"Complete?"
"Compete," said Jane. "Try to be better than her. That is what competing is. You do not have to do it. Alwaysbeyourself, sweetheart, and everyone worth caring about will love you."
"Aunt Jane, may I sleep here tonight?" the child asked timidly.
Jane kissed her forehead. "Nurse will be worried if she finds you missing," she said. "I shall carry you back to your room, shall I, and tuck you into bed?"
Amy started to cry again. "I don't want to be alone again," she said. "I couldn't paint or read or talk to anyone. And Papa was very cross."
"Liehere for a little while then, sweetheart," Jane said, hugging her close again. "I shall take you back later."
"Will you come here often when you are married to Uncle Joe, Aunt Jane?" Amy asked. "Please!"
Jane closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the top of the child's head. "I shan't be able to, Amy," she said. "But it has nothing to do with you.Or Claire.I shall always love you and think of you, but I cannot come here again. Will you love me and think of me too?"
"Always," the child said, snuggling closer. "When are you going, Aunt Jane? I don't want you to go." "Tomorrow, sweetheart," Jane said. Amy said nothing, but continued to cling tightly.
After several minutes Jane could tell that she was asleep. She did not know quite what to do. The child must be taken back to her room, or at least the nurse must be informed of her whereabouts. But Jane did not want to risk moving for a while and perhaps waking the girl again. She would wait quietly for perhaps fifteen minutes and then see if she could move without disturbing Amy.
She held the warm little form of the sleeping child in tender arms.Poor little girl.If her story was to be believed, she had had all confidence in herself destroyed by a selfish and bad-tempered mother. It seemed almost incredible to think of Susan that way, but she supposed that it was possible. She had not really known the beauty, after all. And a girl who had been made so much of by thetonmight have found the responsibilities of motherhood irksome. Especially if she had her heart set on producing an heir.
Had Michael shown disappointment with her for giving him daughters instead of sons? Had she then taken out her unhappiness on her elder daughter?But no.Jane could not possibly believe that. His love for his daughters was so obviously deep and genuine that it could not hidea dissatisfactionwith their gender.
For the second time in one day her image of the marriage that had existed between Michael and his wife had been challenged. Could the marriage have been less than perfect? If Susan had resented her children and Michael loved them, there must have been some friction between the two of them, surely. Had he known of the way she treated Amy? How could one tell a three-year-old that she was ugly and a nuisance? And how could one tell a daughter that she should have been a son? It was no wonder that Amy was solemn and withdrawn and hostile to any female who might become another mother.
Jane felt a twinge of gratitude that she had not accepted Michael in London and returned to Templeton Hall as his bride. She might never have won Amy's trust under those circumstances. And what would happen to the little girl now? She would have Michael's unconditional love, it was true, but would it be enough? Would she ever quite get over her distrust of women? Would he understand his daughter well enough to choose his next bride with special care?
Was that why he had chosen her in London? Jane wondered with sudden shock. Was that why he had not looked for beauty or love but for good sense? Had he recognized in her a woman who would love his children? Had he put their happiness even before his own? And she had thought him cold and selfish because he had not put her feelings first! He had left his children for severalweeks,a parting that she now knew must have been painful for all of them, in order to bring them back a mother who would give them the security of knowing themselves lovable. And he had chosen her!
Jane swallowed. Suddenly, being chosen for such a reason became infinitely more precious than being chosen for love. He had been willing to trust her with the upbringing of his children, whom he loved more than himself. What a mess she had made of her life and of his and the children's. She had thought she knew all the answers back in London. She had prided herself on saying no to him and asserting her own worth as a person. She knew nothing. She was only now learning something about the selflessness of love.Now, when it was far too late.
Jane's eyes closed as she laid her cheek more comfortably against Amy's head.
Fairfax was standing at the window of his bedchamber, his hands thrust into the pockets of the dressing gown he had put on against the chill of the night. He looked out on the formal gardens, illuminated by the light of an almost full moon.
He supposed he should go back to bed and try to sleep again. It must be well into the morning hours. But he hated to toss and turn in bed. Better to be on his feet, tired though he felt.
