than the man she had loved so desperately and had betrayed so abominably. She wanted to be saved from the hell she had been living in these past weeks, knowing that Lindsay hated her and knowing that she deserved nothing less from him. She wanted to be absolved from this unbearable state of loving and never having, of dreaming and praying that a miracle—however small—might happen and bring Lindsay back to her life.

  “Let us proclaim peace unto our neighbors,” Mr. Pratt announced. “Let us shake the hands of the people around us.”

  “I can’t do this,” she all but cried as she shook off Jane’s hold.

  “What are you doing, child?” her mother snarled, reaching for her skirt to prevent her from going anywhere. “Stop it at once, you’re making a spectacle of yourself and your family.”

  Ann pried her mother’s fingers from Anais’s dress. “For heaven’s sake, Mother, let her go. For once in your life care about something—someone—other than your own consequence.”

  Reaching for her reticule, Anais stood, her prayer book falling from her lap to the floor as everyone around her was standing and smiling and offering hands to be shook along with murmurings of “peace be with you.”

  Thank you, she mouthed to her sister and turned to file out of the pew before running down the aisle, knowing she was makin
g a scene and not caring, because she could not sit there a second longer and feel like a fraud—like a failure as a woman, a lover.

  As Anais’s half boots carried her down the long aisle, she was aware that the sunlight was shining through the glass windows and that it had been weeks that it had shone so brilliantly. She was aware of the stares and the hushed whispers and the sound of feet behind and her name being called in Lindsay’s baritone voice. And still she ran, trying to outrun her demons.

  Flinging open the church doors, her bonnet askew and her skirts raised well above her ankles, she ran down the steps onto the empty sidewalk. Stopping, she gasped for breath as the tears streamed down her cheeks, the pain making it almost impossible to breathe.

  “Anais, wait,” Lindsay cried, following her down the stairs.

  Shielding her face with her hands, she gave him her back.

  “Don’t run, not again,” he said, his voice full of raw emotion. Then she saw him extend his hand, his fingers trembling. “Peace, Anais.”

  “There is no peace!” she cried, slapping his hand away and wrapping her arms around her waist, hugging herself. “I wish I had died after giving birth to her,” she spat, giving vent to every thought and feeling she had ever had. “I wish I would never have awakened to see her clutched in Margaret’s arms. You think that it was easy for me to give her up?” she spat angrily. “That I just tossed her aside without a thought or care as if she were as insignificant as a peach pit. But you know nothing,” she spewed, heedless that someone passing by might hear her. “You don’t know the pain I have. I didn’t even get to hold her!”

  His mouth opened then closed and she jumped in before he could say anything. “That’s right, I lied to you that night on the terrace. I did not clasp her to my breast. I said that because I knew you wanted to hear those things and somehow I thought if I said the words aloud that maybe—just maybe— the memory might be created. I wanted to believe those things. But the truth is I slipped into unconsciousness before I could even touch her. And I could not bring myself to hold her when I left the cottage because I knew that if I did I would never be able to go through with my plans. I hadn’t even seen her till the night I found you clutching her. I had not even permitted myself that small luxury.”