Home for the Holidays (20 page)

“You’ve finished. Please go.”

“Rissa, I love you. If you’re never going to believe anything I say to you again, at least believe that.”

She left instead, ran up the stairs to hide behind a locked door where she could cry in peace. She wished he hadn’t come. She wished those last words of his weren’t going to haunt her, but she knew they would.

L
ARISSA DIDN’T GO DOWN TO DINNER THAT NIGHT.
H
ER
family was returning to London in the morning, which allowed her to use the excuse of packing to avoid a last night of socializing. A kindness on her part, that she not inflict her rotten mood on the Applebees.

How could she have been so unlucky, to have come downstairs today at the precise moment that Vincent was being led across the hall? And so foolish not to have taken the cowardly route as had been her first impulse, instead of giving him a chance to speak to her.

She could have recovered, eventually, without hearing
his grand confession. Now she knew the worst, but also the best—if she could believe it. And there was the rub and the source of her sorrow. She couldn’t believe it.

How does one trust again after being so thoroughly lied to? She’d never been lied to before, thus had never figured that out for herself. And Vincent was asking too much of her, to forgive, to forget, to accept him as he was without suspicions. How could she do that when he could lie so convincingly, so expertly, that she’d never be able to know when he was being truthful with her?

Of course, everyone made mistakes and had faults, but not everyone had such ruthless faults as Vincent did. Someone else might be able to overlook them, to say that only love mattered, but she had too many doubts for that someone to be her. Yes, she still loved him. The wrenching in her heart today made that bitterly obvious. But she despised everything he’d done and she’d never get beyond that simple fact long enough to forgive him.

She was dreading going to bed, knowing she wouldn’t get much sleep that night. So her father’s knock at the door was very welcome, even if the subject that he brought in with him wasn’t.

“I was informed that Lord Everett paid you a visit today,” he said as he joined her in front of the fireplace where she had been sitting, staring blankly at the dancing flames. “I hadn’t realized that he might follow me here to
find you, or I would have seen to it that he never get past the door. I hope you know that I had expressly forbidden him to see you, to no avail, obviously.”

“It’s all right,” she replied. “I doubt he’ll try to see me again.”

“You turned him down, then?”

“You knew he was going to ask?”

“I’d gathered that was his goal, yes. He claims to love you. Do you have reason to doubt that after your experiences with him?”

“Yes—no,” she corrected, then with a frustrated sigh, added, “I don’t know anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Rissa. I know you haven’t wanted to talk about what happened. But I have assumed, from your state of melancholy, that you love the man.”

“I did. I don’t now.”

He smiled gently. “Would that it were so easy to turn love off and on with a few simple words. Here, take these and read them,” he said, handing her two letters. “I’ve had them in my possession for several days now. I wasn’t going to show them to you, since they might upset you again, but perhaps that decision was a mistake on my part.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Those letters. They were given to me when Everett handed over the deed to our home. I didn’t know it until he was gone. How much do you know about the brother?”

“Not much. He rarely spoke of him. When he was mentioned, it was in connection with Vincent’s childhood, which was pathetically lonely—he
says
that wasn’t one of the many lies he told.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore. As for Albert, they weren’t close except for a very brief time when they were young. Albert was their parents’ favorite, you see. He went everywhere with them, while Vincent was never included. I gather that Vincent was in the habit of cleaning up his brother’s calamities, though, a brotherly duty, as he saw it. Mind you, everything I just told you came directly from Vincent, a known liar.”

He ignored the bitter tone, said, “You’ll find those letters enlightening, then.”

She stared at her father, waited for further explanation. He gave none, merely nodded at the letters now in her hand. She read them, both. They were Albert Everett’s letters to Vincent. She had to read the first one again to make sense of it, then once more.

Finally she said, “This first one does paint a rather dastardly picture of you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, from a child crying foul. And Albert even admits it in the second letter, that he hadn’t grown up yet, at least not to a point where he would take responsibility for his own actions.”

“You would think that Vincent would have suspected as much.”

“When, as you say, he didn’t really have much association with his brother?”

“You’re defending him?” she asked incredulously.

“No, just trying to see this mess from his perspective—and well aware that given the same set of circumstances in my own family, I probably would have acted exactly as he did. Actually, I may well have acted much worse and have called the man out who had so ruined a member of my family that he chose to kill himself.”

“But revenge is pointless. You’ve always said so. You’ve raised us to believe the same.”

“Revenge is, yes, and particularly when you don’t have the means to inflict it. But when you have a victim driven to the point of death, and the one responsible escapes without any consequence whatsoever, then it’s a matter of trying to visit justice on the guilty one.”

“You really
are
defending him.”

George chuckled. “No, because we don’t really have all the facts and never will have them. Even Albert admits he was drinking heavily most of the time that the events occurred, so wouldn’t remember exactly what brought him low. Lord Everett is guilty of drawing his own conclusions. But given the known facts, his conclusions were hard to dispute.”

