Virginia gazed up at the stars instead of at the other woman. But it was impossible not to be aware of her kindness and compassion; it flowed from her the way it might from an unearthly angel, in holy, tangible waves.
“Child,” she said softly, tilting Virginia’s face. “How can I apologize for what my son has done?”
Virginia had to meet her gaze. The woman’s sympathy threatened her composure. “It’s not your fault.”
For one moment, Mary could not speak. “I love both of my sons with all of my heart. I want them to have lives of peace and joy. It is very hard, here in Ireland, to attain such a life. Sean, I think, has come close. But Devlin? He went to sea when he was a boy. I have rarely seen him since. He has chosen a life without joy, a life on the high seas, a life of war and destruction and death. He lives with his pain, closed off to the world, to people, as if he were his own island, as if he did not need any human companionship, any love, any joy.” Mary closed her eyes and tears slipped down her cheeks. “I have prayed so much for him.”
Virginia had the odd urge to cry, too. “Maybe he doesn’t need companionship or love.” She was terse.
“He may be cold,” Mary said, meeting her gaze, “but he is a man. A heart beats in his chest, filled with red, human blood. Of course he needs companionship and love. We all do.”
Virginia wasn’t sure that Mary de Warenne was right.
“I wake up in the middle of the night, worrying about him. I have cried myself back to sleep a hundred times. My husband reminds me that he is a grown man and that in many ways, we should be proud of him. He grew up with nothing. We were very poor, once. Now he owns this fine manor, land that has belonged to O’Neills and FitzGeralds for generations, and he has many fine ships, his own fleet, really, not to mention a wonderful home in Greenwich. He was recently knighted, you know.” She smiled through more tears. “It is Sir Devlin now.”
“He is a very powerful man,” Virginia said hoarsely.
“Yes, he is.” Mary seized her hands. “But he isn’t cruel. Is he?” she begged.
Virginia stared, for a long moment incapable of a response. Finally she whispered, “Not in the way that you mean.”
“Oh, dear Jesus, what has he done?” Mary cried.
“I’m fine,” Virginia lied, agonized.
Mary studied her closely, searchingly, as agonized and desperate as only a mother can be. “I raised my sons to respect women,” she said hoarsely.“Has he respected you?”
Virginia did not know how to answer. Had Mary asked her this question even the day before Devlin’s departure, she would have said yes without hesitation. But now the hurt came rushing back, a roaring in her ears, deafening her, a haze in front of her eyes, briefly blinding her.He had left without even the most careless goodbye.It still hurt, dear God, and if that wasn’t cruel, what was?
Mary knew. She covered her bosom with her hand, shaking, and she turned away. “If I didn’t love him so, I would disown him—my own flesh and blood.” She turned back. “Are you with child?”
There was no more denying anything. Virginia shook her head.
Mary came closer and cupped her cheek. “You are such a beautiful young woman,” she whispered. “Do you love him?”
Virginia started. Then she said, “Please. I just can’t answer any more questions!” She pulled away, began to run, then turned back. “Lady de Warenne, he didn’t really hurt me. I think he tried to be the man you wish him to be. No! I know he tried. But…it just happened!” She knew she was defending him now. She shook her head wildly, panicking, for her defense remained inexplicable. “I don’t know anything anymore! I only know that I must go home.” She turned and ran inside, past Sean and the earl, stammering out some inane regrets. Then she fled to the safety of her bedroom.
IN THEIR COACH, EDWARD SLIPPEDhis arm around his wife and held her close. She turned to him, laying her cheek on his broad chest, closing her eyes. He could feel her anguish, and while he loved Devlin as if he were his own biological son, he hated the pain he caused his wife and wished he had the power to prevent it.
It was the ultimate irony that many powerful men dealt with—they might rule a kingdom filled with subjects, but they could not rule an errant son.
Edward stroked her hair. “Don’t worry anymore tonight,” he breathed. “Tomorrow we will discuss this and decide what to do.”
Mary did not answer. He felt her trembling and knew she was crying again. He bent and kissed her temple. She found his hand and clung to it.
“What would I do without you? I love you, Edward, I love you so much.”
An ancient thrill swept him. He had fallen in love with Mary the first moment he had ever seen her, when Gerald, his tenant, had brought home his new seventeen-year-old bride. He himself was engaged at the time, the nuptials imminent. He had spent eleven years admiring her from a distance, never once making an inappropriate remark or gesture, while she bore her husband three children and his own wife bore him three fine sons and a daughter. In those years, he had developed respect and admiration for his tenant, as well as a wary caution. He heard rumors about the Defenders having come to Wexford, that their enthusiasm and power was growing. Edward had always favored full Catholic emancipation, as he felt it would enable Ireland to become stronger economically and politically and thus help her to become an equal to the mother country. Others disagreed. Others feared the loss of power and land should newly entitled Catholics seek to restore their ancient claims.
From time to time he dined with Gerald, Mary politely excusing herself so the two men could discuss the land, trade, the economy and, eventually, politics. Two Irishmen could not sit down together without discussion of Ireland’s inferior position economically, constitutionally, socially, not even a Protestant and a Catholic. There was always heated debate.
Gerald had never suspected that he was in love with his wife.
Mary had known. She had sensed it from the first, and from that time, she had kept her eyes cast aside whenever he was present, as if afraid that one single shared glance might lead to something terribly wrong.
Sometime before the Wexford uprising he had learned of Gerald’s involvement in the secret criminal society. They had fought terribly, almost coming to blows, with Edward demanding he stay out of the conflict. Days before the rebels took the town of Wexford, Gerald had ridden into Adare at a gallop, his appearance one of a madman.
Adare had met him in the courtyard, terrified that something dire had happened to Mary or her children. Gerald had leapt from his horse and seized the earl by the lapels of his hunt coat. “I need you to swear to me that you will look after my wife and children, Edward.”
