“And, Christina?” he said as she got to her feet and crossed the room to the door. “Rachel is very precious and not in any way crushed in spirit. She learned to go inward for strength—it is not a bad lesson to learn. But she is still capable of an outpouring of beauty for those around her. She will be a rare gem. I will not betray the trust she showed in me last night. I will write to her—all my life. And you will love her all yours—it will be sufficient.”
“Thank you,” she said again.
Chapter 16
THE snow was beginning to melt—not off the lawns and fields and hills to any significant degree, but off paths and roadways from which it had already been partly shoveled. It was sad, some of the guests declared as they came down in gradually swelling numbers to a late breakfast. Their lovely white Christmas was almost at an end.
But ithad beenlovely, they reminded one another, and all good things had to end.
In fact the warmer weather and the melting snow were a blessing, Lady Hannah declared. Clear roads and driveways would enable all the invited guests to come to Thornwood for the ball. Her words served to remind everyone that in fact Christmas was not yet over after all. Perhaps the best part was yet to come.
And the snow was by no means gone. There was still at least one full day in which it might be enjoyed. The earl had purchased two sleds at the same time as he had bought the skates. Two ancient ones had been dug out of the loft of the coach house and put into smart working order again. One of the gardeners had made another new one.
A number of guests went sledding late in the morning— on the once forbidden hill. The earl went with them though he was aware that there was a great deal of work to be done in preparation for the ball. The countess was busy directing operations. He would only get in her way, he persuaded himself, if he stayed and tried to help. There was some truth to the old adage about too many cooks. Besides, it would not do to neglect his house guests.
He was rationalizing, of course. The truth was that he accompanied the sledders because he wished to escape from two problems, both female.
He had carried Lizzie Gaynor down to breakfast, though she had protested—through the person of Lady Gaynor— that she did not wish to be a nuisance and would gladly eat in her own room. And then he had carried her into the morning room, where he had left her with other company. She had insisted that she did not wish to keep him from his duties—and for once he had taken her at her word. But he could sense entrapment with every passing hour. His friends were even teasing him about it.
“I suppose,” Ralph Milchip said when they were on their way out to the hill, “you will be carrying the fair Lizzie to the altar within the next month or so, Gerard?”
“You know, Ger,” Luttrell added, “when you allow a young lady in your care to stumble on the ice and, ah, sprain her ankle, it is clearly understood by all her relatives and friends that you are obliged to make amends by marrying her.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Ralph agreed, shaking his head sadly.
And then there was Christina. He found it hard to look her in the eye this morning. He had spent a sleepless night remembering how he had always hoped vindictively that she would live to regret her choice of husband, that her marriage would prove to be a less than happy one. He had hoped she would grow sorry for putting money before love. He had never for a moment suspected how thoroughly his wish had come true.
He felt guilty.
He had wished her harm and Gilbert had done her harm. Was there any essential difference between what he had wished and what his cousin had done? He felt savagely regretful that he could not get his hands on Gilbert in order to punish him—but was it himself he found impossible to punish?
Christina—his beautiful, sunny-natured, warm, passionate Christina—had been the terrorized victim of a wife-beater, who had hidden his viciousness behind a mask of religion and morality. And now she blamed herself.
How could he look her in the eye?
But he had no choice when he came back from the hill with everyone else, all of them noisy and laughing and chilly. She appeared in the great hall while they were all disentangling themselves from scarves and muffs and other outdoor garments, and touched him on the arm.
“May I speak with you, my lord?” she asked him.
She looked her usual calm, dignified self—but he had learned last night, if he had not suspected it before, that she had had long practice at donning this particular mask, The hint of violet shadows beneath her eyes suggested that perhaps she had slept as little as he.
“I will come to the library in a moment,” he told her. It was inevitable, of course, that she would need to consult him several times in the course of the day on the preparations for the ball.
She was standing in front of the large oak desk when he entered the room a couple of minutes later, her hands spread flat on its surface, her head bowed. She looked elegant and fragile and—and he did not know how he could speak to her except briskly, impersonally, as if he were speaking with a business associate.
“Is there any problem?” he asked. “I should have stayed instead of leaving the whole burden with you.”
“No,” she said. “Even my presence in the ballroom is unnecessary. The servants have everything well under control.”
He stood where he was just inside the door. He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together. “What may I do for you?” he asked her.
“You said I was free,” she told him. “I have never been free—very few women ever are. How free am I? Am I free to—to leave here without sacrificing my allowance?”
Ah. So he was not going to have even the dubious comfort in the coming years of picturing her living here in comfort, was he?
“I know you are my daughters’ trustee,” she said. “The law, so ably administered by men, cannot trust a woman to look after her own children, you see. Are my children free to leave?”
“Where are you planning to go?” he asked her.
