To Tempt the Saint Page 11
But before she could say anything, George asked softly, “Was it a hard choice?”
“No. I hated. It wasn’t hard at all.”
“Did you hate me?”
She didn’t answer and he pulled his hand from his pocket. Held a twig up for her to see.
Her twig?
“It’s a strange token,” he said. “And I’m still wondering, Miss Kempe. Why I liked you. If you liked me.”
He looked at the twig and she looked at him. He said, “I’m still wondering if any of it was real.”
“Would you even believe me if I said yes?”
“Perhaps.” He put the twig back in his pocket. “But I’ve not been eating consistently since I left my father’s house and I am hungry.”
She snorted, then looked down quickly. “And you hate.”
He said softly, “Perhaps.”
He started walking again, forcing her out of his path. “But mostly, I’m just confused.”
Honora didn’t follow him. She watched his back walk slowly away, looked at her sisters as they tried to get glimpses of Honora’s mysterious gentleman.
Run. Run.
George turned and he murmured, “Honora.”
Her real name.
He held out his hand to her and Honora said, “You know nothing about me.”
He smiled. “It’s not nothing. But it’s not enough. I don’t think I will ever know enough about you.”
Nine
Honora took him home and fed him in her father’s garden. An impromptu picnic and Chastity had whispered loudly, “Is this your troll, Honora?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better go find a parasol,” the little girl had said matter-of-factly and run inside.
George raised an eyebrow and Honora raised one in return. “It seemed a fitting description.”
Fanny clapped her hands, sending her remaining children to search for a very specific flower in the organized beds. They ran around, searching and laughing, out of earshot but never out of sight.
George bit into his bread and butter, closing his eyes in near ecstasy.
Honora watched him. “You really have been hungry.”
“My father has disowned me. I can only hope it is temporary.”
“And took away your living, too?”
George shook his head. “That’s why he’s disowned me. I’ve given up my living.”
Honora looked away. She’d never stayed to see what happened after her broken engagements. Had never wondered how they’d fared with family and friends.
She’d never cared.
George said, “And since you ask. . .”
He waited and she didn’t and he said, “I gave it up because I was living a lie. And I am tired of lies at the moment.”
He met her eyes over another bite of bread. “I came for the truth, Miss Kempe.”
“The truth won’t make you feel any better. Mr. Moffat wasn’t the first, though I’d hoped you’d be the last.”
“And I’d already known all of that. How many were there?”
“Counting you?”
“I would prefer if you didn’t.”
She smiled at him. Then stopped.
She said softly, “Mr. Moffat was the sixth.”
He looked at the large garden, the house behind her. “But. . .why?”
Honora sniffed and shifted in her seat and folded her arms. And then she told him the truth.
“Because the six does not include the one who came before them all. The one who preyed on a lonely girl and stole her honor. A married man who’d lied about who he was and left her with child, left her alone to suffer in shame. You know what he stole from me when he took my honor? My life.”
Honora watched the children running around and didn’t look at him. There was no middle ground in their world. An unmarried woman was either a virgin or a whore. And she didn’t want to watch him realize which one she was.
She whispered, “No matter what I took from those six men, I never took their life. I couldn’t have; not like mine was taken from me.”
George asked softly, “Did you love him?”
“If I say yes, does it change anything?”
“Perhaps.”
“I didn’t. I was young and stupid. I was lonely and alone. . . I thought I was alone, at least.”
A bird twittered in the branches above their heads and she said softly, “Does it change anything if I wish I had loved him? If I wish there had been a good reason for having to give up my child?”
George sighed, putting his bread down and pushing his plate away.
“What happened?” he asked with dread in his voice, because if anyone had a worse life than a fallen woman, it was the child of a fallen woman.
And Honora knew she was lucky. Lucky to know that her child was well-cared for. Lucky to know anything at all about her child. Lucky to feel the pain sear into her soul again and again.
Honora watched three of her siblings try to find a flower Honora suspected did not exist. In a garden that used to be hers, with a family she did not belong in.
“My father sacrificed his immortal soul, threatened his earthly comfort, and gave her his name. He lied. Do you know what it does to a man of God to have to lie every day? To never be able to confess his sin without destroying what he loves? He saved us both with his lies. And I will hate him and love him for it until I die.”
The tears prickled and Honora said through them, “My stepmother took my baby as her own. Loved mine when hers wasn’t even a year old. Do you know what it does to you when the woman who replaces your mother is selfless and kind and you hate her?” The tears were still swimming when she looked back at him. “Swindling half a dozen men doesn’t even sting.”
“I think that it must have hurt you, no matter what you say.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself that I am a good woman, George? A good woman would have stayed here, under her father’s roof. Become a spinster and hidden her shame. Watched her child grow. Reveled in each stab as her daughter called someone else mother.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted. I wanted more than the scraps a husband-less woman is allotted. I wanted freedom. I wanted to forget. And I wanted to hurt.” She clasped her hands in her lap, careful not to squeeze them. Careful to be relaxed. “I wanted a life.”
