The Reluctant Bride Collection Page 51

  “It’s a possibility, at least. It could be that York is just too small for the both of us.”

  “You could live outside the wall.”

  Honora smiled. “Perhaps.”

  Temperance decided suddenly that the troll story was just a story and asked, “Honora, why aren’t you married yet?”

  “I’ve haven’t met anyone I wanted to marry.”

  Fanny said knowingly, “Except for the troll.”

  Honora smiled sadly. “Except for the troll.”

  Fanny finally sent Honora to her borrowed room to rest from the journey and shooed the children off, telling them they would have plenty of time to visit later.

  Chastity slipped her hand in Honora’s, showing her to her room and then jumping up to sit on the mattress of the four-poster bed.

  “I’m your favorite,” Chastity whispered as Honora sat next to her and smoothed her brown hair and looked into her brown eyes.

  Honora tried so hard not to show it. To not give any indication that she felt differently about Chastity than she did Temperance and Faith and Frederick, and she forced herself to ask why the little girl could possibly think that was true.

  Chastity answered calmly, “Because you named me.”

  “No. Papa named you.”

  “But you picked my middle name.”

  Honora nodded because she had. “Chastity Hope.”

  “And that’s why I’m just like you,” she said with pride. “Papa says I am.”

  “Then you must be just like him as well.”

  Chastity nodded solemnly. “Yes. Hard-headed and very stubborn, that’s what Mama says.”

  Honora laughed. “Your mama is very wise.”

  “She isn’t your mama.”

  “No.”

  “Your mama died.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have been very sad.”

  “I was sad. And angry.”

  “At your mama?”

  Honora shook her head. “At God. For taking her away. At Papa, for letting her go, even if there was nothing he could have done.”

  Chastity leaned her head against Honora’s arm, forgiving so easily her many, many sins.

  “Do you think you could not fight with Papa and stay?”

  Honora swallowed. “I can try.”

  Chastity nodded. “I’ll tell him not to fight with you, either.”

  “Does that work? Telling him what to do?”

  “It works on Temperance.” She kicked her foot out. “It never works with Papa. He gets angry.”

  “Like you get angry when he tells you what to do.”

  “Temperance doesn’t get angry.”

  “She must take after your mother.”

  “Yes. They are good and kind and sweet and slow to anger.”

  Honora laughed and said, “That sounds like a quote,” and Chastity nodded.

  “But you and me and Papa are strong. We’ll protect them when they are scared and hug them when they are sad. And they’ll love us when we are hard and remind us when we are prideful.”

  Fanny stopped in the doorway, raising her eyebrows at her wayward child. “Come, Chastity. Let Honora rest before dinner.”

  Chastity bounced off the bed, running to her mother and taking her hand and saying, “I think I’ll have to fall in love with a troll when I grow up. He’ll roar and everyone will be scared and I will whack him on the nose with my parasol.”

  Fanny nodded absentmindedly and told Honora what time dinner would be served.

  Honora hedged, not ready to sit down to an entire meal with her father. “Aunt Beatrice is very tired.”

  “I’ll send a tray up for Beatrice and Arnold.”

  “But not me?”

  Fanny smiled. “Welcome home, Honora.”

  Honora did try to get along with her father when they sat down to dinner. But all she could think when she looked at him, was that he’d taken her daughter from her.

  She knew that he’d done it to save the both of them, and himself, from the consequences.

  And she still hated him.

  And still felt pathetically grateful that he’d cared for Chastity as if she was his own.

  She had no mild and easy feeling for the man.

  He waited until their plates were full before he said, “I hear talk of a suitor. I think.”

  Fanny indicated to the servants that they would serve themselves and Honora girded her loins for a battle. For an evening of lectures and bible quoting and she considered for one long moment following the servants out the door.

  But she’d come here. Thrown herself at their mercy, knowing they would never turn her away no matter what disappointment she’d caused them, and she knew, this was her punishment.

  She watched the door swing shut quietly and said, “There was a man, at least. And there was interest, I think. But it’s a new world, Father. A man can know a woman without wanting to marry her.”

  He snorted. “We are all aware. And that is not new.”

  Honora remembered one moonless night, George’s arms around her and his lips touching hers.

  It was a wicked thing to do, Twiggy. To make me fall in love with you.

  She’d felt that night. Not hate, not the bitter raging fire in her veins for all men.

  A different heat altogether, and if she could have married him, she would have.

  She would have risked everything to tell him the truth, she told herself. And she wondered if she really would have been as brave as she was in her imagination.

  “He was a grump and a troll, but his interest was honorable.”

  “A suitor, then.”

  She shrugged. “It was cut short.”

  And she’d have to talk with her aunt and uncle before anyone mentioned her grumpy suitor to them.

  Her father said, “Cut short by your lies.”

  “We are all aware, Father, what one big lie I have carried with me for ten long years.”

  That silenced him and they looked at each other, unblinking, until he nodded and went back to his meal, cutting into his meat with force.

