Marissa Day (27 page)

She’d have to ask Georgie. Georgie would know. But Georgie would want to know what prompted such a question. What would she say then? She would never be able to speak the entire truth of her affair with Thomas to a single soul.

In a lifetime heavily marked by funerals, Jane didn’t think she’d ever felt so wretched. She didn’t even care if Tilly saw how she struggled to hold herself together. After this, she would be alone again. Until this point, she’d borne that loneliness because she’d never known there was another life for her to live. But her fleeting moments with Thomas had shown her what it was to have companionship as well as passion. There was no undoing the splendor of that revelation, or the pain of knowing those fleeting moments were all she would ever have. For how could another man take Thomas’s place? It was he who freed her heart as well as her desires. Jane closed her eyes. Freed her and bound her. Forever.

 

 

M
rs. Beauchamp possessed a large house in Mayfair. To be sure, the dwelling and the neighborhood were no longer on the cutting edge of fashion, but both remained fine enough to show that the widow had efficiently managed the fortune her doting husband had left her. There were rumors of a pension from at least one doting lover as well, but as Mrs. Beauchamp was mostly retired to her own parlor and had not generated any new scandal in Jane’s entire lifetime; those whispers were not much remembered.

“My dear Jane!” Mrs. Beauchamp stretched out her hands wrapped in fingerless gloves as soon as Jane entered her pretty green parlor. Jane bent to receive a kiss from her hostess. Mrs. Beauchamp looked thoroughly respectable in crepe and lace with her widow’s cap starched and spotless. Table and chairs had been set near the sofa, but that table had been laid for only two.

Thomas was not there, and he was not expected.

It’s better,
she told herself.
Much better. It would be too hard to keep my countenance if he was here.
Fortunately, her hostess motioned her to a chair just then, so she did not have to find the strength to remain standing.

“Will you have some tea? Or sherry? It’s so dreadfully cold out, you’d never know it was May, would you? The supper is almost ready. You must be fairly exhausted after the time you’ve been having. I’m sure you’re not eating properly.”

“Oh no, I assure you,” replied Jane reflexively. “The food at Kensington House is always excellent.”

“Well then, indulge an old woman. I simply cannot manage until eight without something. Shall we sit?” She reached for the bell pull.

“Of course.”

They settled themselves and Mrs. Beauchamp’s servants came in bearing an array of covered dishes. Jane struggled to stay attentive to the oyster soup, cold lobster salad and boiled potatoes. She was certain she had done more difficult things in her life than smile and dredge up some innocuous details of the drawing room and what she had been learning of the duchess’s tastes and habits. But at that moment, she could not remember what they had been.

“Why, Jane, you’ve hardly touched anything.” Mrs. Beauchamp peered up at her anxiously. “Shall I ring for something else?”

“No, no. It’s all delicious.” Jane looked down at her plate. She was certain she’d been eating steadily during the conversation. She certainly wasn’t at all hungry. But the pink-edged china seemed as piled with food as it had when she’d been served. The thought of having to take more for politeness’ sake left her feeling ill.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said, striving for brightness in her voice. “It’s been such a whirlwind since we came back, I find my appetite is entirely gone.”

“Oh, dear. But you’ll take a little tea?” Jane nodded her assent. “Excellent. Robbins, we’ll take tea on the sofa.”

One cup, and I can leave,
Jane thought guiltily. Mrs. Beauchamp did not get much company, and here she was thinking only how soon she could get away.

The door opened again. Jane, certain it was only another of the servants, did not permit herself to turn around.

“There you are, Thomas! I was beginning to wonder.”

“I am sorry, Godmother,” he said, bending down to kiss Mrs. Beauchamp. “Your commission took a little longer than I had foreseen. Good afternoon, Lady Jane.”

Jane’s body stood without any command from her mind. Her mind was wholly occupied in seeing that Thomas—looking perfectly ordinary and everyday in blue coat and tidy cravat—had come into the room.

“Good afternoon, Sir Thomas.” Jane curtsied. Thomas bowed, but as she tried to catch his gaze, it slipped away. A splinter fell from Jane’s heart.