“Did you find one?”
She had. With him. She’d found a place where she belonged.
She didn’t answer and George said softly, “Honora.”
Her name, again. And every cold part of her warmed.
She closed her eyes, tightening them. Tightening every muscle to keep from throwing herself at him and begging his forgiveness. Begging him to love her when she was Honora and not Letitia.
“Honora,” he said again, and when she opened her eyes, George was looking behind her.
At a dark-haired little girl peeking out from behind a hedge, her face stricken and her tears flowing and her hands clutching a parasol tightly to her chest.
Chastity was her mother’s daughter.
Honora could see the accusation in the reverend’s eyes and she couldn’t deny it.
The little girl had been listening to what she shouldn’t, been where she shouldn’t, and now knew what she shouldn’t.
Honora had jumped to her feet when she’d seen Chastity hiding behind the hedge and the little girl had started running toward Fanny. Toward her mother, and then she’d just stopped, as if she’d suddenly realized what the words she’d heard meant.
George had murmured, “I’ll go,” and Honora hadn’t even glanced at him. Had only locked eyes with Fanny, as if they had both been dreading this moment.
And then the nanny had been called for and Chastity had been shepherded into the library before she could speak, before she could ask, and now she stood, alone in the middle of the room as if she didn’t know any of them.
Charles motioned Chastity to him and she pinched her lips together. “You’re not my papa?”
Chastity’s shoulders relaxed and she went to lean against his legs. He was still hers, even if his position was one removed from what she’d thought it was.
But now, with someone to lean against, she could stare holes into the woman who’d borne her. She could more easily ignore the woman who’d raised her.
Honora didn’t know which of them had it worse.
Chastity stuck her chin out and said bravely, “You were talking about me. With the troll.”
Charles’ head came up, a question in his eyes, and Fanny murmured, “Honora had a caller.”
“When? Just now?”
“We were all in the back garden, together.” Fanny watched the little girl who still wouldn’t look at her. “Chastity had run inside.”
Chastity muttered, “I needed a parasol.”
“It was a good idea. He’s irritated with me,” Honora said, and tried to remember what else she’d said to George St. Clair. What other secrets she’d not been careful with.
But Chastity only said, “Because you’re my. . .you’re my. . .”
“Because I’m not your sister. I’m your mother.”
And if a ten-year-old could express utter outrage, she did. She turned on Fanny and said angrily, with disbelief, “Then who are you?”
Fanny said in a breathless voice, “No one.”
Chastity sucked in a deep breath, turning back to Honora. “I’m ten! You didn’t tell me in ten years!”
As if ten years was unbearably long, and it was. As if a ten-year-old could understand why a mother would have to give up her own child. Why a mother would have to lie about it.
Honora was much older than ten, had been older than ten when she’d had to make the decision in the first place, and she still couldn’t understand it.
“I couldn’t tell you before.”
“Would you have told me someday?”
“Yes,” Honora lied. “When you were old enough to understand.”
Chastity looked up at Charles, her father but now her grandfather instead.
“Who is my real papa?”
A thief and a blackguard. A liar and a manipulator.
Honora jerked when she realized she could have been talking about herself.
And she wondered, for the first time, if there had been a reason for his lies, a reason he’d stolen her virtue.
She would never know; and she didn’t particularly care.
Her father opened his mouth and Honora talked right over him. Lies, lies, and more lies when the truth could only destroy.
“He was a soldier, and I loved him.”
Chastity looked back at her. “Did he die?”
“He did. He was brave and good, and he took care of his soldier-brothers like you take care of Temperance and Faith and Frederick. Because he knew that a brother was a brother because of love, not blood.”
“Did he love me? Even though I was his blood?”
“I’m sure he would have. I know he would have. But he never knew about you. He died before anyone knew about you.”
“He would have married you. If he’d known,” Chastity said confidently, and Honora nodded, relaxing back against the sofa and wondering if lies could ever become the truth.
“And then you would have been my mother instead. . .”
Her eyes darted sideways, at Fanny sitting there quietly, her hands hidden in the folds of her dress and her calm face frozen.
Honora said, “And then I would have been your mother. Just the two of us. No papa, no sisters, no brother.”
Chastity’s eyebrows crinkled. “But we would have lived here.”
“No. We would have been alone. Living on the other side of the wall because Papa and I can’t live under the same roof without fighting.”
Her father let out a loud sigh and Honora almost smiled at him.
“But, did it hurt you, Honora? To give me up?”
The tears came suddenly, unexpectedly, and Honora blinked ferociously.
“It hurt so badly that I have never recovered. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want it to hurt you.”
Fanny reached across to hand Honora her handkerchief, and Honora took it gratefully and said, “I didn’t tell you because you had a mother who knew that a daughter was a daughter because of love, not blood.”