  “It is for the best, Honora. You’d have to tell any man who wanted to marry you and then. . . how could he not but question your resolve.”

  She passed the gravy to her father before he asked. “Of course. I mean, the experience was so very rewarding. I can hardly keep myself from doing it again.”

  The Very Reverend Kempe drenched his plate with gravy, then stopped before taking a bite. “Your morality is in question, the very fiber of your soul has been corrupted. A fallen woman is more likely to fall again and any man who married you would not only question you but also your children. Were they his? Were you true? It would be an intolerable situation for both you and him.”

  “Especially if he was a vicar,” she said and her father put his cutlery down with a bang.

  Honora patted her mouth with her napkin. “He was a vicar. The troll. My erstwhile suitor.”

  Charles settled back in his seat, knowing she’d meant to insult him. And maybe he was getting older because he merely let it go and said, “Even better that his interest was cut short.”

  “The best. I know I can never marry, Father. We do not need to rehash this lectur– conversation.”

  “If I could undo your actions and give you the future we all want for you, I would. If I could give you a husband and children, even now, I would.”

  “I know, Father. It makes it very difficult to hate you.”

  And it did.

  She smiled brightly. “But at least I can travel. And at least I have an aunt and uncle willing to accompany me. And pay for it.”

  “You have your mother’s portion. You could live quite nicely on it if you economized.”

  “I was not raised to live simply.”

  “You were not raised for a great many things and that did not stop you, if I recall.”

  Fanny interrupted them. “I do envy your travels, Honora. How was London? And Manchester?”

  H
onora forced a small bite down. “It was enchanting. You simply must go.”

  And then she felt terrible because Honora’s stepmother had never shown her anything but kindness.

  Honora took a too-large gulp of wine and said with less bite, “The children would thoroughly enjoy the train. Though I would go north to Edinburgh. I enjoyed Edinburgh.”

  “Not Manchester, then?”

  Honora didn’t answer, hoping that was answer enough, and her stepmother said softly, “Perhaps you can go back to Edinburgh.”

  “I was thinking the continent after Brighton. Or someplace just as foreign and exotic, like Cornwall.”

  Her father shook his head. “I don’t think the continent would be a good idea for you. They are too loose with their morals.”

  Honora folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes, suddenly so tired.

  “Father, is that all you see when you look at me? Seventeen years of trying to be good– seventeen years of succeeding at being good and one stupid moment and all is lost? You have not known me for the last ten years and still you think I’d fling off my clothing at the first Frenchman who cocked an eyebrow?”

  He didn’t yell but she flinched anyway when he said, “That is how sin works.”

  “I’m not asking God if He can forgive me. I’m asking you.”

  His silence was his answer and Honora opened her eyes and pushed her plate away.

  “Thank you for giving my mistake a future. A family. Comfort and safety when I had none to offer. I know you didn’t have to. The sins of the mother, and all that.”

  Her father said with all the authority money and power and respect had given him, “That sin will not be passed on. There will be no opportunity. Not even one moment where she can be deceived and tempted. I will protect her as well as I failed you.”

  Honora rose. “And thank you for extending your hospitality to my aunt and uncle. To me. We won’t stay long, a week at most.”

  Eight

  The rain dribbled down the window and George watched it blankly.

  So gray and dreary. Life.

  But it continued on.

  George had discovered that early on, and here he was discovering it again.

  No matter how one felt about the matter, life continued on.

  Collin pushed in the door without knocking, he’d probably brought tea, and George, for one bright moment, was grateful for his friend.

  A true and steady friend, here whenever he was needed.

  Collin held a letter in his hands, not tea, and George closed his eyes.

  “It’s from your father, George.”

  “Throw it in the fire.”

  He’d been so looking forward to writing his father, months ago. To having the satisfaction of choosing a wife before the old man could.

  To knowing that, no matter what his father said or thought, George had chosen his own future.

  And now, he had nothing again.

  No want or purpose. No reason to be anything but what someone else had long planned for him to be.

  Collin dropped the letter on George’s lap and said softly, “It’s Henry.”

  George didn’t wait for Collin to be ready, didn’t pack anything, didn’t stop to even think how long he would be gone.

  And he was grateful to be so close to home. Grateful that it only took a couple hours of hard riding to be running up the front steps, hardly taking the time to throw the reins of his borrowed horse to the nearest servant.

  He ran to his brother’s room, stopping with his hand on the knob.

  He didn’t pray, just paused. And wished he could pray.

  He pushed the door in and Lord St. Clair sighed in relief and then stood, looking as if he’d aged ten years. Old and frail and worn out.

  And Alice, sitting next to the head of the bed, stared vacantly at a spot on the floor, tear tracks marring her face though no tears were falling right then.

  She didn’t look at him; he doubted she knew he was there.

  Henry lay in his bed, his breath ragged, his face pale and ghostly.

  Dying. Again. For the last time, it looked like.

