One of those few was his sister-in-law. When a solemn Charles came down and indicated that his mother was ready to receive him, Lewis felt his throat close up. He was tempted to run, but he had never run from duty in his life, and he would not begin now.
Sunlight shafted in at the far end of the room, but the countess was seated in shadow, her face obscured. It didn’t matter. He would have known her anywhere. “Marie-Claire. . .”
She stood and walked to him, her hands outstretched. He caught them in his and looked down at her, absorbing every detail of change since he had last seen her five years before. She was a small woman, a little too thin at the moment, her face showing the effects of these last years of strain. The rich, dark hair had wide streaks of silver now, and she wore it pulled back in a loose coil on her neck. She was beautiful in the fashion of a Renaissance Madonna.
She smiled and it was like the sun coming out. “It’s good to see you, Louis.” She was the only one who ever used the French form of his name, and her accent made music of it.
They held hands a moment longer, then she released him and seated herself. “Pray make yourself comfortable, Louis.” When he had chosen a chair, she said, her voice grave, “Charles told me what happened, though I had already learned of it from the servants.” She smiled faintly. “They probably told me more than even you would know.”
The smile vanished and her voice was sorrowful as she continued, “How did it come to happen, Louis? You had not used to be so . . . insensitive.”
“There is no acceptable excuse, Marie-Claire. I frightened her. And”—it was a painful admission—“I wanted to, a little. I wanted to shock her enough to see me differently, enough to see the advantages of marrying me. I behaved abominably.”
She smiled ruefully. “The fault is not solely yours. My Christa has always been impulsive, and independent to a fault.” Her eyes closed a moment, picturing the bright face of the daughter she had not seen in two years. When she opened her eyes, the countess continued in a more robust tone.
“I think you and Charles take too pessimistic a view. I very much doubt that my daughter is dead or in dire straits now. You men underestimate the ingenuity of a woman.” She chuckled fondly. “You underestimate Christa in particular. I believe that she could be left in a den of lions, and the next morning they would be letting her use them for pillows.”
She was silent for a moment. “But if she truly decided to lose herself, we may never find her. She could be anywhere. Perhaps even America. Christa always said she wanted to see what a country looked like when the revolution was over.” She sighed. “If that happened, we may never see her again.”
Her brother-in-law’s face was stricken. “It never occurred to me that she might have left the country. I think she had enough money to buy a passage.”
Marie-Claire studied his guilt-ridden countenance. A deeply intuitive woman, she could imagine what he had gone through this last year. Louis was a responsible man and he would see himself as having betrayed a trust. It would have been a shattering blow to his sense of self, and she could see the pain etched in his face.
She said briskly, “I have by no means despaired of finding my daughter. I think it very likely that some of our émigré friends here in London know of her whereabouts but would not speak to you.”
Correctly interpreting his expression, she added with amusement, “Even in the face of the no doubt generous bribes you would have offered. My little one has a gift for inspiring loyalty.” The countess studied him a moment longer, then said gently, “As she has a gift for inspiring love. I do not blame you for loving her, old friend. What man would not?”
Lewis sprang from his chair, nearly undone by the chaos of his emotions. He circled the room, tension in every step, then halted under a portrait of Marie-Claire and her first husband with Charles as a toddler. It was a beautiful painting of a beautiful family and had been completed a bare two months before his brother died.
Looking at the portrait, he said in a despairing voice, “It’s time there was truth between us, Marie-Claire. I did not really love Christa as a man loves a woman. Or if I did, only a little. What I loved most was that she was your daughter.”
Lewis turned to face her, a blaze of emotion transforming the face that had always been so impassive. “She is a lovely girl, but only a shadow of you. It has always been you, the whole of my life. There will never be anyone else.”
Marie-Claire had the gift of stillness. Her very silence seemed to wrench the admission from him. “I love you, and you have reason to hate me. But I had to tell you, even if it costs me your friendship. When I thought you were dead . . .” His voice choked off and he fought for control. I mourned you and Charles with all my heart. But almost worse was knowing that I had never declared myself to you, that I would go to my grave as a man who was too frightened to admit to love. I thought perhaps you knew that I loved you but were too kind to reveal your knowledge.”
She spoke then. “You were only thirteen when I married your brother. I knew that you were . . . enamored of me, but I thought that in time you outgrew it.”
“I might have, had I loved you in the fashion of a boy. But I loved you as a man does. The way I love you still.” His voice was colorless as he continued, “I was eighteen when you married your cousin. I would have hated him if I could, but Philippe was too fine a man to hate, and he had loved you all his life. I, of all people, could understand that.”
He linked his hands together and said with a kind of defiance, “I am yours to command—whether you bid me leave your sight forever or put a period to my existence for injuring your daughter. I will be your brother-in-law, or your friend if you wish it.” Lewis stopped for a long moment before ending in a quiet, unsteady voice, “Or your husband if you would have me.”
There was stark pain in his voice when he continued after a long pause, “I am a thousand kinds of fool, for only a fool would make an offer in the shadow of the injury I have done you. I suppose it is in keeping with the joke I have made of myself in your eyes. You have had two husbands, and both have been extraordinary men. Men with a capacity for love and laughter that exceeds anything in my power.”
Lewis stopped, his ragged breathing the only sound in the room. His voice was barely audible as he finished, “I know that you can never love me, and it was selfish of me to burden you with my emotions. I will never speak of this again.”
Marie-Claire made an impatient motion with her hand. “You dishonor your own worth, Louis. I have never thought you incapable of love. I have seen you with Charles, and his own father could not have cared for him more.” She searched his face, seeing the vulnerable core of the man that had been hidden for so many years. She had always been deeply fond of him. When she continued, it was with compassion.
“I am grieved beyond words that your whole life has been misshapen by your love for me. Perhaps I knew that you had not outgrown your calf-love, but I didn’t want to believe it. I would rather have seen you love a woman who could return it as you deserve.”
He regarded her steadily. “I would have loved another if I could. But it was impossible.”
“It’s not too late for you,” she said earnestly. “You are a handsome man, still young enough to begin a new life and family. Do not waste yourself on me any longer!”
Lewis moved a step closer. She thought he was handsome? Following a thread of feeling too faint to be called hope, he asked, “Is it so unthinkable that you could ever love me?”
She rose then and crossed to the windows, turning to face him with the late afternoon sun falling across her. The harsh light illuminated the fine lines in her face, the silver in her hair. “Look at me, Louis! I am five years older than you, and I have done a life’s worth of living. I have buried two husbands and a baby and I am physically and emotionally too tired to begin again. If you move beyond your . . . obsession with me, you can marry a woman young enough to give you children and have the life you should have begun twenty years ago.”
He moved so close they were almost touching and looked into the wondrously clear gray eyes Marie-Claire had bequeathed her children. “Charles has been my son, I need no more. I know that you are no longer a girl, and it doesn’t matter. To me, you will always be beautiful.”
