Brenda Joyce (44 page)
Authors: The Finer Things
Tulley announced her on the threshold.
The countess and Catherine were seated on one sofa, speaking quietly, some lists spread out on the low table in front of them. Violette thought that she had been right, they were finalizing wedding plans for Catherine and Blake.
Both women stared at her, wide-eyed, and then at the baby. It was the countess who recovered first, rising swiftly to her feet She quickly crossed the room, neither smiling nor unsmiling. But her arms were outstretched. “Violette!” she said, her tone thick and hoarse.
For one moment Violette thought that the countess knew why she had come, and that she wanted Susan now. Violette was mentally preparing herself to give Susan away, but reflexively held onto her more tightly. The countess, however, did not even reach for the baby. Instead, she embraced Violette even as Violette held the infant.
The tears began then, impossible to stop, but slowly, a stream.
The countess pulled away. Their gazes met. “I have thought about you so often, my dear,” Susannah said. “Blake has told me how well you are, how well you are doing, and I have been so glad for you.” Her gaze moved to the baby. “Oh my Lord,” she said softly.
Violette’s heart was bursting with anguish. “Your …” She found it impossible to speak.
“My granddaughter,” the countess whispered, her eyes shimmering and steady upon the sleeping child.
Catherine had stood up, but she did not approach. She seemed upset.
Violette could not even look at her, knew she had to. She did. “Hello, Catherine. Congratulations,” she managed in a husky whisper.
Catherine seemed on the verge of tears. She nodded, not even saying hello.
Violette looked away, hurt in spite of it all, that Catherine would not even speak with her. She cradled Susan to her cheek, choking on a sob.
“Violette, dear, you must be exhausted,” the countess said, placing her hand on Violette’s back. “Please, come sit down. And tell us all that you are doing, and all about your beautiful daughter.”
Violette rocked Susan, beginning to weep. She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Violette? What is wrong? What can I do? Tulley—a brandy!” the countess ordered. She placed her arm around Violette.
Violette fought for the strength and the will to give her daughter away. She raised her face. “She is,” she began, “she is a Harding. A lady. A true lady, always, not … not like me.” She could not wipe her face, which was drenched with tears, because she was holding the baby and her arms were not free.
“I know that, my dear,” the countess said gently, her arm still around Violette. But her eyes were wide, filled with alert intelligence, as if she sensed what was coming. She did not move. “Come sit down and let me lend you my handkerchief,” she whispered.
“No. You don’t understand. I’m a pretender. I’ll never be Lady Neville, just like I was never Lady Goodwin, only Violet Cooper. Blake said”—and Violette stopped, panting, unable to continue. Her grief was overwhelming.
“What did Blake say?” the countess asked grimly.
Violette swallowed hard, knowing she had to continue. “He said he’d adopt her. I want him to. I want you to raise her as a Harding. She will be a Harding from this moment on, and no one will ever laugh at her or call her names behind her back because her mother was Violet Cooper, a bastard and a beggar from St. Giles. I want her to have plum pudding every night, a puppy, a pony, ribbons and bows, and when she is older, the prince of all of her dreams. I want her to have everything I never had. I want her to have respectability.” Violette choked. “I want her to be a real lady, not a fraud.”
Silence filled the drawing room.
Violette suddenly shoved Susan into the countess’s arms. “Good-bye,” she whispered, and then she turned and ran, stumbling out of the room, down the hall, and through the foyer. She wrenched open the front door herself. And as she fled down the steps to the waiting coach, tripping many times,
her own words echoed in her ears, again and again, in tandem with her tears.
her own words echoed in her ears, again and again, in tandem with her tears.
A real lady, a real lady. Good-bye
.
.
