I heard the sharp, low intake of breath, the muttered curse. I thanked God I did not have to explain it further. From his association with the brothel, Val knew exactly what to infer.
“Oh, Julia. Little wonder you cannot remember loving him. He must seem a stranger to you now.”
“Yes.” I felt my earrings swing against the silk of my veil. I must have nodded, but I do not remember moving at all. I felt nothing but the pressure of his hand on mine and the light whisper of the earrings brushing the veil. “I thought I knew him, Val. We grew up together, for God’s sake. How could I not know that he preferred boys?”
“Men,” Val corrected. For the first time I looked at him. He met my eyes squarely, to his credit. I doubt many could have under the circumstances.
“Victoria—Cass, said there were boys in the attic.”
He shook his head, his dark hair glossy even in the gloom. Why did he never wear a hat, I wondered inconsequentially.
“They call them that in the Box, but they are men. Young ones, seventeen, eighteen and older. There are no children kept there.”
“Thank God for that,” I said with feeling. “I thought she meant—”
“No. Edward’s preferences might have been unorthodox, but they were not criminal.”
“But they were,” I pointed out quietly. “Sodomy is against the law.”
“We condone Portia’s behavior. Is this so very different?”
He was trying to be fair and evenhanded—probably with an eye to making me feel better about the situation. I did not.
“Portia is in love with Jane,” I hissed at him. “She does not pay strangers for their favors.”
“Does that mean that you would find it more excusable if Edward had loved one person, instead of satisfying himself with prostitutes?”
I snatched my hand back. My breath was coming quickly, puffing out my veil in little waves. “It is not excusable in any event. He broke his vows to me, vows he never should have made, given his proclivities.”
Val made to speak, but I continued on, ranting him to silence. “A year ago, I buried him, and I was relieved, I confess. His health had grown so poor, and his temper so uncertain, that I had learned to fear him. He even struck his valet on occasion, and once, just once, he raised his hand to me. He did not hit me, but I saw the struggle within him to stay his hand. He had become violent, Val. And every day after that one I wondered, was this the day he would lose that last, desperate bit of control? Was this the day he would beat me or kill me?”
Val did not try to speak now. He simply sat and listened, letting the pain pour out of me as poison will from a lanced boil. “By the time he died, I was prepared to let him go. I had mourned the boy I loved because I had already lost him. But at least I had the memory of what he was, what he had been, to console me. But now, when all his sins have come to light, I have not even that small solace. I cannot ever again grieve that he is gone, miss his ways and his smiles, without thinking of the lies and the deceit. Do you not understand, Valerius? Every memory I have of my husband is a lie.”
I rose, shaking off his protective arm. “Leave me. I will make my own way home.”
“Julia, please. I did not wish to hurt you. I thought only to console, and in my clumsiness I have wounded you. I am truly sorry.”
He was penitent, but not pleading. He had learned pride and he wore the dignity of the Marches like a mantle.
I nodded in acceptance. “This is too raw, yet,” I said by way of explanation.
He enfolded me in his arms, the second time in two days, I marveled. I stepped back, feeling marginally better.
“There is a call I must make now.”
“Shall I come with you?”
I opened my mouth to refuse, then thought better of it.
“Yes. There is someone I should like you to meet.”
THE THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow…
—William Shakespeare
