At Last Comes Love (38 page)

She was still subdued when he went down to the drawing room after tucking Toby into bed for the night. She had avoided his company until now, and he half expected to find the room empty. Perhaps he had half
hoped
to find it empty. Would he have gone in search of her or put off the confrontation until tomorrow? It did not matter. She was sitting beside the empty fireplace, bent over her embroidery.

She did not look up or stop stitching.

She did not look like a woman waiting for the daily hours of courtship. He knew beyond all doubt that he had not misunderstood this afternoon.

“Were you lovers before you ran away together?” she asked, drawing her needle out of the cloth, trailing green silk behind.

“No,” he said. “Maggie—”

“It was his child she was bearing, then,” she said. She attempted another stitch, but her hand was shaking. She rested it on the cloth, the needle pointed upward. “Randolph Turner's.”

“No,” he said. “Maggie—”

She looked up then and her eyes were swimming in tears.

“It has to be one or the other, Duncan,” she said. “It cannot be both, but it cannot be neither. It is
one or the other
. Either you were lovers and fled when she discovered she was with child. Or she fled with you, taking her husband's unborn child with her—in which case you have withheld a legitimate child from his father all this time. Which is it, Duncan?”

He stared at her, grim-faced.

“Neither,” he said.

She moved her embroidery frame to one side and stood up. Her hands closed into fists at her sides, and she took one step toward him, her face pale.

“You cannot tell the truth even when you are cornered, can you?”

she said. “I try to tell myself that at least there is a noble motive behind your lies—that you love Toby and cannot bear the thought of relinquishing him to his real father. But there is no real excuse. I wish it were the other—that you and she were lovers and ran off together and then concocted the story of violence and abuse to excuse yourselves. It would still be despicable, but God help me, I wish it were that. Which
is
it?”

He had brought this upon himself. He understood that. Even so, he could feel the stirrings of anger in himself. Her face was only inches from his own.

“It is
neither
,” he said curtly.

“I suppose,” she said, “she had another lover and
he
would not run off with her. How very noble of you! And the dead cannot defend themselves, can they?”

“Let me explain,” he said.

But she was angry herself now and horribly upset—that was quite clear to him. She clapped both hands over her ears in quite un-Maggie-like fashion.

“I am
sick
of your explanations,” she said. “I am
sick
of your lies. I will not listen to any more. And I
hate
you for one thing more than all else, Duncan. You brought me here without telling me the truth, and now I have grown to love Toby too. And I too feel the temptation to hide the truth forever so that he can remain part of our
happy
family. I will never forgive you for that.”

And, without removing her hands from over her ears except to use one to open the door when she reached it, she hurried out of the room.

God damn it, he thought.

God damn it!

She would not listen to him, and he could hardly blame her. But if
she
would not listen, would the rest of the world? Had he always been right to fear as much as Laura ever had that it would not?

And what would Maggie do now? Keep her mouth shut? Speak out?

Should he
force
her to listen?

They had been falling in love—or so he had thought. They had been learning to trust life again, to trust love again, to trust each other.

But her trust in him had been jolted because he had not been frank with her. And he had only himself to blame for that. He had been afraid to tell her everything, afraid of what she would advise, what she would perhaps try to force upon him, what he knew in his heart he must do.

He sighed deeply and left the room. But rather than follow his wife upstairs, where he assumed she had gone, he headed outdoors and strode in the direction of the stables. He was going for a ride.

For the next week Margaret kept herself busy, learning more about the running of the house, making tentative plans for dinners and parties to which to invite the neighbors, making calls upon the laborers’ wives, bearing baked goods with her, exploring the park on foot, often taking Toby with her in the mornings while Duncan was busy, writing letters to family and friends, working on her embroidery.

She did nothing about the new knowledge she had acquired.

Actually, it was only
suspicions
that she had acquired, and it was unwise to act upon suspicion alone. Or so she told herself. He had refused to answer her question, but he had wanted to
explain
to her—the eternal plea of the guilty. Perhaps she should have listened anyway.

Oh,
undoubtedly
she ought to have listened. She had asked questions and answered them herself, because it had seemed to her—and still did—that they could be answered in only one of two ways. Neither of them pleasant.

Wasthere another explanation?

She did not believe it was possible. But surely she ought to listen.

She had always prided herself upon being a reasonable being, upon giving everyone the benefit of any doubt there might be of guilt.

But it was incredibly difficult to raise the matter again now that they had quarreled. She procrastinated. Which, she admitted to herself sometimes, was a kind way of saying she had become a coward. It was almost as if she believed that by keeping herself busy and by avoiding any private conversation with Duncan, the world could be kept from exploding into a billion pieces.

He in the meantime had become cold and distant, almost arrogant in manner—except when he was with Toby. He slept in a bedchamber next to the suite they had shared for a week.

There was no more courtship or romance.

Or marital relations.

Margaret's love for Toby, recent though it was, became something of an agony. He was careless, and carefree, in his affection for her much of the time, but sometimes he made her heart ache more than ever.

One morning, for example, she was sitting on the riverbank while Toby darted about, playing some solitary game in which he did not need her participation. After a while he came skipping toward her, a posy of daisies and buttercups and clover clutched in one hand.

“For you, Aunt Meg,” he said, thrusting them at her and pecking her cheek with puckered lips.

And he went skipping off back to play before she could thank him properly.

There was something else that weighed heavily on her mind. She had been married for almost a month, and she had not had her courses since her wedding. She was three days late.
Only
three days, it was true. But she was usually very regular indeed.

She did not know if she hoped or dreaded that her lateness had some significance.

And then, in the middle of an afternoon eight days after her quarrel with Duncan, Margaret was coming up from the flower garden, her arms laden with flowers that she had cut for the drawing room.

