“Did he know about the child?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” She smiled somewhat sadly. “I had only one letter from him. But that was too soon. I did not hear again, and my letter was not among his effects that were returned to his father. I don’t know. I like to believe that he knew.”
“One of my brothers fought at Waterloo,” he said. “He was fortunate to escape with only flesh wounds, but it was a month before we heard, and even then it was only that he had been wounded. We knew that so many died of wounds and the fever. Another month passed before my father and I could get over there and find him to bring him home. I know the anxiety. It must have been a dreadful time for you, especially with the added burden of your condition.”
“Yes,” she said. “They did not tell me until after Zachary was born.” She smiled up at her son, who was gazing about him, not listening to the adult conversation. “It is a marvel how someone can be taken away and another given to take his place.”
“Yes,” the viscount said. “You loved him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” she said. She looked at him, quiet for a moment. “You knew that your wife was dying when you married her? How long did she live?”
“For two months,” he said. “She was bedridden the whole time, poor Anna-Marie. Mercifully there was little pain. Just the terrible weakness and weariness of consumption. But she was always a frail girl, though sweet and patient and cheerful. She never once complained or raged against her fate. Unlike me. I almost bled to death after putting my hand through a pane of glass the day of her death.”
“I am the fortunate one, am I not?” she said. “I do not know how I would have lived without my child. But I suppose I would have. You have lived.”
“For a long time,” he said, “one does not even want the pain to go away. It seems disloyal to be without pain, to allow an hour to go by without thinking of the one who has gone. And there is a certain fear of forgetting, as if that would prove that one had not really loved at all. But life is wiser than we, it seems. Pain eases. One laughs again. Eventually one is ready to live again.”
“Yes,” she said.
He looked down at her. But he could not ask the question. It would be impertinent. Did she have anything or anyone to live for except her son? Was it possible for her to resume life as he was resuming it? Did the fact that she was an unwed mother doom her to living on the fringes of life forever after? Was there no end to her disgrace, as there was an end to his grief?
“To dance,” she said wistfully before he could say anything, looking ahead to where the dower house was just coming into sight. “How lovely it would be to dance.” But she seemed to realize suddenly what she had said. She flushed and looked up at her son. “He must be getting heavy. Zachary, do get down, sweetheart, and run ahead and open the gate. Will you come inside for tea, sir?”
“I have been gone longer than I intended,” he said, swinging the child down from his shoulders. “I think I had better return to the house. But thank you.”
He could think of no excuse to see her again. And did he want to see her again? He had come to participate in the gaiety of a house party, not to indulge in bittersweet memories with someone who had had experiences comparable to his own. He had come to pay court to Lady Eve Hanover, not to develop a friendship with her elder sister.
But yes, he did want to see her again, he realized as they stopped walking and he looked down into her beautiful face. And he knew suddenly what gave it its beauty. Eight years before, she had probably been exceedingly pretty, as her sister was now. But in those eight years, suffering and love had etched character into her face, and calmness and knowledge of life into her eyes. And she was beautiful as a result.
“Perhaps I will take you up on that invitation tomorrow instead, or at least one day before I leave,” he said. “If I may?”
Her eyes smiled at him. “You will be welcome, sir,” she said. “But you must not feel honor-bound to come. I know that these are busy and enjoyable days at the house.”
“Don't scold him too roundly when you have him alone,” he said, his eyes twinkling down at her. “Boys are ever heedless. It is what being a boy is all about.”
“I had noticed,” she said.
And without realizing it, he had taken her hand in his. He squeezed it, hesitated, and raised it to his lips.
“I am sorry about Talavera,” he said.
“And I about that wasting illness,” she said.
“But life goes on.” He squeezed her hand again, released it, and waved to Zachary, who was swinging on the gate. He turned and walked almost regretfully back along the driveway toward the main house and the gaiety of a Valentine’s house party.
He did not come the next day, of course, but it did not matter, as she was not really expecting him. It was true that she postponed her weekly visit to some of her father’s elderly dependents during the afternoon, but then, she had promised to go through the linen cupboards with her housekeeper one day, and that was the day. Besides, her son had discovered that he enjoyed arithmetic, and she had to spend some time upstairs with him, giving him columns of figures to puzzle over.
He would not come. She was not expecting him.
He was a kind gentleman and he had taken a liking to Zachary and given him pleasure at the lake. He had worked patiently with the boat until it sailed. She could still picture him sitting on the cold grass, frowning over the toy while Zachary knelt beside him watching, the top of his head almost touching Lord Brandon’s cheek.
And he had been kind to her too. For eight years she had had no dealings with anyone except her family and her father's tenants and laborers and the people of the village. She would have expected a gentleman, and a nobleman at that, to recoil in embarrassment and disgust as soon as he discovered who and what she was. The viscount had not only continued to treat her with courtesy, but had shown her sympathy and understanding too.
Was it any wonder that she was falling in love with him? It would be very strange if she were not. Poor starving fool, she thought as she sorted through linen, weaving dreams about the only gentleman to take notice of her in eight years. About Eve's future husband.
Suddenly she was glad of the fact that she and Eve were not close, that Eve avoided her whenever possible, as if her disgrace might be somehow infectious. She would not want to be close to her sister once she became the Viscountess Brandon. She wondered if Eve would be happy with him. More important, she wondered if he would be happy with Eve. And she understood finally why her sister had described him as she had. Eve would not fully appreciate kindness and gentleness.
Barbara hugged a pile of linen sheets to her and stared off into space. She could feel his arms strong about her, the unexpected strength and firmness of chest and thigh muscles. She could hear his voice murmuring soothing words into her ear. She could smell his cologne and the warm masculine smell of him.