  Henry had been getting sick for years, closer to death with each episode, and George had never come before.

  His father had never sent a letter like this last one.

  Henry needs you. Please, come.

  Short, no explanation. It had been more alarming than if his father had described every detail of Henry’s failing health.

  But it had seemed as if his father couldn’t spare the time it would take to even write how bad this episode was, and George had come running.

  Lord St. Clair helped Alice to her feet and she protested.

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “George is here.”

  “He’s here?”

  When his father nodded, she looked around the room, and then the tears started falling.

  She whispered, “No.”

  As if a word could stop Death when he was waiting.

  As if it was George who would swoop in and take the father of her children, the man she’d loved for years.

  George had no power here. No way to speed or slow his brother’s passing. No way to end his brother’s misery. No way to end Alice’s.

  George was a vicar. Not for very long and not a very good one, but he knew what his duty was.

  Comfort. Peace. As much as he could give to the both of them.

  But he had none for himself; he didn’t know how to give it to them.

  Lord St. Clair gently guided Alice out the door and she called over her shoulder, “Please, George! Pray for him. Don’t give up on him yet. Please!”

  Her cries woke Henry and he stirred, groaning. He took a shallow breath, opening his eyes enough to recognize his brother and then closing them again.

  “Comfort him, son,” their father said as he pulled the door shut.

  George pulled the chair around to face the bed and took up the vigil. He put his head in his hands and stared at the blankets so he wouldn’t have to stare at his dying brother’s face.

  Henry spoke slowly, haltingly. “I’m glad. You came. I wanted you. To hear my sins.”

  “Henry–”

  “Not you, the vicar. You, my brother.”

  George closed his eyes. “Then I will be forced to tell you mine and no man wants those to be the last words he speaks to his brother.”

  “Now or never. George. And I need. Your forgiveness.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I loved her.”

  George whispered, “Not a sin.”

  “Not for you, either. I hated you.”

  George kept his head in his hands but opened his eyes and looked up.

  Henry said, “Forgive me.”

  Emotion welled in George’s throat and he couldn’t speak, and Henry said, “I was Cain. You were Abel. You know, able.”

  Henry grinned slightly at his own joke and George shook his head, suddenly thinking of Twiggy. Suddenly thinking she would have something to say here. A quote with a double meaning. And he thought Henry would have liked her.

  At least the her George had known.

  “I was so jealous. Of your health. Your future. I, the elder. But treated. Like the younger. Like a child. I hated you. And when I. Had the chance. I killed you.”

  George sat up and folded his arms. “Then we are having a very interesting conversation.”

  Henry whispered, “I knew you loved her. And I took her.”

  The room absorbed his confession and the silence was so loud, the roaring filled every part of George.

  The emptiness filled him.

  The emptiness had filled him since the moment his brother had ripped his heart from his chest.

  Henry shifted painfully on his death bed. “I should have died. Before it was too late. For you and her. Better for everybody now. If I just sleep.”

  “Better for no one,” George said and scraped his chair back.

  He stomped from the room.
Past Alice leaning against the wall just outside the bedroom and weeping silently into her handkerchief. Past his father, sitting in a chair and staring blankly at nothing. He jerked when George flew past.

  “Is he. . . Did you. . . Did you comfort him, son?”

  George shouted, “No!”

  He stomped down the stairs and out the door and didn’t stop.

  Wouldn’t stop.

  He’d keep on going until he hit the sea. And he wouldn’t stop then, either.

  Pray for him, George. Comfort him, son. Forgive me, brother.

  What was he supposed to do? What?

  Did they think he spoke directly into God’s ear?

  Did they really think he was a man of God? He wasn’t.

  Only a man.

  A prideful, lustful, greedy, vengeful man.

  A man who’d hated his brother for so long, he couldn’t stop. Not even now, when it was too late.

  George didn’t make it to the sea.

  The graveyard stopped him in his tracks. His mother’s grave called to him.

  They would bury Henry here, next to her, and George lifted his head to the sky.

  He took you. I asked and I begged and I cried, and He took you anyway.

  And I raged and I cursed and I hated, and He didn’t take Henry.

  He paused before entering the consecrated ground, just a slight check, and then firmly planted his boot on the soil.

  He wound his way toward his mother’s headstone. Cold and empty and neglected for so long, and he didn’t know what she could do.

  Mother, your sons need you, and he’d said that once before. Right before she’d left them, right before she’d died, because she’d had no choice.

  And he realized the emptiness had filled him long before Henry and Alice.

  He squatted and pulled at the plants growing at the base of the stone.

  “I can’t pray for Henry now,” he said to no one. “I don’t dare; God has never answered any prayer of mine.”

  A bird twittered in a nearby tree and a cow bell rung in the distance.

  “And what would I say, anyway? Let him live? Let him continue to suffer when all he wants is peace? When death would end his pain?”

  No answer. Like always. And George fell on his rump, propping his arm on his knee.

  No answer.

  Only the birds chirping.