It had been a routine day, and Blake did not like routine days. He never really had, for he had always been the kind of man to thrive on excitement, but in the past few months, his tolerance for the mundane had become far worse. He thrived, it seemed, on insurmountable problems, on challenges, conflicts, and stress. This was why he had expanded his shipping operations into the very risky waters of the Philippines, had decided to build his controversial row houses in Bristol and Liverpool, and was considering a foray into livestock production in Australia or the American West. The mundane was far more than boring; it gave his mind time to think, to wander and to dwell on a topic he now considered forbidden, taboo.
The topic of his ex-wife and daughter.
Blake handed Chamberlain his hat, gloves, and cane. “Good afternoon, my lord,” the butler said. “The countess and Lady Dearfield are in the salon.”
Blake had been about to stride down the hall toward his private domain, the library, where he was anticipating a stiff, before-supper scotch. He stiffened, glanced at his pocket watch. It was seven, a time of day when his mother and fiancée should be at whatever dinner party they were attending that evening. “Have I missed something? Am I having company for supper tonight?”
His butler actually smiled. “No, my lord, we have no such plans.”
For a moment Blake stared at his smiling butler. Chamberlain was never so friendly, in fact, he was usually as friendly as a board, and now there was actually a twinkle in his eyes. What was afoot? “In the salon?”
Chamberlain nodded.
Blake turned and walked a few steps down the hall. The salon doors were open. Catherine and his mother were on the sofa, something white, a bundle, between them. They were chatting and laughing and making funny sounds, like “ooh” and “ahhh.” And they were not alone, because a heavyset elderly woman in spectacles sat on a chair, watching them benignly. What the hell was going on? He strode into the blue and white room.
His mother and Catherine looked up simultaneously. They
were wreathed in smiles. The countess bent, picked up the bundle, and stood. “Blake!” she cried happily.
were wreathed in smiles. The countess bent, picked up the bundle, and stood. “Blake!” she cried happily.
And Blake saw the baby. He saw big, wide blue eyes and a chubby ivory face and silky blond curls. He froze. The grief he had lived with day in and day out ever since he had walked away from Violette and the baby in the hospital in France crashed over him now. He could not move.
“Blake, it is Susan, your daughter,” the countess cried, rushing over to him.
He felt as fragile as a child himself, about to burst hysterically into tears. He stood stiffly as his mother paused in front of him. “How beautiful she is! She has eyes just like you, and your jaw, I think, but otherwise she resembles Violette!” Susannah was excited, gushing. “And her name is Susan.” She stared at him. “She has named your daughter after me.”
Briefly Blake closed his eyes, thinking about the fact that Violette had named their child after his mother. He focused again, instantly, devouring his daughter greedily with his eyes. How beautiful his tiny daughter was. How spectacular. But Blake did not reach for her. He managed to rip his gaze from his daughter’s, which had been trained upon his face as intensely. In fact, she reached up now, waving one plump hand with five plump, wiggling fingers at him. She cooed. He thought he heard, “Da.”
His heart seemed to shriek to a stop. “God,” he managed, all he was then capable of.
He glanced at Catherine, who was standing, still smiling, but uncertainly, and looked around the room. As if he might find her hiding behind the sofa or the draperies. But of course she was not there. Surely she was in Paris, and had sent the baby to London itself. “Where is Violette?” he heard himself ask.
His mother was no longer smiling. “She has left.”
“Left?” he echoed, hardly believing that she had come herself—risking her very life in the process.
Susannah nodded, cuddling the baby, giving her a fingertip to suck on. “She left—in tears. And she was very explicit. She wants your child raised as a Harding, adopted by you. She wants your child to have everything she should have, everything the family can give her, all that Violette cannot.” The countess looked directly into his eyes. “It was the most magnificent gesture I have ever witnessed in my entire life.”
Blake was breathless, shocked. “She said that?”
His mother nodded. “She said, Blake, that she wants your
daughter to be respectable, a real lady, and not a fraud.”
daughter to be respectable, a real lady, and not a fraud.”
Blake looked down at his tiny daughter, the single being most precious to him in this world, not including the woman he could never have, even though he had left her with her mother three long aching months ago, and he felt his eyes grow hot and wet.
