‘I’ve never told anyone before. You can see why.’
‘They’d kill you if they found out.’
‘Who?’
‘Everybody.’ She let out a little hiccup of laughter, loud in the quiet room, and heard the wild hysteria in her own voice. ‘Good God, Max, my poor darling, everybody in the world.’
‘I know. That’s what I’ve always thought, ever since I found out. His supporters, of course, most of all – unless they wanted to use me, my very existence, to help him get rid of her, as he is said to wish to, since she has not been able to give him the heir he needs. But then they’d probably do that, use me to destroy her, and kill me afterwards. I’d still be an embarrassment, a reminder that would reflect badly on him. He is said to be very proud and careful of his consequence, now he is Emperor.’
‘Emperor,’ she murmured dazedly. ‘Empress. Good God in heaven, Max… No wonder you did not want to tell me.’
‘The British, too. They’d like to parade me about, perhaps, to taunt and humiliate him. But they wouldn’t necessarily need me alive at the end of that, either. Probably better if I wasn’t. Simpler, you know? The stepson, if that’s what I am, of their greatest enemy. And there are people, too, here and everywhere, who don’t believe that the races should be mixed. To them, I am an affront, even as Max Severin, which is to say nobody in particular. If they knew I was Josephine’s bastard…’
‘Crazy people,’ she murmured, not disagreeing with him, for it would insult his intelligence, his bitter lived experience, to do so, or to offer false words of comfort. There was no comfort she could give him. ‘So many crazy people, everywhere.’
‘They’d be drawn to me, like wasps to jam. You can see that they would. And that’s why I can’t marry you, my love. Or anybody, not that I have ever had the least desire to wed before. It wouldn’t be fair. I can’t ask you to take that terrible risk, however much I wish I could in my more irresponsible moments. It would be like painting a target on your back. I love you. I’ve never been in love before, and now I know the wonder and the pain of it. You mean more to me than my own pathetic life. I won’t do it.’
‘I love you too,’ she said softly. It should be a momentousthing to say, a rare and precious thing, for both of them, but it was inevitably overshadowed by the circumstances. ‘For what it’s worth, Max, I do. I’ve been fighting it for a long time, it seems to me now.’
He raised her hands, and kissed them with passionate intensity, then held them against his stubbled cheeks. ‘It is worth everything, at least to me. I never dared hope you might, and I almost wish you didn’t, love, though it warms my heart to hear you say you do. I cannot tell you how much it means to me, not if we sat here till the dawn broke, but I do not welcome it, because I would give anything to spare you pain. And you must see that nothing good can come of this.’
She found a fugitive spark of humour in herself, in this extremity of emotion. ‘You could ravish me here, on the kitchen table. I expect that would be good.’
‘I could, but I won’t. I made a promise to your grandfather, and if I cared nothing for that or for him, I would not put you in that danger. There could be a child. You have barely escaped disgrace once already, in part because of my reckless actions – enough. I have not quite lost my mind.’
‘And you’re too bloody tired.’
‘I don’t think I could ever be too tired to make love to you, not while I have breath in my body. But still I won’t. I should go now, my dearest, my precious love – it’s late. Your mother will be lying awake, listening for your step on the stairs.’
She admitted that this was so, and after a little while he got up to leave. He took her in his arms and held her, and they clung together, until they found the strength to break apart. They kissed very tenderly at the last, and it felt like a goodbye, though neither of them said the hateful word, or spoke of whether they would ever meet again.
She locked and bolted the door behind him and made her way slowly up the stairs, which seemed steeper and narrower than they ever had before. She was so tired, and could only be grateful that her mother did not call out to her, but let her drag herself to bed, even if there was no sleep or rest to be found there.
43
The long hours passed, and the watchman trudging by in the street called them out inexorably, as if to torment her on purpose. Allegra lay awake as dawn came creeping across London, tossing and turning, wondering if their situation was truly as hopeless as it appeared to be. It was in her stubborn nature to fight, not submit to fate or the will of others. She could not find a clever solution – as far as she could see, there was none – but shecouldtell Max that their love was stronger than the hellish situation his life had forced on him, through no fault of his own. She could argue with all the passion and tenacity of which she was capable that they should set all their difficulties aside and marry, and live as freely and happily as they could for as long as they could, letting the uncertain future take care of itself.
After all, who could ever be guaranteed perpetual felicity? No one in this world. Happy endings were for fairy tales. Kings and queens, princes and princesses, married in the most propitious of circumstances, buoyed up by wealth, power, and sometimes beauty, every material advantage and universal good wishes, and yet even they were suddenly struck down by illness or by othergrave misfortunes. Good, honest people, like poor King George, went mad and then recovered, only to relapse at unpredictable intervals, a cause of constant anxiety to their loved ones. Treasured children died, even in palaces. Ships were wrecked, fortunes were lost and innocent families ruined. Life was unpredictable always, and disaster was no more to be anticipated with any certainty than strokes of good fortune. Was a life together with all the manifold joys they could share not worth the risk that came with choosing to be hopeful?
