Patience (39 page)

“True.” Passion leaned her chin in her hand. “Though I sometimes wonder if she doesn’t have some singular power that brings about marriage for whomever she sets her sights upon. She was trying to marry off Father when he met Mother. She was trying to marry off me when I met Mark. She introduced her neighbor’s daughter to her now husband, and the summer before last, I believe she worked her matrimonial magic upon the twin nieces of the Swittley sisters.” Passion raised her brows. “Perhaps you
should
start planning the wedding.”

Patience smiled as she shook her head. “I think, despite Aunt Matty’s seeming powers, that Matthew must be the force that moves me. I will make no plans until he gives me reason.”

Passion regarded her gently. “You really trust him, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The answer had come immediately and unequivocally. “I trusted him from the very first.”

Passion tilted her head. “How unusual. Typically, your trust is hard won.”

“I know.” Patience stared at the steam rising from her teacup. “I think it’s because of the way he has always looked at me—as if he saw all the hidden parts of me.” Patience looked at her sister. “Parts of me even I dared not look at.”

Passion reached across the small tea table and clasped Patience’s hand. “Like the pain of Henri?”

“I don’t know.” Patience looked back down at her tea and curled her fingers against Passion’s palm. “Perhaps the pain of you.”

Silence drew out. Finally, Patience lifted her eyes.

A deep frown cut between her sister’s brows and her expression was completely confounded. “What? What pain have I caused you?”

At the question, a flood of hurt welled up in Patience. Her eyes stung. “What pain? You left me. You left me, and we were never the same.”

Passion stared and her lip trembled. “Patience, what are you talking about?”

Patience felt tears slip down her cheeks, but she didn’t care. “I’m talking about how we used to be. How we used to be so close. How we used to do everything together. Don’t you remember?” Patience clasped her other hand around her sister’s. “Oh, Passion, don’t you remember?”

The pulse throbbed in Passion’s throat and her eyes looked shiny.

Patience could feel her own heart, aching with every beat. “You must remember—how we used to pick each other’s clothes and brush each other’s hair. How we used to ride down the banister together every morning, and race up the stairs every night. How we used to walk in step and speak in rhyme.” She shivered, and her tears continued to fall as she was overrun with memories. “Don’t you remember how we used to make daisy chains together and leave them around the neck of Mr. Higgin’s cow? How we used to swim together at the lake, just the two of us, and pretend we were mermaids, trapped there by an evil witch?”

Tears slipped from her sister’s eyes.

Patience shook her head. “Don’t you remember how we used to tell each other everything, and keep from each other nothing? How we used to share our secrets and our dreams—and our pains and our fears? Oh, Passion”—Patience clasped her sister’s hand to her cheek—“don’t you remember how we used to love each other?”

In a moment, Passion was there, her arms tight around Patience’s shoulders. “Of course I remember, my darling. I remember everything.”

Patience pressed her cheek against her sister’s side. Something had happened. Something had opened inside her, and she suddenly felt the painful depth and fullness of how much she had missed Passion over the years. And rather than minimize the feelings, or hide them away, she let them out. “You left me,” she wept. “You didn’t have time for me anymore. Always, Prim was between us. You picked her clothes and brushed her hair, and there was no more time for me—for us.” Patience turned her face into her sister’s side and clung to her. “There were moments I felt I hated Prim for taking you away from me. But how could I hate her when I love her so much? And she was so young, and needed you.”

“Oh, my darling.” Passion bent around her and smoothed her hair.

But the loving touch only made Patience cry more. “Sometimes I hated you, too. Sometimes I was so angry with you.” She squeezed her eyes against the sting of her tears and her emotions. “But then I hated myself for having such feelings, and for being so selfish.”

Dropping to her knees, Passion clasped Patience’s hands. Her face was tear-streaked. “My darling—my sweet Patience, I’m so sorry.”

Patience’s heart twisted at the anguish in her sister’s eyes. “No, you mustn’t say you’re sorry. You’re an angel—a saint—you always have been. It’s just me. I—I couldn’t bear the weight of my own feelings. And I didn’t know what to do with them, so I—I just buried them.” Patience cupped her hand against her sister’s wet cheek. “And I did everything I could not to be a burden to you. I took care of myself, so you wouldn’t have to. I stayed out of the way so that you could give Prim what she needed. And I thought I was strong and perfect and whole. But now . . .” Fresh tears welled, and she couldn’t go on.