“Sit down, sit down.” Mrs. Beauchamp fluttered her hands at him. “We’ve had supper, but were just about to take some tea. You’ll join us, of course.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said gravely. “I will.” He settled himself into one of the deep wing-backed chairs and stretched his long legs out. But there was nothing relaxed in his manner. Jane could feel the tension vibrating from his frame. He kept his eyes on the table, on Mrs. Beauchamp, on the broad bay window at her back. Anywhere but at her.

And he did, but his eyes were flat and shuttered. No mischief, light or longing showed through. Jane might have been looking at a stranger for all the self she could discern in Thomas’s gaze. Again, she sensed the tension in him, as if it were a current of air against her skin. Thomas was holding himself under absolute and rigid control. He was so closed not because of lack of feeling, but from the need to not to betray any of that feeling.

“And what do you think, Jane?” inquired Mrs. Beauchamp.

Jane started, her cup rattling in its saucer. God have mercy, she hadn’t even realized she held a full tea cup. “I’m so sorry. I have been most shamefully woolgathering. What was the question?”

Mrs. Beauchamp began to answer, but the door opened and her man Robbins entered with a letter on a silver tray. He hesitated, but Mrs. Beauchamp beckoned him over.

“Excuse me just a moment, won’t you?” she said, picking up the letter and breaking the seal. As she read the contents, her brow furrowed and she muttered something through her teeth.

“I’m so sorry, Jane, I must go deal with this at once.” She creased the letter firmly closed and climbed to her feet. “Thomas, you’ll keep Jane company, won’t you?”

Thomas rose as his godmother hobbled out and closed the door.

Silence enveloped them. Thomas sank back into his seat. Jane set her cup down. She picked it up. She looked at the tea and her stomach turned over. She put it down again.

“Jane.”

Thomas spoke her name softly, yet not so softly that she could fail to hear the tender echoes in it. At the same time he did not move an inch toward her.

Jane could bear it no longer. “Something has changed, hasn’t it? What has happened?”

He ran his hand through his hair. A lock fell out of the queue to brush against his shoulder. “Jane, we cannot speak of it here.”

“No.” Jane glanced toward the door. Her fingers knotted tight together. She almost picked up her cup again, just to have something to hold. “I suppose not.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. She must lift herself above this. She could not falter now, or ever again. “You owe me nothing.”

“That’s not true. But . . . I am not entirely a free man, Jane.”

The remains of Jane’s heart crumbled. All this magic, all this mystery, and now this revelation. “You’re married.”

“No, oh, no, Jane.” Thomas hand moved toward her, but he stopped himself short, curling his fingers tightly inward. “But I am an ass. I spoke badly. Forgive me.”

A wisp of a smile formed on her lips. “I should have known such an ordinary problem would be too much to ask for.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“If not marriage, what is it?”

“I want to tell you, but I gave my word to hold what I know in confidence.”

“I see.” He was lying. Did he think after all they had shown each other that she would not be able to recognize a lie? Anger spiked through the pain, but she didn’t know what to do with it. She had no training in how to be angry. She’d only been taught resignation.

Sitting still was impossible. Jane stood and crossed to the arched window that overlooked the back garden. The rain had beaten down burgeoning blossoms and the cold wind blew their sorrowful heads low over the silvered grass.

“Jane . . .”

“No. No.” She waved him away without turning to look. He was on his feet too. He might even be coming toward her. “I’m just tired. The duchess has not been well, and she has been sending for me constantly and I could do nothing right today.” She tried to muster a smile. “I think she does not dare berate Frau Seibold, so I am the whipping boy. It is so near her time, her attendants are concerned, and we must keep close watch. So you see . . .” At last she showed him a smile as false and meaningless as any she ever mustered for a tedious dinner guest. “I am not entirely free either.”

They were silent for another long moment. Jane had never dreamt being so close to a man would also mean being so close to tears.

“I wish I could hold you,” Thomas whispered. “I wish I could wrap my arms around you now and bring you close to my heart.”

“I thought we could not speak of such things here.”

