“But there was much more that threw us apart,” she said. Then she paused. “Do you know anything about his wife—the first wife—and how she died?”
“No, as I said, I have not spoken to Mrs. Greaves for a very long time. However, that is something you should ask him.”
“I did, and he never wished to speak...” She stopped. “I suppose perhaps that is what he wanted to speak to me about. The night he found out that I was leaving for the convent.”
“You did not tell him?” Sister Bernadette said, the judgment obvious in her voice.
“No. I would have, but he heard the news from my sister first. I was so angry at him still.”
Sister Bernadette did something unthinkable then. She took Marianne’s hand. She had never known Sister Bernadette to be affectionate to anyone in such a way. But something in her visage softened. “Marianne, you have been through much. And the way he treated you was not right. But if he is anything like the young boy Mrs. Greaves would write to me about, I believe that he has a good heart. A kind heart. And whatever demons have bothered him can be dislodged.”
“But I haven’t the strength to dislodge them,” Marianne said. “And I have walked away. I have said goodbye to him, to Henry, to the life we had. I know that I will likely not take my vows, but I will not go back to that life. I’m not made for it.”
“And that is quite all right,” Sister Bernadette said. “We are not all made for it. I was not. You may not be made for God either, but you will be made for something. You are God’s child, as we all are. Perhaps what you can do is pray. Pray that you will be shown the way. Pray that the fog will lift and that you will know what to do. And listen to your heart.”
“I already know what my heart wants,” Marianne said. “My heart wants him. It has always wanted him. But it cannot be.”
Sister Bernadette squeezed her hands with her own and then withdrew them to fold them into her lap.
“Clarity will come, my child. Now, the service will be over soon. Go and have breakfast.”
Marianne nodded and left, feeling more conflicted than ever before. Sister Bernadette was right—she and Lucien were more alike than she had ever known. They both had struggled with fathers who placed expectations upon them that they could not fulfill. They both had lost the people who had been closest to them—she her mother, and he his grandfather. And it was true. If he had been the young man he had been, he still was, deep in his heart. Mrs. Greaves adored him now as she had evidently adored him when she used to write letters to Sister Bernadette.
And he could not help his demons, could he? No more than she could help her own. It was all too late now. She had run away. She had left it all behind. It was time to leave the past in the past. And yet, as she turned into the breakfast room, she knew that inher heart of hearts, she did not truly want to leave him behind at all.
CHAPTER 32
LUCIEN
Lucien had never known such loneliness in his life. It was most bizarre, that feeling deep in his chest, like a gaping hole that swallowed everything up. He still spent much time with Henry, but even those hours felt hollow compared to before.
Yes, Henry made him happy as he always had, but he knew now that there could be another kind of happiness. One that he had always sought but not found with Arabella. One that he had had for the briefest of moments with Marianne.
If he had not been so harsh with Marianne the day Henry called her Mama, then perhaps that happiness would still be his. If only he could’ve recovered from the pain inflicted upon him by Arabella. If he could’ve left behind the guilt... If he had only given Marianne a chance. If he had told her the truth...
Ifs were what governed his days since she left.
The price for his failure was steep. Again.
It had been three weeks since she left. Three weeks in which he had woken at night, wishing to find her beside him again. Weeks in which he had walked into the breakfast room, hoping to see her with Henry, slicing his roll, laughing as he spilled egg yolk. Weeks in which he had walked past Henry’s chamber and hoped to find her voice again, trying in vain to mimic the voices of the characters in the books.
But of course, it wasn’t going to be.
He was on his way to the drawing room when Mrs. Greaves found him.
“My lord,” she said, some heaviness in her voice that he hadn’t noted before.
“Yes?” he asked.
“My lord, there’s something I must say.”
“Go on. It has never been like you to not tell me what was on your mind.”
“I think you should go after Lady Wexford. I think you should find her at the convent and tell her everything you have not told her. Confess everything that has held you back from being happy.”
“Mrs. Greaves, Lady Wexford has left us. She said her goodbyes. She has returned to the convent, and from there she will make her own decisions. Our marriage is at an end. I know that you wanted me to have a wife and for Henry to have a mother, but that was never why I married. I wanted to be free from societal constraints. Now I am. I am free, and she is free.”
The words rang hollow, and Mrs. Greaves did not humor him by pretending they sounded anything but.