“Not if he had bothered to find out what sort of man you were,” she insisted. “And that you would
never
do anything so reprehensible—”

Another chuckle. “You needn’t get indignant on my account at this late stage, Rissa. It’s over. Our lot has actually improved because of it. The only casualty involved is you, but even that can be rectified.”

“By marrying him?” she snorted.

“Only you can decide your destiny at this point,” he replied, and headed toward the door. But he paused there long enough to add, “I read that first letter again and again, and then I played a little ‘what if.’ I suggest you do the same. Read the first letter and imagine it’s from Thomas, grown up to manhood, of course. But imagine that he wrote that to you. Then ask yourself, what would you do about it?”

V
INCENT WASN’T QUITE CERTAIN HOW IT HAPPENED, BUT
Jonathan Hale now considered him his best friend. Ironically, Jon wasn’t far wrong. Vincent did in fact welcome his company now. He supposed it could just be that he needed the distraction. But Jon was much more relaxed, in thinking them friends, which in turn made him more amusing, so his company really was enjoyed. However, it didn’t take much for Vincent to realize that without Jon’s visits and amusing chatter, he’d have no break at all from the painful moroseness that otherwise filled his mind from morning till night.

Failure was so alien to him. He succeeded at most all of his endeavors, except the one most important to him, the only one that mattered. And how arrogant, to think he could convince Larissa to give him another chance if he could just talk to her. She did still care for him. He had seen that in her eyes. But it wasn’t enough. Would anything be? Laying everything, every he and little deceit, on the floor before her for a fresh start hadn’t helped.

He hoped he had merely tried too soon, that more time was needed for the biting edge of his deception to dull. But if she couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive him, or at least to understand why he had done what he had, then no amount of time was going to help.

Jonathan had at least benefited from Vincent’s brief visit to Portsmouth. The Ascots hadn’t taken advantage of him, knowing how much he would have paid for
La Nymph.
George had charged him only what he felt the value of the painting was, which was much less than what Jon had paid Vincent in commission. Ascot really was as good and honorable as Larissa had made him out to be. Which just made Vincent feel even more rotten.

And how did one get on with one’s life, when one refused to cut the cords to do so?

One of the cords Vincent wasn’t letting go of was the Christmas tree in his parlor. He wasn’t going to remove it. It could rot there, until nothing was left but dead bare
branches, but it was staying there in his parlor until Larissa showed up for the ornaments on it.

Jonathan was right, they
were
valuable to her, and Vincent was counting on that, that she wouldn’t send just anyone by to fetch them for her, that she would come herself to collect them. And when she did, she wasn’t going to be handed a filled trunk that she could immediately leave with, she was going to have to spend a bit of time there removing the ornaments from the tree herself.

It was his last hope. A little time with her alone. And perhaps she might remember, as well, the fun they’d had decorating her tree. He was counting on that, counting on other memories associated with his house to remind her how wonderful their lives could be, if she would give him another chance.

He took precautions as well, going out only when he absolutely had to. She might think she could come there without seeing him, but he had left strict orders that he was to be summoned if she showed up, and not let in at all if he wasn’t there, which would force her to return when he was. And so he waited.

She did come, and in the late morning when he was usually home, so she was making no effort to avoid him. He found her still in the hall where she’d been asked to wait. She appeared nervous. It was actually hard to discern, when her beauty overwhelmed him, but he did notice
it, the chewing at her lower lip that she stopped when he appeared, her hands clenched tightly in front of her.

It was perhaps that nervousness, rather than her desire to leave soonest, that had her blurting out immediately, “I’ve come for our Christmas ornaments. I couldn’t bring myself to fetch them sooner.”

“I understand you’d rather not see me.”

“It wasn’t that. I just wanted you to have a normal Christmas tree for once. We made do, sharing the Applebees’ tree for the remainder of the season. But I knew you wouldn’t, that if we stripped your tree, you’d leave it that way.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why did it matter to you?” he asked.

“Because it was your first tree.”

“So? I’ve gone this long without having one. I could have gone the rest of my life without having one.”

“That’s why, because you don’t care. Because it saddens me that you don’t care.”

He smiled gently. “Rissa, a Christmas tree is nothing if you have no one to share it with. You said as much yourself. It symbolizes a season that is celebrated in sharing. Come. Let’s share this one for the last time.”

He moved to the parlor, didn’t wait for her, knew she would follow. He was rather proud of the condition of her
tree, watched eagerly as she entered the room and saw it. She was amazed, clearly. He had hoped for a smile, though, instead of just surprise.

“You changed it, brought in a new tree. Why?”

“It’s the same tree,” he insisted. “I’ve been pampering it myself, watering it twice a day. It decided to survive a little longer.”

He was joking that the tree might have had any say-so in the matter, but she was too sentimental not to agree with him, and with the smile he’d hoped for, she said, “So it did, and quite beautifully, too. I don’t believe I’ve ever stripped a tree looking this healthy before. Are you
sure
you didn’t bring in a new one?”