‘I think I should leave tomorrow,’ he told her soberly after dinner. ‘I hate to go, but I do not see what else is to be done. I’ll write to Edward, tell him I have been called back to work unexpectedly, and apologise for my discourtesy in not waiting to say farewell to him, and in leaving you alone in his absence. I don’t think I can face him; I think if he sees me, he will know straight away.’
‘It’s what he wanted, isn’t it?’ she responded with a trace of bitterness. ‘He should be pleased if he thinks something has happened between us. Though he’ll be sorry you have gone so soon, and not stayed and made sure… Oh, don’t look at me like that, Richard. I know you are right. I agree, in fact. It would be unbearable, the three of us alone together in such a false situation, pretending nothing was wrong. If you did not give our secret away by looking conscious, I would. My nature is deplorably hasty, my mother is always telling me so; I’d lose my temper and cause a scene, and things would be said on all sides that could never be taken back. However much I want to upbraid him as he deserves, I know I cannot risk it.’
‘This way,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘if… nothing happens, if there are no consequences of our lovemaking, then he will never know for sure. He may suspect, but he cannot know. Perhaps that will be easier for you? Though I know there is no real comfort for you in any of this, my love.’
‘Easier? Perhaps. Even he, we must hope, cannot really be angry with me just because he thinks I have failed to play him false. As soon as I put it into words, it’s plain how ridiculous it is. He certainly can’tsayanything on the subject to me, not even a hint, if he believes I may possibly still be ignorant of his plans, and innocent. Yes, it might be easier for me. Safer, certainly, to have his suspicions unconfirmed, until and unless…’
‘We will have tonight.’
‘And I must be content with that, I know. I should not be greedy and want more of you than I can have.’
‘If there was any way?—’
She cut him off. ‘There is not. We both know it. I don’t need to be soothed with childish fantasies, my dear. I can face up to the truth. I have no choice.’
They repeated the farce of saying goodnight like virtual strangers and going off to their separate chambers, and once again, she crept along the silent corridors to join him an agonising while later.
Their lovemaking tonight was desperate, almost frantic – they both knew without speaking of it that it was possible that they’d never see each other again after this, or only meet very rarely, in public, where no private communication would be possible. It was not quite true to say that the future was uncertain, because the possibilities were not infinite: Viola would either have a child or she would not, and from there, the road forked to two very different destinations, but neither of the lives that she might have as a consequence would ever include him.
It occurred to him now while they lay silent in his bed, their bodies touching but their thoughts private and unshared, that he really might in a few short months have a son or daughter in the world whom he would never get to know, never be a father to, possibly never even see as they grew. Edward would be his or her father, in law and in day-to-day life. He’d never considered the question of fatherhood before, except to take trouble to avoid it – he was still only one and twenty, after all – and the sense of anticipatory loss, almost of pain that swept over him took him entirely by surprise. It seemed so wrong, he might even have said obscene. How could Edward, who had so much already, steal his child from him, the child of the woman he loved that they’d made together? But he didn’t mention any of it to Viola; what was the point? They were both the losers here, but he had a great deal to do in the world, a great deal of danger to face that might easily bring his life to a premature conclusion before he could even know if a child was to be born, while she would remain here with Edward whatever happened. It would be nothing more than selfish and cruel to make matters worse for her than they already were by babbling about his own potential hurt and loss.
20
Eventually, they had to talk about it, in these their last moments alone together. They had barely slept, and it was close on six, almost time for her to creep away, when he spoke at last, his breath brushing her hair. ‘When should I leave? I know Edward might easily not come back till late today or even tomorrow, and God knows I want nothing more than another night in your arms, but it seems to me to be a great risk to take, to linger here with you, however precious every moment in your presence is to me. I swear I am not concerned for myself – he has no power over me unless he attempts to call on the memory of our past closeness, and our relationship as cousins and friends is already irrevocably broken by his actions, by his heartless treatment of you. I am quite prepared to tell him so. But you have no such freedom…’
‘I know,’ she said, her voice a little muffled in his chest. She could feel his heart beating under her cheek, and she pressed closer to him. It felt so safe and permanent and right, but it was all an illusion. ‘I hate the picture that my mind presents – of him entering some room and finding us together, however innocently we might be sitting reading or talking. If I saw a sort of avid, hopeful expression on his face as he looked at us, I swear I would cross the room and slap him. How dare he manipulate us so, as if he were one of the Olympian gods on the ceiling downstairs, and we mere helpless mortal pawns? If it ever occurred to him that we might develop feelings for each other, I am sure he brushed the idea aside as quite irrelevant. And so, much as it hurts me to say it, I would rather you were gone before there is any chance of him coming back. Write your letter to him and leave it in his study, and I will arrange for one of the grooms to drive you into Bedford or Cambridge – wherever there will be a stage or mail coach soonest that you can take to London. That is what would normally be done when you departed, is it not? And the servants will know what is best, and when you should leave.’
