Diana prepared for bed mechanically, then lay awake for hours, hoping he would come through the passage and join her, but he didn’t. For the first time at Aubynwood, she slept alone. She had done the right thing, but the tight, anguished knot at the center of her being was so painful that if he had come and asked her again to promise fidelity, she might have agreed.
The first night at Aubynwood, Gervase had retreated from her before deciding to allow himself nearer, and then there had been three weeks of comfort and joy. Now, war was joined between them, a subtle covert war, and by her own actions she had pushed him away again. Was the bond between them strong enough to withstand his fears? Or would her need for him cause her to surrender, condemning them both to less love than they were capable of? She had no idea, and her emotions were far too turbulent for her to hear the frail voice of intuition.
As she waited through the endless night for the dawn, Diana feared that she would pay any price rather than lose him.
Chapter Fourteen
The morning came late and heavy and Diana woke unrefreshed from restless slumber. The room was cold, with neither Gervase nor a maid to build the fire, and she shivered as she added fresh coal to the faintly glowing embers herself. Even though it was nine o’clock, her chamber was dim in the gray half light, and from the window she saw that the storm had deteriorated to a near-blizzard, with a hard east wind whipping the snow into drifts. It was like a high country storm in Yorkshire, and the sight pleased her. If they were forced to stay at Aubynwood, there would be time to heal the breach with Gervase.
But her hopes were frustrated; only Madeline was in the breakfast parlor. The footman gave her a note from Gervase. He wrote that he could no longer linger in the country, that he would be able to reach London on horseback, but conditions were quite unsuitable for a carriage. She and her party should avail themselves of Aubynwood for as long as they wished, and he recommended that she heed his coachman’s advice on when the roads would be safe for travel. It was a brief, impersonal note, such as could be written to anyone. Only the last sentence held any comfort:I will call on you on your return to London.
She folded the letter slowly. As careful as the viscount was with words, he would not have added that last line unless he really intended to see her again. Perhaps she reflected too much on what had happened last night, and there had been no fundamental change between them. But in her heart, she did not believe that. Last night battle had been joined, and it would end with them truly united, or forever apart.
* * *
For five long days Diana and her party waited through snowing, blowing, and finally thaw. Even a house as large as Aubynwood began to seem too small, and they were all ready to leave as soon as the St. Aubyn coachman allowed that a carriage could manage. The roads were muddy and slow, quite unlike the journey north, and they had to spend one night at an inn.
Diana was tense with anticipation when they arrived back in London, longing to see Gervase, but her hopes were dashed again. This time it was her own servant who handed her a letter, and for a long, heart-stopping moment she feared that it would say good-bye, that the viscount had no desire to put up with her moods and demands any longer, that she had already been replaced by any one of hundreds of more satisfactory mistresses.
Given her black imaginings, it was some relief to tear open the envelope and learn that the worst had not happened, though the message was bad enough. In another polite, passionless note, Gervase said that he found it necessary to go to Ireland on business, and that he would be back in several weeks.
As she stared down at the heavy, cream-colored stationery, she wondered if this was another skirmish in their undeclared war. He had made no mention of an upcoming trip to Ireland. Was his business really that urgent, or was he giving her a demonstration of what it would be like to live without him?
He needn’t have bothered, because she already knew. The weeks ahead stretched as endless as eternity.
* * *
The winter trip to Dublin was difficult and exhausting as Gervase stopped and talked with various raffish men to discover what they knew. The other, more important part of his task was to visit his former commander from India, Sir Arthur Wellesley, now Chief Secretary of Ireland.
Wellesley was a lean man of middle height, with a great hooked nose and an air of quiet self-possession. The two men always got on well, and they could be friends now that Gervase was no longer a junior officer. They had an amiable private dinner, keeping the talk general until the meal was over and the servants dismissed.
Each took a glass of port, though both were abstemious in their habits. Gervase idly fingered the goblet. If he hadn’t been so absorbed with Diana during the autumn, he would have visited Wellesley earlier. He’d come to make an offer, something against his usual practice, but which needed to be done. He began with a question for which he could guess the answer. “How does governing Ireland compare with life in India?”
Wellesley grimaced. “I’d prefer an honest battle any day—Ireland is too heartbreaking. I can effect a few mild reforms, but attempting major changes would make matters worse.”
“Does the fact that you were raised here make your task easier or harder?”
“Harder, I think, because I see more of the complexity. If I’d grown up in England, I would be more sure that I knew the answers.” Wellesley’s voice was sardonic as he studied his port, swirling the goblet absently. “When I think that I might spend the rest of my life doing this sort of thing . . .” He shook his head, not completing the sentence.
“This is only temporary,” Gervase said. “The campaigns you conducted in India, the Battle of Assaye—there isn’t another man in the army who could have done what you did. It’s just a matter of time until you receive another command.”
Wellesley leaned back in his chair wearily. Though he was not yet forty, a man at the height of his powers, he looked old tonight. “You know something of how they think at the Horse Guards, St. Aubyn. The commanders of the army are suspicious of Indian victories, as if they render a man unsuited to fight in Europe. And my brother’s politics are held against me as well.”
Gervase silently acknowledged the truth in the statement. Wellesley was a brilliant military man, not with the charismatic flair of a Napoleon, but with a calm, precise skill that would not permit defeat. As a junior officer, Gervase would have followed him to hell itself. With Europe almost totally under the sway of the French emperor, Britain needed military brilliance, and to waste such talent was insane.
But it was true that army headquarters looked askance at Indian army experience, and that Sir Arthur’s politician older brother had created many enemies through vanity and imperiousness. The two men could not have been more different, but Sir Arthur was loyal to his brother even though their close relationship injured his own ambitions.
“You have your supporters. As minister of war, Castlereagh is doing everything he can to get you a command. And . . .” Gervase took a sip of port. He had come now to the real reason for this visit. “I might be able to help. I am not without some influence, though it is of a subterranean kind.”
Wellesley’s brows lifted. He must have heard rumors of the work his guest did. “Are you saying that you will assist me?”
Gervase nodded. “Several of the ministers owe me favors. It’s time I collected.”
There had been the matter of the Treaty of Tilsit between France and Russia, for example. Gervase had discovered what the secret articles were and how they affected Britain. He had given the information to Canning, and the foreign minister had been most grateful. There were other incidents, other ministers. Much could be done.
Wellesley looked startled, and the light blue eyes sparked with hope. “You would do that for me? You have a reputation for avoiding politics.”
“Generally I do,” Gervase agreed, “but what is the point of having influence if it is never used?” He tilted his goblet back and finished his port. “For years we have been stalemated, with Britain controlling the seas and France the Continent. Sooner or later, a crack will show up in Napoleon’s Fortress Europe. When it does, you must be there to turn the crack into a chasm. That won’t happen if you are an administrator in Ireland.”