Chastity looked at Fanny, her eyes filling with tears, and Honora murmured softly, “I didn’t tell you because the one thing I could give you, you already had.”
Chastity’s voice was tight and small. “You’re not my mother.”
Fanny’s tears fell unheeded and she didn’t even try to stop them. “I am.”
She opened her arms and Chastity ran to her, hugging her tight.
Fanny whispered, “And you really are mine, Chastity. As much as your sisters and brother. Mine, and loved.”
Honora dabbed her eyes, hating her stepmother and loving her, and knowing those opposing feelings wouldn’t ever go away.
Fanny pulled her daughter into her lap, cuddling her tight, and after a few minutes Chastity felt safe enough again to philosophically say, “It does make sense. Why they’re so sweet. And why my hair’s not blond. Why they’re pretty and I’m ugly.”
Fanny pushed Chastity’s hair back from her face, saying, “Never ugly.”
Chastity made a face, looking at Honora and most likely remembering the story of the not-beautiful-but-not-ugly princess.
Honora said, “If I could have given you beautiful blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, I would have. But I think I passed on my parasol-wielding abilities, if that is any consolation.”
Chastity cocked her head. “And the troll likes you.”
The troll had liked her, the real her, and Honora smiled slightly. It was unlikely that he still did but she said, “Yes.”
“And the soldier loved you.”
“Yes,” Honora said, the soldier apparently already a saint.
“And Mama loves Papa, and we’re just like him.”
“Yes.” Honora met her father’s eyes and said again, “Yes.”
Chastity snuggled deeper into Fanny’s lap and said quietly, “Am I going to live with you now? You and Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Arnold?”
Fanny’s eyes widened and Charles’ chest expanded and Honora shook her head.
“That choice was made a long time ago, Chastity. And it can’t be undone. It will be easier if you forget. Easier if you think of me as your sister because that’s what I am. That’s all that I am. And you can’t tell anyone, not even Temperance.”
“But she’s my sister! And I love her and she loves me.”
“Which means you only lie to her when you absolutely have to.”
Charles opened his mouth, then closed it, and Honora said to him quietly, “Thank you.”
Chastity sat up suddenly. “Wait, if you’re my mother and they’re your sisters and brother, that means they’re my. . .aunts and uncle!” She thought about that for less than a second. “Well, I’m not ever going to tell Temperance or Faith or Freddy. I’m not going to call them aunt and uncle!”
Collin was waiting for George in the tiny room of the lodging house they’d found.
That meant he’d found no work for today, and George handed Collin the loaf of bread he’d bought with coins he could ill afford to spare.
Collin tore it in half, offering George his part, and George held up a hand. “I’ve eaten.”
Collin took a large bite and said around it, “Where?”
“Miss Honora Kempe’s back garden.”
Collin growled, then took another bite.
George sat down on his trunk, tucked into a corner of the small room and said, “I know your thoughts on the matter and I don’t need to hear them again.”
Collin narrowed his eyes, chewing ferociously.
George said, “I need to send a letter to my father.”
Collin swallowed. “I hope he doesn’t chuck it in t
he fire.”
“I hope so, too. Because I have a valet to feed.”
Collin slowly put down his bread. “You’re going back to the vicarage. Perhaps they haven’t given it away yet!”
George eyed his friend. “I knew you thought I would return to my living once I found her.”
“You’re not?”
George said slowly, “No. I have another idea.”
Collin leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You’re not ever going back?”
“No.”
“I thought that once you found the chit who’d stolen your heart, you would be able to resume your life.”
“I know. And don’t call her a chit.”
“Oh, there are a few other names I could call her instead.”
“You could try Miss Kempe.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t make it past my lips.”
They stared at each other until Collin finally shook his head and sighed heavily. “What else did you find out in Miss Kempe’s back garden?”
“I found that I still don’t know enough,” George said and Collin closed his eyes. He swore, long and heartfelt, inserting a few phrases he must have picked up from the manual laborers he’d worked beside since following George on this pilgrimage.
George stood, opening his trunk and rummaging around for paper. “I’m going to tell my father what I’m going to do, what I’m going to be, instead of a vicar. Instead of his fourth son. Three is enough for one man.”
Because his father did still have three sons happy to live their life according to plan. Henry’s health had slowly improved and when George had left to find his heart, his brother had once again been sitting in his plush chair. Watching his children play and disappointing Death one more time.
Collin said, “I thought you didn’t know what else there was?”
“I didn’t. It came to me while sitting in Miss Kempe’s back garden. It came to me as I was wondering how a woman, or a man, could have a future when the one they were born to is taken away.”
“Or thrown away.”
“Or doesn’t fit.”
“They starve, George.”
“I would have agreed with you last year. And then Sinclair came home and told me about his. . .”
“It’s called trade.”
“Fine. His trade. His successful trade.” And if the word still left a bad taste in George’s mouth, well, he was a viscount’s son.