‘Probably Cambridge,’ he murmured dully. ‘That’s how I came. But it does not matter. It feels as though it were months ago since I came here and first saw you, so beautiful and so unhappy, but it is only weeks. Oh, my love…’
‘Don’t,’ she told him fiercely. ‘Don’t, or I will break down and cling to you and beg you to take me with you again, when I already know the dozens of reasons why you cannot. I don’t want your last memory of me to be in helpless tears. Don’t tell me you love me when it’s all so hopeless. Make love to me again; make me forget everything.’
She left him a while later, and was back in her own bed, pretending to sleep though she was unable to, long before the maid came to light her chamber fire and bring her tea. When her abigail came to help her dress, she said casually, ‘Jennings, Mr Armstrong said yesterday that his correspondence was preying on his thoughts and that he thought he should leave as soon as possible and return to London. Perhaps he may have changed his mind this morning. But in case he has not, can you ask Fletcher where it would be best for one of the coachmen to drive him so that he can conveniently catch the next stage or mail?’
Mary said sedately that she would, not appearing to think anything odd at all about the request. In a short while, Viola had her answer, and the thing was set in motion with an ease that made her want to scream, to find some way to stop it because it was all so wrong.
A couple of short hours later, she stood bundled in her warmest coat in the coach-house yard, watching her lover climb up into Edward’s curricle beside the waiting driver, his meagre baggage stowed behind him, his face pale and set. He’d bowed over her gloved hand a moment earlier, and they had spoken commonplace words of thanks, farewell and Godspeed that came nowhere near to the truth of what they both felt. It was as well that they were observed by the people around them, she thought, and therefore obliged to maintain the strictest propriety in their speech, appearance and actions – if she’d been alone with him, she’d surely have disgraced herself by falling sobbing to the cobbles. Her heart was shattering into thousands of tiny, sharp pieces in her chest, and she felt cold and sick and desolate.
He raised his hand in final goodbye, the coachman set the two horses in motion and the vehicle swept out through the gateway in a creak of wood and a rattle of harness. She was left alone.
She turned and walked back into the house, and its chilly walls closed about her like the grandest of prisons.
21
Edward did not come back that day, and a great part of Viola cursed him for it – not that she wanted him there in the slightest, but because he had told her to expect him – and cursed herself and Richard for their excess of caution, and for the loss of time together that they’d never have again. But in the end, she became reconciled, and in a numb way was glad to have a little space to herself, so that she might set her thoughts in some sort of order and face Edward with more composure than she felt she could manage at present.
Her courses were due in a little less than a fortnight. She had always been regular, and the circumstances of her married life had made her take good note of them – when they arrived and how long they lasted; she made discreet marks in her diary signifying as much. She thought it very likely that Edward also kept careful record of her cycle, though they had never spoken of it, naturally. When she was suffering with her female complaint, she merely told him after dinner that she was unwell – nothing more – and he understood her perfectly and did not trouble her. It was what her mother had advised her to do; it must be some sort of commonly used code, she supposed. Certainly, he must be used to it by now, since he’d had so many years of it with one wife after another, month after weary month.
But one thing she knew: he was not welcome in her bed any longer. Perhaps she could not keep him away forever, if she bled in a few days’ time and he knew himself disappointed again. But he was damn well not lying with her, on her, touching her, while her whole body still tingled from Richard’s welcome caress, and her arms longed to hold him and never let him go. She would feign some other kind of trivial illness – say she had a cold. Something, anything. He might jump to certain conclusions about why her door was suddenly closed to him, but just now, she did not care. Let him worry; let him wonder.
But he did not come, she dined alone, and went alone to her chamber. Her healthy constitution had a little mercy on her profound unhappiness; she slept heavily and long, and once she had risen, she went for a long walk about the estate, well wrapped against the chill. She found rather to her surprise that she looked on it all with more fondness now, because she had shared the walks and rides with Richard; here they had danced together, here they sat on their horses and looked down at Winterflood and he had first shown her sympathy, here and here and here they had kissed and spoken words of love. It still pierced her heart that he was gone, but whatever happened now, no one could ever take these memories away.
When she made her slow way back to the house, Wilkinson told her that Edward had returned a short while since, and was in his study. She would not wait for him to seek her out; she went to him. She had decided in her time alone that she would be braver than she had previously been.
He was reading when she entered – Richard’s letter, she supposed, or one of the others that had come for him in the days that he had been absent. ‘How were the sheep?’ she asked, not troubling overmuch to make it sound as though she cared.
He made to rise to his feet, but she waved off the instinctive courtesy. ‘The sheep…? Oh, there is still some cause for concern, but Thompson and the good farmers have it in hand. All possible quarantine precautions are being taken; I may have to go back in a week or two… I am sorry to see that Cousin Richard has left us. There is nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘He had a number of letters, and they seemed to worry him; at last, he said he felt he had no choice but to go back and deal with the matters that were piling up in his absence. He made his apologies to me for not waiting till you returned, and said he would write to you to make his excuses also. I presume he has done so.’
