He stood, breathing in the country air, and wondered how he’d become more a set of qualities than a person. Brick by brick, that’s how it had happened. The man he was had been built up by, then bricked in by, duty and expectation and admiration and reverence and, yes, honor. And by his own pride.
He knew that what he’d felt with her washappy. It was not a virtue or a vice. Perhaps the condition ought not even be labeled. Because it was pure, it was everything and nothing all at once, which was how he imagined the sky above felt. He imagined it was what a baby felt when it first opened its eyes into the world outside the womb. It seemed so clear that this was the human’s native state, perhaps the birthright. And that all of life was just a mission to get back to it.
These epiphanies were as disorienting as if he’d taken one of Delacorte’s powders.
His every breath in their aftermath was almost painful.
It was also interesting and new.
He stood next to his son in silence, beneath a blossoming tree. The sky above had no need of cherubs trailing scarves.
He’d walked the land out over an expanse of green interrupted by contented fluffy sheep. Sky and meadow met in the purest blue and green. It was that sort of day. They were rare enough.
The sheep were healthy and fat, and the sheepdogs were lean and lively and skilled. Earlier he’d spoken with the head shepherd, and found he was knowledgeable and conscientious. The house was in fine condition: comfortable, welcoming, warm. His son had seen to its care out of pride, not necessarily any passion for it, but James was proud of his son’s diligence.
“Arthur.”
“Yes, Father?”
“I’m going to ask you a question you might find unusual, but I’d like an honest answer. I shall not judge one way or another.”
His son, quite naturally, looked amused and wary. “Of course. Ask away.”
It was a while before James could form the words.
“Do you love your wife?”
Arthur gave a short, stunned laugh.
He studied his father’s face to ascertain whether it was some sort of trap or test.
And then he fell quiet. They listened to bees humming in the partaking of pollen.
James was touched and proud that he was searching for a thoughtful answer, because he wanted to please his father.
And then he watched color move into his son’s cheeks. “Yes. I would do anything to make Cathryn happy.”
You’re just a man, James.
She knew he loved her. She’d been asking him to choose her over his own myth, the one that was not of his making. The one built up, like a castle, over decades.
There were some in England who would consider that choice almost akin to an act of war. So many had been invested in the creation of his myth, after all. It was their castle, too. It had served them well.
So be it. He was nothing if not a warrior.
He turned to his son and said, “Thank you fortelling me. I’m glad. And,” he added, “you have my permission to sell.”
The morning after the Night of the Nightingale dawned with astonishing clarity. Mariana was surprised to see the sunrise, in fact. She hadn’t slept at all; the night had flown, and it had been heady from start to finish. After all the guests had departed, and against protestations, Mariana changed into a day dress and apron and helped everyone at The Grand Palace on the Thames clean the ballroom. They’d all chattered and gossiped and reminisced happily about the evening’s triumph.
She simply didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to think about James.
She’d of course collected her percentage of the profitable evening. It was modest after her room and board were deducted, but well-earned.
Those who’d attended took memories away of a charming, gracious young woman possessed of an enormous gift, and those memories—well, they might not erase her past, but they would certainly blur and dilute it, as, with luck, she gave them more beautiful memories over the years, until all they thought about when they heard the name Mariana Wylde was “beauty.”
She had no illusions about the permanency of supremacy. The winds of fortune—and gossip—bent thetonthis way and that like stalks of wheat. She needed tobecomethe wind.
She’d packed her trunk with the help of Dot,and then she’d stayed up chattering with everyone in the reception room, which was all to the good, because it prevented thoughts of James from sneaking in through chinks of silence.