But then she thought of the hideous strain that Max had clearly been suffering under ever since he’d learned the truth, close on ten years ago now, and she feared that it would be grotesquely selfish to overbear his quite rational fears, to persuade him to court that mortal danger, even if indeed she could achieve so much. Imagine if they married. He’d spend every waking minute of their existence looking over his shoulder, fearing the worst, and if that worst ever came, as one day it might, his self-reproaches for involving her in ruin would be bitter indeed. Couldshelive with her conscience, if she saw disaster unfolding, quick or slow, and knew she alone bore the responsibility of causing the man she loved so much unnecessary pain? It was easy to say that it was her risk to take, not his – but it was a risk that he had vehemently refused to contemplate on her behalf. Loving him, knowing he loved her, which gave her undue influence over him, should she not respect his clearly stated wishes? She could not be confident of the right and wrong of it, and in her dire need she could seek no advice or help from anyone. Not that she believed that anyone could really advise her even if they knew the truth.
There was just one thing she could do, and must do, even in her state of confusion and frozen misery. No more putting off. Sherose, and sat at her tiny writing desk in the early-morning chill, took up pen and paper, and wrote to Lord Milton. Letters might always be intercepted, of course – Lady Milton seemed just the type of woman to have no respect for others’ privacy. It was all too easy to picture her, magnificently unconcerned in her grey boudoir, ripping the seal from any correspondence she felt the slightest interest in, no matter to whom it might be addressed. And so Allegra couched her missive in guarded terms, declaring only that after much reflection and uncertainty she had come to the conclusion that she must decline his very flattering offer. If His Lordship wished to call on her to discuss the matter further, she would be at home to him any afternoon this week, but he should know that her mind was made up and she was not open to persuasion. She thought of adding something about her discretion, but could find no way of expressing the sentiment in a manner that was itself sufficiently discreet. He would come, she knew, to assure himself of her continuing silence. She would, in his position.
One of her minor worries had been whether her mother would interrogate her on what had occurred last night after she and Mr Severin had been left alone. Nothing would drag the truth from her, naturally, but it would be a painful interview all the same. It was inevitable, she could see, and so she sought it out, rather than having it hang over her all day, going resolutely to her mother’s sitting room straight after breakfast, once the girls were safely shut away with Miss Macintyre and her irregular Italian verbs.
She began abruptly, as Mrs Constantine had little time for small talk. ‘I’ve written to Lord Milton to decline his offer – I expect he may visit me today as a matter of courtesy. But that’s of no moment, really, except to him. You will be wondering about last night. Mr Severin did not ravish me on the table, Mama, youwill be pleased to know. We talked – for a long time – and then he left.’
Leontina’s gaze was steady on her face, and not unkind. ‘He told you… whatever it is.’
‘Yes. But I can’t tellyou.Oranyone.ReallyIcan’t.’
‘Was he right when he said it was an insuperable impediment to your marriage?’
She hesitated, struggling to formulate her thoughts in a way that would make sense to her mother, and yet not risk even the slightest hint at the terrifying truth. ‘I think so,’ she said slowly at last. ‘At least, I can see no solution, not even a glimmer of hope of one. The only way such a serious issue could be overcome would be if I set all my energies to persuading him that it did not matter, and given his feelings, I am not sure that it would be right to do that. Not when I enter fully into his sentiments on the problem; I cannot say even to myself that he is wrong, or exaggerating, or otherwise deluding himself or me. It is a truly horrible dilemma.’
Mrs Constantine said with unusual delicacy, ‘Forgive me, Allegra, but if his qualms relate to the matter of… of race, I honour his consideration of you and your future children, but I must think him over-scrupulous. Times are changing, though slowly, and for the better. This matter, or a similar one, was raised by Laurence, in fact, when he offered for your sister. His family is Portuguese Jewish, you know, in its origins. Your father respected his frankness, and told him so. If Papa were inclined to care about this, which I believe, to do him justice, he would not, be sure that I would soon set him straight.’
Allegra smiled rather mistily, and was aware of an unusual, almost unprecedented desire to hug her mother and cling to her for comfort. ‘Thank you, Mama, but it’s not that. If it had been only that, everything would be resolved by now. Such scruples on my part would be foolish, wicked even, when I love him so, andafter all, with the recent revelations about our background, we are hardly in a position…’