Leaning forward, Passion pulled her into her arms. “Oh, my Patience—my sister.” Her voice was choked. “You know, we were such little girls when mother died. I was but twelve and you were but ten. There were so many times that I wanted to be only with you. So many times that I yearned for you, and for the joy and freedom we had shared together. But I didn’t voice my feelings because I feared they would only magnify what we no longer had. So I just—I bowed my head and did what I thought I had to.” She pulled back, her hands cupped around Patience’s head. “But when I did that, I lost sight of you, didn’t I?”

Patience shook her head.

Passion’s frown deepened. “Yes. Yes, I did. And when I finally looked up again, it was too late. You didn’t seem to need me. But I didn’t see my part in that.” Her tears fell freely. “Can you forgive me, Patience? Can you?”

Patience couldn’t stand the grief in her sister’s face. She loved her with the love of their childhood. “There’s nothing to forgive. Nothing. There are only feelings to share and hearts to mend.”

Passion pulled her close again. “I love you,” she murmured.

Tears still welling, Patience slid onto the floor with her sister and curled into her embrace.

Passion rocked her gently. “I love you. I love you so much.”

The words soaked beneath Patience’s skin; and they touched her in the deep, completely comforting way that they had when they were children. “I love you, too.”

Another tear slipped down her cheek. But though there was some sorrow in it, there was also relief—and even a peculiar happiness.

SONG OF SOLOMON 8:12

 

 

 

 

Matthew frowned across the huge, opulent desk that presided over Benchley’s former office at Gwenellyn. “Tell me.”

Mickey Wilkes shoved his black hair from his brow and sat back in his chair. He looked reluctant and, more worrisome, he was quiet.

Matthew’s frown deepened. “Miss Dare is arriving at Angel’s Manor today. I had planned on being there to greet her. But when the messenger informed me you were coming here with some news, I waited. So, surely you can tell me why I’m sitting here with you, rather than enjoying the incomparable company of Miss Dare.”

“I’m sorry ’bout ya no’ bein’ there fer Miss Dare. But I kin get ’ere faster than I kin t’ Angel’s Manor. An I knows ya be in a ’urry fer somethin’ ’gainst the Benchleys.”

“Out with it, then.”

“I don’t think yer gonna like it.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Cain’t prove it neither. ’Ave to get the proof.”

Matthew leaned forward and calmly laid his hands flat atop the desk. “If your next sentence does not begin to convey to me what you have discovered, I’m going to reach across this desk and throttle you to within an inch of your life. Is that clear?”

“Yeah.” Mickey nodded but seemed otherwise unaffected by Matthew’s threat. “Look, Mr. ’Awkmore, ya paid me t’find Benchley dirt, an I’s got it. Only, maybe, it’s more dirt ’n ya want.”

Christ.
What could be so bad? Whatever was bad for the Benchleys should be good for him. “I’m waiting.”

Mickey sighed. “Yeah, a’right, ’ere it is. I been makin’ it a point o’ chummin’ it up wit’ Mrs. Biddlewick, an t’other night I finally got ’er to join me in a bot’le. After I got a few cups down ’er, I made like I was real bo’rd and asked ’er if nothin’ int’restin ever ’appened round there. She ’llowed as it did. Naw, says I. This place be dull as dust, says I. Then she starts tellin’ me alls ’bout what ’appened ’tween you and the Benchleys. An mean-whiles, I’m pourin’ more gin in ’er cup t’make sure ’er tongue stays nice an loose. An she gabbed on an on ’bout you an them an the scandal, an I’m thinkin’ I’m gettin’ nothin’—till she says somethin’ ’bout ain’t it funny how some people git chased by the same skel’tons their ’ole lives.”

Tension trickled down Matthew’s back.

“So I asks ’er wha’ she means. She says nothin’. I says, tha’s right, you don’t know nothin’. She ’llows ’ow she knows ever’thin’.” Mickey leaned forward. “An then she leans real close, burpin’ and breathin’ ’er gin on me, and says, Mr. ’Awkmore ain’t the only one what was born on the wrong side o’ the sheets.” Mickey held Matthew’s stare. “Says she, they perten’s to be pure, an cry shame on ’Awkmore, but Benchley blood be bastard as well.”

