“I do not know quite what it was with him,” she said. “With Gregory. Suddenly he seemed to—to need me. I do not believe he loved me, but he pressed his attentions on me with single-minded determination. I do not know why I responded as I did. I was flattered, perhaps. He was from Penshurst, after all. Papaworkedfor him. Or I felt his need and responded to it. The love you and I seemed to share was a quiet thing. I did not fully realize until afterward how—how deep it was. I—I do not know why I responded to him.”
“I thought,” he said, and he could hear the hurt in his own voice, “that you had stopped loving me, Kathy. That you had grown to love him.”
“I think I persuaded myself ’twas so,” she said. “I knew ’twas not even before he died. Henry, there was no Mr. Smith. I have never been married.”
“I know that,” he said quietly.
“You knew?” She looked up at him and bit her lower lip.
“Before you even returned here,” he said. “And if I had not known, I would have realized it as soon as I saw Eric.”
“He does resemble Gregory, does he not?” she said sadly.
“Kathy.” Hope stirred painfully in him again. “Was that why you refused me yesterday? Did you think I did not know? Did you believe I would not want you if I knew you had never been wed? If I knew of Eric’s illegitimacy? These things do not matter to me at all. You would be my wife. He would be my son.”
“I think,” she said, her voice shaking badly, “I am guilty of terrible things. Much worse than these.”
“Tell me, then,” he said. “’Tis time. You used not to be as quiet, as unhappy as you have been since your return. He is a lovely child, Kathy, and you are a good mother to him. There seems to be no reason for lasting unhappiness. What are these dreadful things you mention?”
“I went to stay with my mother’s family,” she said. “They took me in and were kind to me. I was very fortunate. But I was angry and bitter. I had ruined my life, turning to him in his need and away from everything that would have led to my permanent happiness. And even my chance for respectability had been snatched away at the last moment when he died on our wedding day. My son, who would have been heir to Penshurst after his father, was instead a bastard. And Papa—poor innocent Papa, who had always taken such great pride in his work—had been dismissed. All because ofher.I do not know why she hated me so, unless it was that I was merely the daughter of her father’s steward. But I was a lady. Papa is a gentleman. After all, Gregory would have married sooner or later. She must have realized that. But she did hate me. And I think she hated him too after he told her about me. I think—Henry, I have always thought that she killed him. Is it wicked to suspect such a thing?”
“No,” he said.
“Is it true, then?” She stared at him with wide eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I believe so, Kathy.”
“There was a man,” she said. “My cousin’s friend. He was enormously wealthy, having inherited money from several relatives, though he was rather unhappy about owning no land of his own. He was handsome, charming, sympathetic, attentive. I was soothed by his interest. Gregory was dead, I had lost you—I was grateful to him. I poured out all my bitterness to him, all my hatred, all my suspicions.”
“Perhaps it was not in the best of taste to do so,” he said when she paused in obvious distress. “But ’twas understandable, Kathy. I wish you had come to me.”
“No,” she said, “you do not. You were hard and bitter, Henry. You were unkind to me—not that I blame you. If I had told you afterward that I was to have his child...”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, you are right. I hated you for a long time.”
“I did not know,” she said, “that he was conceiving a passion for me, that he was becoming angry on my behalf, that he was plotting revenge on my behalf. Oh, he talked about avenging the wrong that had been done me. He was an army officer and he thought it possible that his regiment would go to India, where of course Lord Kersey was living, at some future time. He said he would see to it that one day Eric would live in his rightful home and that I, as his mother, would live there too. ’Twas all a game to me, a gleeful, spiteful dream. I encouraged him.”
“To India,” Sir Henry said quietly.
“And then,” she said, “long after I had forgotten about it, and about him too, we heard of Alice’s and her son’s horrible deaths. And only a few days after that there came a letter from him, telling me that he was in India and enjoying his duties there. Nothing more. Nothing about Alice. The suspicions have gnawed at me ever since. I have wondered about it, worried about it, had nightmares over it.”
“’Twas a coincidence, Kathy,” he said, covering her hand with his own. “’Twas a coincidence, by my life. You must forget it. Alice and her son died accidentally in a fire.”
“But he is at Penshurst,” she said quickly. “He is Lord Ashley’s friend, Henry. His friend from India. Major Roderick Cunningham.”
“Zounds,” he said, his reassuring touch turning to a grip.
“He has talked to me,” she said. “He has told me that soon Eric and I will be living at Penshurst—with him. I am terrified of him, Henry. What has he done for my sake? And what is he planning to do—for my sake? Yesterday morning Lady Emily Marlowe was shot at. By whom? Why? I fear I know the answer to the first question at least.”
“You have done the right thing in telling me,” he said. “I shall handle it, Kathy.”
“I am afraid even for you,” she said. “What if he sees me walking with you? I should not have come out with you like this.”
“You must not fear for me,” he said.
“But am I guilty of murder?” she asked him. “If he did... Am I?”
“Of course you are not.” He turned her to him and held her firmly by the upper arms. “Of course you are not, Kathy. I will have to tell Kendrick what you have told me. May I?”