“Of course. I said as much, didn’t I?”

“You did. Your memory is most shockingly bad, Sir Thomas.”

“Perhaps I grow old.”

That small remark turned her around. Jane studied the lines and planes of Thomas’s face; the shape of his cheek and jaw, the small space of his neck visible above his simple cravat and collar. All glimpses of the body she had kissed and caressed and loved. That was all she had now of his body, and of his self.

“What is it?” Thomas asked.

“You have never told me how old you are.”

He tried to smile. “My grandmother would say I’m as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth.”

“I see a sense of humor runs in your family.”

“Is it important?”

“No, at least . . . no, of course not.” It was, in fact, nothing short of trivial, but it was nagging at her, like an itch between her shoulder blades. Part of her was certain it meant nothing, but another part was sure it was important somehow. It felt as if this single triviality could lead to the heart of the mystery that was Thomas. “It’s just that . . . sometimes you seem very old. It reminds me of the men I’ve met who survived the wars. Some of them were even younger than I, but all of them seemed far, far older. Did you fight?”

“I served,” he said simply. “And I still do.”

“I see.” But she saw nothing, because she could no longer bear to look. She could demand answers. Her anger pounded at her heart, insisting that she give way, that she cry and make a scene. Maybe then he would notice her pain. Maybe then he would finally tell her what was really happening.

But Mrs. Beauchamp might return at any moment, or one of the servants might walk in. She was still on display, and no matter what her anger urged, she could not forget that.

“Forgive me, Thomas,” Jane murmured. “It’s only that I . . . I’m afraid of you leaving me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I understand.” He was making his voice light, but that lightness was brittle, like ice on a winter brook. The least pressure would break it and reveal the swirling waters below. “Pleasure is hard to forsake.”

He did not say he was staying. He did not declare he would never leave her. Was there anything left inside of her that had not turned to ash? “It’s not the pleasure. Maybe it was at first, but it has gone far beyond that. It’s you.” She lifted her eyes. This might be the last time she stood with him, and the last true words she spoke to him. She would look him in the eyes.

Those eyes were bright with an unfamiliar sheen. Could he possibly be close to tears? “Jane . . .”

“I know it’s foolish. We’ve known each other such a short time, but it is true. And you know what I mean to do about it. I’ve already told Conroy I’m leaving. There’s no going back for me.” Her heart beat frantically. Her head felt light. There was no going back from what she said next either. “I wanted you to know that so you could decide what you wanted to do.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened and his posture stiffened as anger pulled hard at him. “You mean so I could decide to slink away from your declaration of feeling?” he whispered harshly. “Have I given you reason to think me a coward?”

“No. But neither do I think you can pay me attentions in the usual way of a gentleman.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I have no right to expect so much.”

“I did not ask what you expect,” he snapped. “I asked what you wanted.”

Jane bit her lip. She could lie. She should lie. But this might be the end. If she had to walk away from him now, or if she had to watch him walk away from her, it would not be because of a lie. That was one burden she refused to carry.

“I love you, and I want to be free to love you,” Jane whispered. “And I want you to be free to love me, if you believe you could.”

Jane had never seen a man go so utterly still. Only his chest moved. It rose and fell with his rapid, shallow breath.

“Jane,” Thomas croaked. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“No. Clearly. Forgive me. I can’t seem to stop saying that, can I?” She was babbling. Her head spun. This was hysteria, part of her mind told her calmly. But that calm was far away from the rest of her. “It’s only that I’m so tired. Shall we forget this? We’ll smile and shake hands and say no more about it,” she added brightly, as if she were covering up a misstep on the dance floor. Jane turned swiftly to the window. She clamped her mouth shut. Tears stung her eyes and threatened to spill over. She could not let him see her face until she had herself under control again.

Jane only heard the faintest whisper of cloth as he moved closer to her. She could breathe in his scent as he laid one hand on her shoulder. Jane closed her eyes, focusing solely on that place where his palm rested. Warmth trickled slowly through the cloth that separated them and spread down her skin, raising an ache in her breasts that was equal mixture need and sorrow.