“So you are religious? I thought you were not,” he said.
“I believe in God. But how can anyone not?”
“I do not,” he said, and Marianne looked at him wide-eyed.
“You do not? Not at all?”
“I do not really think about it,” Lucien replied. “And I suppose so much has happened in my life, it just made me doubt the existence of a benevolent spirit that wants the best for all of us.”
Was he talking about his wife’s death?She wondered. Or about the way he was treated by his father? She couldn’t be certain, and she didn’t want to press.
“What gives you such a belief?” he asked.
She turned back and crossed her hands in her lap. “Look outside. The sky and the earth and the creatures that run everywhere—the squirrels in the trees, the horses in the paddock. It all must’ve come from somewhere, must it not? It did not all appear on its own one day because it thought it good. Someone or something must’ve created it all.”
“There are a great many theories about where the world comes from, and they do not all include an old man with a white beard sitting up on a throne in the heavens, making it so as he snapped his fingers.”
“I do not think of God as a man sitting on a throne. I think of it more as a spirit, some essence, something that brought it all into being. The world is too glorious to have been created by accident.”
“But then why do we not know it?” he challenged her. “If there was some greater being, wouldn’t it be in that being’s best interest that we knew it existed so we would behave properly?”
“But why?” she replied. “If we knew to be on our best behavior, then we would be on our best behavior out of fear, not because we truly wanted to be good and kind. We would make acts of kindness because we would think that it would please thecreator, as it were, not because it was something we genuinely wanted.” She shifted a little so that they were face-to-face. He sat across from her, one leg over the other, his hands in his lap mirroring her pose. “If you are watched by your parents or your wife, or by the other lords, does that alter the way you act?”
He paused for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose. As a child, if I knew my father was watching me, I would always act more proper. I would do things differently because he was watching, because I knew what he expected of me.”
“Exactly. If we knew it was certain that there was a God and that he watches us all the time, we would behave differently. If we knew what he expected of us, we would act exactly as he expected. That would not make us grow as beings.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Grow as beings? You think we have a purpose such as this here?”
“I do not know. Perhaps. Perhaps we are to grow into good people, but without outside interference.”
“And if we fail?” he challenged.
“I do not know. There are some eastern religions that believe we are destined to return in another body, time and again, until we do learn our lesson.”
“Dreadful,” he said. “I must say I always liked the idea of there being an afterlife where we dance upon the clouds and we see those we loved again.”
She chuckled. “I thought you said you did not believe in heaven.”
“I said I do not believe in God. And I do not truly believe in heaven either. But I hope it is there. I hope we go on and that we see our loved ones again. I do not know that I like the idea of returning again and again and not knowing those I used to love. Starting over.”
“But if that is truly so, then you would not know that you knew somebody before,” she argued. “Besides, I have a feeling that if you were close to somebody in a previous life, and in this life you meet them again, you would recognize them somehow. I think it would be a feeling. Perhaps a prickle within.”
He paused for a moment, lost in thought. “I would like to know that I would recognize somebody I knew in a previous life if they were important enough.”
They sat and smiled at one another before a somber quiet set in. Some time later, a knock on the door sounded. The physician, Mr. Fitzroy, entered the room.
“Good day, Lord Wexford, Lady Wexford,” he said.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Fitzroy,” Lucien said, standing to shake the man’s hand.
“Of course, my lord. Now, let us see what ails the young master.” Mr. Fitzroy leaned over Henry. The physician placed a hand on the boy’s forehead, then examined his throat.
After several minutes, Mr. Fitzroy straightened and turned to face them both.
“It is a severe cold,” he said. “His throat is quite inflamed, and there is some congestion in his chest. It is not uncommon for children to contract such illnesses.”
“A cold?” Lucien repeated, and Marianne could hear the relief in his voice even as worry still creased his brow. “Nothing more serious?”
