His nightmarish marriage had confirmed his unworthiness to ever live a normal life. It had been fitting to think himself tied to a mental defective, with the punishing guilt of how badly he had used the child. But in spite of his remorse, he had never truly thought of his wife as a person in her own right.
Now in this night of purgatory, he could not escape the face of the girl he had known as Mary Hamilton, with her dazed, drugged, terrified eyes. More and more clearly, he recognized that under the terror were the soft features and haunted loveliness of Diana.
The harsh realities and savage beauty of India had burned away any remnants of his youth. Military service hardened him, and it had been a blessing to feel less. Since returning to England, he had built a satisfactory life, honoring his obligations and finding the chesslike challenges of intelligence work quirkily gratifying.
Until Diana had appeared, weaving sweet illusions of warmth and happiness, then tearing them asunder. His wife, whom he had raped and abandoned, who had returned to become the love of his life, who even now, incredibly, heart-breakingly, claimed to love him.
He had never been more grateful to see a dawn, though it came with glacial slowness, giving the promise of light long before fulfilling it. When Bonner appeared, the valet bandaged his arm with military precision and no comments or questions. Diana had done an excellent job. The slash was long and shallow, messy but causing no real damage.
Briefly he wondered where she had learned to use a knife, but there was much he would never know or understand about the woman he had married. He bathed, as if hot water could wash away the stains of ancient evil, then wrote a note to Geoffrey, postponing their ride with apologies. He was unable to face innocence this morning.
There were advantages to having a reputation for silence, for no one seemed to notice that he was any different than he had been the day before. Except perhaps Francis, who looked at him with a furrowed brow. Diana, thank heaven, kept herself out of his sight. At the moment, being in the same room with her would have been more than Gervase could bear.
* * *
Breakfast in the nursery was a cheerful affair, or would have been if Diana had not looked so drained, her fair, fragile skin shadowed with fatigue. It took no great intelligence for Madeline to guess that there had been a clash, and she wondered how his lordship of St. Aubyn looked this morning.
Maddy and Geoffrey engaged in a tacit conspiracy to cheer Diana, talking back and forth merrily. After breakfast, Geoffrey slipped off to visit some of the estate children whom he had met on his Christmas visit. Madeline wondered how they would regard him now that it was known that the boy was the heir to Aubynwood; it was bound to make a difference.
As Diana gazed blankly into space, Madeline opened two letters that had just been delivered. The first was from Nicholas, full of the most marvelously improper suggestions, and with the happy news that he would be able to return to London sooner than expected.
He was pressing for a definite wedding date. A year and a day after the death of his wife, perhaps. A very quiet ceremony. He seemed very sure that was what he wanted, and she had always wanted him. She read the letter three times before setting it aside.
The second letter was from Edith, who had taken the mail coach and made fast work of the trip to Scotland. In a firm, inelegant hand, she laid out her findings:
Madeline read the letter once, then again, before glancing speculatively at Diana. On balance, she thought her friend could do with a distraction, even a melodramatic one. “Here’s a letter from Edith. She’s been to your village in Lanarkshire. You’ll want to read it yourself.”
Her words startled Diana out of her abstraction and she accepted the letter. As she read, she turned very pale and was silent so long that Madeline finally asked if she was well.
“I’m all right, Maddy.” Diana buried her face in her hands for a time, but there were no tears. Finally she raised her head, her features sad but resigned. “So all of those years my father was suffering from venereal disease. No wonder he cursed lust and considered women a source of contamination.”
“He must have been guilt-ridden as well,” Madeline ventured. “For contracting the disease through adultery, for giving it to your mother, for being the cause of her suicide.”
Diana nodded slowly, her eyes distant. “It would have been enough to drive him mad even if the disease didn’t. After my mother’s death, he terrorized me with his ravings about sin and corruption and the evils of worldliness. And yet, as the letter says, he’d been very fashionable in his youth. After going into the church he gave up silks and velvets and all the other trappings of wealth, except for a gentleman’s pistol that he carried for protection.”
She sighed, her face deeply sad. “He was very quick to condemn others, yet he succumbed to temptation himself. For a few moments of carnal pleasure, he destroyed himself and his family. Such a tragic waste.”
Her voice broke for a moment before she could continue. “He must have suffered greatly from his guilt. And he must have known that he was going mad.”
“It’s generous of you to feel compassion after all he did to you,” Madeline observed.
Diana smiled wryly. “It’s far easier to be compassionate now that he’s safely dead. I’ve lived a whole lifetime since I saw him last, and it has been a much better life.” She folded the letter into precise quarters. “When I was little, he wasn’t a bad father. Stern, but not unkind. Sometimes he was even affectionate. I’ll try to remember him like that. I hope he is at peace now.”
“And your mother?”
Diana closed her eyes in pain at the question. “Now I understand why she was so distraught before . . . the end. She left no note. I think she must have decided on impulse that she just couldn’t face the future, and walked into a pond wearing heavy winter clothes.” She shivered, then opened her eyes. “The official verdict was death by misadventure so she could be buried in holy ground, but everyone knew that she couldn’t have drowned there unless she wanted to.”
“Can you forgive her for leaving you?”
Diana nodded, biting her lip. “Mama knew how to love, generously and wisely. She taught me to read, to love music and books. Most important, she gave me a sense of spirituality quite different from my father’s harsh, condemning religion. It was from her that I learned that love is more important than hatred or revenge. It was because of her that I was able to survive my farce of a marriage as well as I did.”
She smiled wryly. “Not that my conduct has been all that saintly. I was angrier than I knew. But it wasn’t hatred or anger or desire for revenge that dominated my life, in spite of what my husband believes.”
Gently she clasped the folded letter between her palms, her eyes distant. “I would never have emerged from my childhood with any health or sanity if it hadn’t been for my mother. You remind me of her.” Diana drew a shuddering breath. “That’s why it was so hard to comprehend why Mama would kill herself. With what Edith writes, finally I understand. May God have mercy on both their souls.”
Then her face crumpled and she began to cry, with the healing tears of release.
* * *
