Mary Balogh (28 page)

Olivia hugged her in return while the duke was shaking Emma heartily by the hand and assuring her that he had been charmed to have had a chance to converse with such a sensible lady. Clarence and Marcus were taking their leave of Francis’s brothers and their families.

And there were her mother and father to hug and kiss, and more tears to be shed.

The horses were snorting and stamping in the chill morning air. The coachmen were stamping their feet and were very obviously eager to be on their way. Servants and trunks were already loaded into the accompanying carriages.

The duke hugged Olivia. “It has been wonderful to see you again and in such good looks, Olivia,” he said. “I hope it will not be so long until the next time, my dear.”

The children were inside the carriages with Richard’s wife. Claude was handing in his own wife. Emma was already seated in their carriage, and Clarence waiting beside the door. Marcus was shaking Richard’s hand.

Olivia felt panic clutch at her stomach. She turned hastily and reached out a hand for Clarence’s.

“Olivia,” a voice said from behind her and she turned back again. “Have a good journey.”

His hand closed about hers, warm and firm. Such a strange formal gesture. Such formal words. She had expected him all the night before, although she had known it would have made no sense at all for him to come. Not after their words in the hidden garden. But she had expected him. She had wanted him desperately. She had even got out of bed at some time during the night, determined to go to him herself. But she had got no farther than the door into her dressing room. As soon as all his guests had left, including herself, he was to return to London. To Lady Mornington.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Good-bye, then,” he said.

“Good-bye, Marcus.”

There was a moment when perhaps they swayed a little toward each other. Perhaps not. Perhaps it had been in her imagination. And then his hold on her hand shifted so that he could help her into the carriage. Clarence came in behind her and seated himself opposite.
Both he and Emma studied the formal garden beyond the far window.

“Good-bye,” he said again, and he stood back so that a footman could close the door firmly.

The coachman must already have been in his place. The carriage began to move almost immediately. She looked at Marcus once through the window and felt panic grab at her again. She clenched her hands hard in her lap so that she would not throw the door open and hurl herself from the carriage.

Good-bye, Marc
. She leaned back against the cushions, closed her eyes, and fought the sharp pain in her throat.

“Olivia,” Emma said. “Why are you being so foolish? For a lady of remarkable good sense, you have always been most foolish in your marriage. What on earth are you doing here with Clarence and me?”

“Not now, Emma,” Clarence said. “Your timing is disastrous. Change places with me, if you please?”

A few moments later Olivia found her hand in her friend’s reassuring large one.

“I hope that it is not your favorite coat, Clarence,” she said, her voice ominously calm. “It is going to be soaked.”

“I shall squeeze out the excess moisture when you are finished,” he said, “and it will be as good as new again.”

She laughed shakily. And then she turned her head, buried her face against his sleeve, and cried and cried.

“Oh, dear,” Emma said. “Is there nothing we can do, Clarence? Would it help if we turned back? I always feel so helpless when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

“We could converse about the weather,” he said. “That would help, I believe, Emma. That topic invariably leads on to others.”

T
HE
D
UKE AND
Duchess of Weymouth left early the following morning. The Earl of Clifton was on the road for London just one hour later. He could not have stayed longer at Clifton if his life had depended upon it, he thought.

He had gone to the hidden garden after she had left the day before, and sat for an hour or more on the stone where she had always liked to sit. But although the sun shone and the birds sang and the flowers bloomed, there was no peace to be had there. She was gone. Her absence from the garden—and from his life—was like a tangible thing.

He had been horribly reminded of what his life had been like for a year and more after he had left her.

During the night, unable to sleep, he had wandered into her bedchamber, sat down on her side of the bed, and laid a hand on her pillow. But she was gone. Irrevocably gone. He had counted the months to Christmas—almost five. An eternity. Would Sophia and Francis be back by then or would they extend their travels on the Continent? And would she come even if they were home? Would there perhaps be some excuse for not coming? Winter weather? Bad roads?

He had wondered if he would ever see her again.

And finally and foolishly, he had lain down on her bed, his head on her pillow, and slept.

He was going to spend the rest of the summer and the autumn and winter in London, he had decided. Perhaps he would go to Brighton for a week or two if the weather remained warm. It did not matter where he went as long as he did not have to remain in Clifton.

He had a visit to make in London, one that he would really rather not have made at all. But it had been no casual acquaintance. It had lasted for six years. And Mary was his friend. No more than that, in fact. But he had to end the whole relationship. Because she had been
such a close friend, somehow the relationship now seemed adulterous to him.

Perhaps it was foolish to end a good friendship when he might possibly never even see Olivia again. End it he must, though. But he could not just drop her without a word. He had to explain to her. She would understand. She knew that he loved Olivia, just as he knew that she still grieved for her dead husband.

Life might be altogether less complicated, he thought, if he loved Mary instead of his wife. If she really were his mistress.

H
E HAD THREE LETTERS FROM HER BEFORE HE SAW
her again.

The first came two weeks after his arrival in London. It had been to Clifton Court first. It was a short, strange letter, and left him wondering what her motive had been in writing it. Why had she not simply told him face-to-face?

“I want you to know,” she had written, “that Clarence is not my lover and never has been. I have never had any lover but you. Clarence is my friend, as you have always known and as I told you. He is my friend. There has never been even a suggestion of anything else between us.”