Duncan, she could see, was walking up from the stables with Toby, who was holding his hand and prattling on about something. They had been out riding. Margaret turned to go into the house without waiting for them.

She turned, though, when her foot was still on the bottom step, and looked down the driveway. Duncan too had stopped and was doing the same. A horse and horseman were approaching, though the man was still too far distant to identify.

And then more horses appeared behind him—four of them pulling an elegant traveling carriage, which Margaret recognized despite the distance.

It was Elliott's.

Elliott and Vanessa were coming here? And Stephen? She recognized the horseman suddenly.

“Look, Aunt Meg,” Toby cried, flying up beside her, his arm pointing. “Some people are coming. Who can they be? Papa says it is no one from near here.”

“My brother,” she said, smiling. “And my sister and brother-in-law, I believe.”

Oh, she
hoped
Nessie was in that carriage. And the children too. She ignored the absurd urge to race down the driveway toward them. She stood clutching her flowers instead and glanced briefly at Duncan when he came to stand beside her.

“It is Stephen,” she said, unnecessarily, as he was close enough to recognize. “And Elliott's carriage.”

“Stephen,” she cried as his horse's hooves clattered onto the terrace.

She set the flowers down on a step and held up her arms to him, smiling and tearing up at the same time.

He dismounted in one fluid motion and wrapped her in his arms.

He held her tightly and wordlessly.

“Meg,” he murmured as he released her, and they both stepped aside to allow the carriage to come up and stop at the foot of the steps.

And then in no time at all Margaret was hugging her sister joyfully and turning to hug Elliott too.

And only gradually noticing something.

Nobody was smiling. Nobody was talking either except to say her name.

Something was wrong.

Kate! One of the children. The children were not with Nessie and Elliott. They never went anywhere without the children.

Margaret stepped back and looked fearfully from one to the other of them. She could feel the color draining from her face.

“We had to come as fast as we could to warn you,” Stephen said, looking from her to Duncan. “Tur—”

“Stephen!” Vanessa said sharply. “The child!”

“Oh,” Margaret said, looking down at Toby, who was clinging to one of Duncan's legs, half hidden behind it. Oh, of course. She had not told them about him. Although Duncan had reluctantly agreed to let their neighbors know who he was, he had not wanted the rest of the world to know—including their families.

“This is Tobias,” she said, smiling at him. “Toby. He is … He is Duncan's son.”

“Hello, Toby,” Vanessa said, smiling at him. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

Toby stayed half hidden.

“I think,” Duncan said, his hand on the child's head, “we had better step into the house. Maggie will take you all up to the drawing room while rooms are being prepared for you. I will join you after I have settled Toby in the nursery.”

He looked grim.

They all looked grim.

Margaret gathered up her flowers again and led the way up the steps.

She handed them to a footman in the hall and led the way up to the drawing room. And incredibly, when they were there, they all conversed politely for ten minutes, until Duncan came to join them.

Margaret asked about the children and Vanessa answered. Margaret asked about the journey and Elliott answered. She asked about Stephen's plans for the summer and he answered.

Just as if they were not all perfectly well aware that disaster loomed.

It was not about Kate, Margaret realized, or about any of the children. They would have told her immediately.

She was pouring the tea when Duncan came into the drawing room and the door closed quietly behind him.

Margaret set down the teapot though she still had one more cup to pour. Nobody got up to hand around the cups that had already been poured.

“We came to warn you,” Stephen said after a few moments of silence. “Fortunately we three were still in London, though Monty and Kate had already gone back to the country. Word is going around, Sheringford, that you are harboring a child here.”

“My son is living with me here, yes,” Duncan said, advancing a little farther into the room, though he did not sit down. None of the men were sitting, in fact. Elliott was standing by the sideboard, Stephen by the window. “Maggie knew about him before we married and refused to allow him to be hidden away somewhere.”

“I love him,” Margaret said, “as if he were my own.”

There was a slight buzzing in her ears.

“Oh, Meg,” Vanessa said in a rush, “it is being said that Toby is not Duncan's child but Randolph Turner's. And indeed he seems to be the right age, and he does have the look of Mr. Turner.”

“Laura was blond and delicate,” Duncan said, his voice curiously flat.

“I never knew her,” Vanessa said. “But of course you are right. You would not have run off with another man's son. I know you would not, Duncan. But—”

“But Turner himself believes that the child is his,” Elliott said, one hand playing with the brandy decanter though he did not pour himself a glass. “So does Mrs. Pennethorne. Norman Pennethorne is beside himself with fury. It is being said that they are all coming here, Sheringford. To take the child away.”

“Toby is mine,” Duncan said. “No one is taking him anywhere.”

“Perhaps he
is
yours, Sheringford,” Stephen said. “I would not call you a liar, and I cannot think why you would want to keep the child if indeed he were not yours. Not now that the mother is dead, anyway.”

“Oh, Stephen,” Vanessa cried, “you know nothing about parental feelings. Just you wait.”

“That is all beside the point, Vanessa,” Elliott said. “The point is that the child, whoever his father actually is, was born to Turner's wife—within nine months of her elopement with Sheringford. The boy is legally his. No court of law in England would rule against him.”

“No one,” Duncan said again, “is taking Toby away from this house.

I invite anyone to try.”

Margaret sat mute, her hands cupped in her lap.

It had happened, then. It was happening. She had no decision to make. It had been taken out of her hands. Toby was going to be taken away from them. As was only right.

She thought for a moment that she was going to faint. Or vomit.

She understood something suddenly—something that perhaps her mind had deliberately blocked during the past week. She understood those elusive flashes of recognition she had felt sometimes when looking at Toby. It had not been a likeness to Duncan she had been seeing, but a likeness to Randolph Turner.

His father.

Her question was answered now. There could be no more doubt.