Pain.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Matthew’s breath left him in a ragged gasp as all the emotions from when he discovered the truth of his own birth washed over him yet again. His eyes stung, and he sucked in air. Breath filled his lungs, even as reason and fierce realization filled his heart.
Bastard Benchley blood.

Paper crumpled as his hands closed into fists.

The Benchleys claimed one of the purest lines in England. They were more English than the Royal Family, and every one of them noble born. It was their selling point, their point of pride. Even when Archibald Benchley’s business acumen had added wealth to their family status, it was the banner of their bloodline that waved above all else.

Matthew’s blood boiled with rage.

Matthew lifted his gaze back to Mickey. “Go on.”

Mickey shrank back in his chair. “I tol’ ya ya wouldn’t like it.”

“Go—on,” Matthew ground out from between clenched teeth.

“By now, Biddlewick were real drunk an a’most droppin’ off. But I kep’ at ’er. She tol’ me ’ow ’is Lordship were violent when ’e found out. ’Ow ’er Ladyship wouldn’t ne’er tell ’oo ’er lover was, an ’ow she died soon after.” Mickey shoved his hair out of his eyes. “I ask’d Biddlewick if that were why Benchley’d changed o’er the ’ole ’ouse’old. She ’llowed it were. An ya know wha’s amusin’?” He raised his brows. “Turns out Benchley kep’ the one person what knew the mos’. Turns out, in fact, that ’er Ladyship’s lover be none other than Biddlewick’s cousin. ’Parently, ’e were the Benchley coachman. But when ’er Ladyship go’ with child, they decided ’e should leave. ’Is Lordship found the ’ole thing out when ’e caught ’is wife writin’ to the bloke. Only there were no name on the let’er—only me darlin’.”

A letter. Always there was a letter. “But you have a name.”

“That I do, Mr. ’Awkmore. The man be Roger MacQuarrie.”

“And you know where he can be found.”

“Bryntoogle. Lit’le village in the north o’ Scotland.”

“Go there.” Matthew forced the words through his clamped jaw. “Go there. Find the man, and get me some proof of this.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. ’Awkmore.” Mickey got to his feet.

“Mr. Wilkes.”

Mickey looked at Matthew. “Yes, sir?”

“Does she know?”

“That were the las’ thin’ I ask’d Biddlewick ’fore she went dead drunk. Does the Lady Ros’lind know?” Mickey shook his head. “She don’t.”

No, she couldn’t. Her conceit was too genuine. But Benchley—he knew. The son of a bitch was vilifying Matthew for being both a bastard and a liar when he’d been shielding the bastard in his own house for years.

Goddamn it, he didn’t blame Benchley for protecting Rosalind from the truth. However, the malice and viciousness he’d leveled against Matthew for that same truth, the defamation of his character, the attempted ruination of his finances, and theft of his company—for all that, Archibald Benchley must pay.
The goddamned lying villain!

Reaching into his desk, Matthew withdrew several bills and tossed them across the desk to Mickey. “Go. Go and get proof.”

The boy swept up the money and put it in his pocket. “Yes, sir.” With a nod, he flipped his cap onto his head and left.

Matthew sat, unmoving, for a long moment. Then he exploded from his chair and, with an enraged shout, heaved a desk lamp across the room.

In the heavy silence after the crash, he stood stiff with fury. Fury at Benchley, and fury at the forces of circumstance.

For despite his hatred of Rosalind, he didn’t know if he could do to her what had been done to him.

 

 

It wasn’t him.

Angel’s Manor was a monumental neo-Gothic edifice—complete with decorative crenellation, ornamental ironwork, and a courtyard. But unlike a real medieval castle, there wasn’t a broken stone, a clinging vine, or a hint of character in sight. The gray stone walls and slate roof were smooth and perfect in their newness. Tidily trimmed hedges were the only things growing along the walls. Innumerable windows of expensive plate glass stared out over the courtyard, and a multitude of tall chimneys and turrets jutted from the seemingly endless roofline.

It wasn’t a house, it was a statement.

No, it was more than a statement. It was an exclamation—an exclamation of wealth, status, and modernity.