That was all, apart from a polite inquiry after his health and the expressed hope that they would hear from Sophia soon.

Was it true? the earl asked himself. But of course it was true if Livy said it. There could be no doubt about that.

Did she want him back? Was she trying to clear the path for his return? Was that why she had written? It was his immediate and first hope. Or perhaps it was just that Clarence had complained to her and embarrassed her and she thought it time to clear up the misunderstanding.

Or perhaps she wished to remind him once more that the responsibility for the breakup of their marriage was entirely his. She had remained faithful, if unforgiving.

But not entirely unforgiving. She had told him that she had forgiven him even before he had stopped asking. But she had considered it impossible to continue with their marriage. All had been spoiled, she had said. And it was far too late for them anyway to try to pick up the threads of a relationship that had lapsed fourteen years before. She had said that, too.

No, there was no room for hope. No point in writing back to her to tell the truth of his relationship with Mary. For though he had never lain with Mary, he had lain with other women. He put the letter away with all the other letters he had received from her over the years, most of them concerning some problem with Sophia or some estate business. Never anything personal. But he had kept them all anyway.

The second letter came soon before Christmas. Sophia and Francis had still not returned from Italy. They were to spend the holiday in Naples, they had written. They expected to be home by spring. The earl had written to his wife that he hoped she would accept the invitation to spend Christmas with William and Rose and their family. He could assure her that Rose was particularly eager to see her now that there was the connection of marriage between their families.

She wrote back to say that she would be unable to go. She had already made her excuses to Rose, she had said. She was recovering from a chill and did not feel it wise to travel. Besides, she had other commitments for the holiday. She wished him a happy Christmas.

He wrote again, asking about her health, but she did not reply. He considered going to her but did not do so. She had made it plain as she possibly could without being openly offensive that she did not wish to see him
again and would do so only when it became necessary for the sake of their daughter’s happiness. She would not thank him for arriving on her doorstep to express his anxiety over a long-cured chill.

He spent Christmas with the duke and duchess’s family and several other houseguests and felt lonelier than he had ever felt in his life.

The third letter came early in April, just after Sophia and Francis had returned from the Continent and taken up temporary residence in London. Sophia had known, of course, from letters that had reached her from home, that they were still living apart, but it was evident that she had not given up hope. Perhaps Mama would come to London for part of the Season, she had suggested. She could even stay with them if she wished, instead of with Papa. The four of them could go about together.

She had written to persuade her mother to come. And he had written to tell her that Sophia was glowing with health and happiness and young Francis was still doting on her. But it would mean a great deal, he had written, if she would consent to spend a few weeks in town so that they could all be together on a few occasions.

She could not come, she wrote back. He let the letter fall into his lap and read no more for a while. So much for a hope that he had always known to be unreasonable. And so much for a promise she had made to spend some time with him when Sophia should return.

She was made of marble, he thought with a wave of unaccustomed anger against her. She was quite implacable in her contempt of him and what he stood for. She would not come. So. He would never see her again. He might as well drown himself in liquor and go on a tour of all of London’s whorehouses that night. He might as well … He picked up the letter wearily and read on.

“It is not a recurrence of the chill,” she wrote. “There never was a chill. I could not bring myself to tell you the
real reason. I find it difficult now. But you have a right to know. I should have told you a long time ago. I will be delivering a child sometime this month. Of course, a journey to London is out of the question.

“I would like to see Sophia if she would care to come here and miss the beginning of the Season. Will she be embarrassed to have a sister or brother so much younger than herself, I wonder? You need not feel obliged to come, Marcus. Nor need you feel guilty. I want this child more than I have wanted anything for a long, long while. And I have been in good health. I shall inform you of the event as soon as my confinement is over.”

The Earl of Clifton got to his feet with such haste that his chair crashed to the floor behind him.

T
HE AIR FELT
good. After three days of rain, the sun was shining again and there was the smell of fresh vegetation. Spring had come late. There were still some daffodils blooming, and the tulips and the other late-spring flowers were coming into their own. The trees had all budded into new leaf.

It felt good to be strolling outside in her favorite part of the garden beside the house. It had always been called the rose arbor, though at present it was filled with spring flowers. The roses would not bloom until later.

She sat down slowly on a wrought-iron seat. She felt as if she had just walked five miles instead of the short distance from the house. The baby had dropped, although there were still two weeks to the expected birth date. It was a little easier to breathe, but it was difficult to walk. And difficult to sit, too, she thought ruefully.

Indeed, she had been feeling quite out of sorts all day. Hot and restless with alternating spells of listlessness and nervous energy. She could not recall having felt quite so huge and heavy with Sophia. But of course, that
had been almost nineteen years before. It was not surprising that she did not remember. And she was also nineteen years older than she had been then.

Would Sophia come? she wondered. And perhaps Francis, too? She hoped so. She wanted to see them. She wanted to assure herself that what Marc had written about them was true. And she wanted Sophia close to her again. She had been almost nine months without any family. An unborn baby, she thought, spreading one hand over her bulk, did not quite qualify as family capable of keeping her company.

It was going to be a boy, Mrs. Oliver, the housekeeper had predicted. She could always tell from the way it carried. And she claimed she was almost always right.