“She meant every word, Blake.”
Blake finally reached for his daughter and, for the very first time, took her into his arms. He cradled her against his chest, pressed his face to the top of her soft head. “I know,” he said.
“I am glad you are still here,” Blake said to Catherine as he entered the salon.
She sat alone on the sofa, an unopened book by her side. She smiled slightly at him. It was uncertain. “You asked me to stay.”
“Indeed, I did.” He crossed the room.
“Is Susan settled?”
“Yes. In the nursery with her things, the wet nurse and Madame Begnac.” Blake glanced up at the ceiling, recalling the sight he had just left, of his tiny daughter suckling at the wet nurse’s breast. He had never thought to see this day. To have his daughter returned to him, to have her there in his home, a part of his household and his life. He knew without having to be told what it had cost Violette to make this sacrifice. Just as he knew he could give her the one thing Violette never could—respectability. That money could not buy. As the countess had said, it had been a magnificent gesture—a gesture of inherent elegance. The gesture of a genuine lady. How ironic it was.
“Blake? I assume there are matters you wish for us to discuss?” Catherine said quietly.
He turned to look at her, a woman he loved … like a sister. The woman he loved the way God had intended a man to love a woman since the very dawning of time was out of his reach, even now, he guessed, bound for Paris and life with another man. Blake nodded at Catherine and sat down beside her. He reached for her hand.
“Before you begin, I want to tell you that I am so happy that your daughter has been returned to you,” Catherine said softly.
He looked into her sincere green gaze. How could he tell her that he could not go through with their marriage? How could he humiliate her like this? But he could not marry her. He could
not cheat her of her due, for she deserved more than he could give her. Just as he could not bear to be married to anyone ever again. And he was never going to marry again. Even though it meant that he would forsake his duty of providing the Harding family with a male heir. Never.
not cheat her of her due, for she deserved more than he could give her. Just as he could not bear to be married to anyone ever again. And he was never going to marry again. Even though it meant that he would forsake his duty of providing the Harding family with a male heir. Never.
“Blake?” Catherine touched his face. “You are so distraught. I understand.”
He started. “I don’t think so. What I am about to do is insufferable, reprehensible in the extreme, beyond forgiveness. But I do care about you, Catherine, I always have.”
She actually smiled at him. Her eyes were wet with tears. “And I do love you,” she said, making him inwardly wince. She smiled again. “But as a brother, Blake. I cannot love you as a wife loves a husband, it is an impossibility.”
He stared, stunned.
“And I know you do not love me that way, either, nor do I mind. In fact, I am relieved.”
He could not believe their conversation. He clasped both of her hands. “Then you will not hate me if I break off our engagement?”
“If you do not break it off, I shall do so.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I can’t marry you, Blake. Because I am still in love with Jon.”
It took him a moment to grasp what she had said. “Jon?”
“Your brother.”
She was in love with Jon. Suddenly he recalled many little moments, the three of them together, astride their horses, or at a party, or even at supper at the Hall. And in his recollections he could now see shared looks he had not been a part of, looks of total comprehension and mutual understanding. “You have always loved him,” he whispered. Remembering her first dance at her debut—with Jon. How golden and glowing they had both been.
She smiled through her tears. “Always. And I always shall. He, of course, has refused me very adamantly, before you proposed, but it does not matter now. I have decided to remain unwed. I cannot marry, Blake,” she said simply. “Not you, not anyone.”
How he understood. And he was suddenly angry. “Jon is a fool! I am going to thrash him for his stupidity! Beat some sense into him!”
“No.” She gripped his arm. “Do not say a single word, you cannot, must not, for then I shall never forgive you.”
She meant it, he knew. He finally, reluctantly, nodded.
She smiled and hugged him, hard. Then she gazed into his eyes. “I think you should go see Violette, Blake. I think it is time.”
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