He could not stop thinking about the previous day. He really had not wanted Jane to go to the island with them. He had wanted to stay clear of her. But she had come, and his treacherous heart had not been able to treat her as just another guest. All the way across in the boat he had drunk in the sight of her sitting before him with Claire snuggled close on her lap and Amy cradled in her other arm. She had given an equal show of affection to both children.So many of his acquaintances favored Claire because she was more obviously lovable.
He had found himself, at first involuntarily and then quite deliberately, imagining that she was his wife and that they were taking their family for an afternoon outing. He had been very careful not to frighten her again. Not by word or gesture, he felt, had he given her any inkling of the direction his thoughts were taking. But he had dreamed nonetheless. She had looked very pretty sitting on the bank when the rest of them were in the water, hugging her knees and watching the children with a smile.
And then that stupid misunderstanding that had almost drowned her. He really had dropped his guard at that point. He hoped that she had been too overwrought at the time to notice that he had several times used an endearment instead of her name. He even had a memory that made him turn hot and cold, of calling her "love" in Sedge's hearing. He had not realized it himself until the boat was already pulling away from the island.
He would always hold as one of his most treasured memories the image of Jane screaming out his name and then diving into the water to save Amy. When she was terrified of water covering her head! And when she must have known that he could be there in moments himself. If only she loved him as she loved his children! Fairfax laughed somewhat harshly. Perhaps he should have lured her to Templeton Hall before making his offer and used her love of the children as a persuasive force. Perhaps then she would have taken him as part of the bargain. He could have no doubt that she did love his daughters.
But then, he thought, Jane loved all children. That was the type of woman she was. She romped and played with Dart's children too when the opportunity presented itself. And why should she not? They were to be her nephews and niece when she married Sedge. Soon perhaps she would have her own child. He hoped Sedge would give her one. It would be an irony of fate if Jane Matthews had to go through life childless. He knew thatSedgeworthwas not greatly fond of children himself. But perhaps he would change when he married Jane and became her lover. He would want to give her a child then.
Fairfax turned from the window. It made him feel almost physically sick to think ofSedgeworthmaking love with Jane. He remembered how she had felt in his own embrace the previous night—was it only such a short while ago?—slender and yielding, her mouth unexpectedly hot with passion, her breasts small and firm in his hands. He could not bear the thought of anyone else, even his friend, touching her like that, touching her with even greater intimacy, possessing her body. He could almost kill at theverythought.
He gritted his teeth and shook off the thought. It was Sedge who shouldbe wantingto kill. Sedge had the right to all the intimacies he had claimed for himself the night before.
He thought of Amy. It was anxiety about her that had originally had him tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. She was four years old.A baby.And for a momentary rudeness to a guest, committed when she had been in an emotional state, she had been sentenced to a lonely and idle evening in her room and to bed straight afterward. He had not even had the chance to hug her and assure her of his love and forgiveness at bedtime. She had been asleep already, curled up on top of the bedcovers, looking in the relaxation of sleep the baby she was. She had not woken even when he lifted her and tucked her beneath the covers.
Should he be feeling this guilt? Had the punishment been too harsh? He was so afraid of spoiling his daughters, of being overindulgent and having them grow up to be selfish, bad-mannered ladies that sometimes he felt he wasoverstrict. Yet he loved them so very much. And he had to be both father and mother to them. Even when Susan was alive she had had little time for them, and he had often feared that when she was with them she was not showing them adequate love. Amy had not once cried after Susan's death, though he had thought it important to tell her the truth instead of inventing some lie about her mother having gone on a visit for a while.
It was no good, he thought, glancing reluctantly at his bed. He would not be able to rest until he had seen the child again and was sure she was sleeping peacefully. What four-year-old would not be sleeping peacefully at this ungodly hour of the night? But there was no point in arguing withhimself. Go he must, to make sure that the nightmare image of the child crying alone into the darkness had no basis in truth.
He smiled when he saw Amy's empty bed. The child had the intelligence to understand what he had meant by an evening of solitariness. During the night she had felt free to creep into Claire's bed in the adjoining room. He was glad. She would have felt comforted to feel Claire's warmth. He lowered his candle and shaded it with his hand again as he moved quietly into his younger daughter's room.
