The Governess Affair (13 page)

Freddy embraced her in return. “I always do. It’s you I worry about.”

Maybe Freddy would always think Serena strangely broken, and Serena would always cringe, thinking of her sister ensconced in her rooms, slowly turning to stone. There was no convincing one another, no
understanding
one another.

But when Serena had most needed it, her sister had given her a place to stay. For all that Freddy made her stomach hurt, they still shared an affection made bittersweet by all that divided them. Perhaps God gave one sisters to teach one to love the inexplicable.

“Be well,” Serena said. “And go straight home, do you hear? No waiting around until the coach is out of sight.”

Freddy sniffed at that and didn’t answer, but she was pale and perspiring.

And then Serena turned her attention to Hugo.

His posture was forbidding—arms crossed as if to bar her way forward, his lips thinned in disapproval. There was almost no sign of the man who’d smiled and made her feel so easy—so
wonderful—
on the previous evening.

“Hugo,” she said. Even his Christian name sounded needlessly formal.
Now
was the time for him to change his mind—now, as the driver called out for the passengers to board.

“Serena.” His voice was as off-putting as his stance, but his eyes…oh, his eyes. He drank her in, as if he could gather her up.

He was going to say it. He was going to ask her not to leave.

But instead of telling her that he couldn’t live without her—“Farewell,” he said.

And then, before she could fumble for the right words—the words that would bridge the gap between the two of them and make this stunted marriage whole—he hefted her trunk with one hand and handed it into the boot of the coach. “Farewell,” he repeated.

She boarded in a daze, refusing to let her confusion and numbness set in. This
wouldn’t
happen. It couldn’t. She fought her way to a seat near the door so that she could make out his form. He was bent over her sister, saying something she could not hear over the din of the other passengers.

Freddy actually smiled in response.

It would happen now. He would turn and see her. He
had
to. She set her fingers on the handle of the door.

Don’t walk away.
Her eyes clouded with tears.
You can’t walk away. I love you.

It was a revelation. She didn’t know where it had come from. She only knew that it meant he couldn’t walk away. He’d look over and see her, and then he’d realize that he loved her, too.

But in the end, that wasn’t what happened. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her. He didn’t love her. He simply offered Freddy his arm. They turned, and the two of them vanished into the crowd.

Like that, he was gone.

Chapter Ten

I
N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED
Serena’s departure, Hugo struggled to find normalcy. He failed. It was almost impossible to care about the details of the duke’s finances. Food lost its savor. And all too often, he found himself standing by the window in his office—not working, not thinking, just staring at the empty iron bench in the square.

On the third day, he decided that speculation over how she was doing was likely distracting him, and he resolved to write her a simple letter. But when he started, he found that his pen did not obey.

Miss Barton,
he wrote.

I spent my day as I normally spend my days: threatening suppliers, bullying those who are not in line with my expectations, and generally creating havoc in the lives of others. The square across the street is empty of all but the pigeons. I find myself resenting them.

He stopped and stared at the paper. Too revealing. Too friendly. And more importantly... There was that all-too-annoying error he’d made in the salutation. He crumpled it up and tossed it into the waste bin and started over.

Mrs. Marshall,
he started, and found a grim satisfaction in addressing her with his name.
I hope that you are settling into your new home, and that all is to your satisfaction. Do please let me know if anything is amiss, and I shall see to it.

He signed this, sealed it, and before he could think better of it, had it posted.

He tried not to think of her in the coming days, but it was rather like trying not to think of an elephant: One couldn’t tell oneself not to think of elephants without bringing to mind large, gray creatures.

Her reply came a few days later.

Mr. Marshall,
she wrote.
My new home is all that I had hoped for. Everything is to my satisfaction. Nothing is amiss. Thank you very much for your concern.

He stared at those words in frustration. There was absolutely nothing to respond to there—nothing he could say without volunteering his own unsettled thoughts or asking questions that might reveal feelings that he was better off not sharing.

They’d married. He’d chosen to do without her. Anything else he might communicate would just hurt them both more. The best thing for all would be to keep this perfunctory—an occasional letter, from month to month, just to see how she fared.

And yet when he left work that evening, he didn’t go directly to his home. He found himself meandering about the streets. Everywhere he looked, he saw couples together. Husbands and wives, seated next to each other in open barouches; young courting couples, sending one another flirtatious glances. Everyone was pairing up like turtledoves in the autumn chill. Only he was alone.

He’d never cared about such a thing before. He wasn’t the sort to dwell on what
wasn’t
. But truthfully, it was easier to think of Serena—who was no longer in his life—than to contemplate the Duke of Clermont—who was.

He found himself standing in front of a shop, staring at a sky-blue silk shawl, wondering how it would look against her skin. And then, to his great amazement, he found himself purchasing it. He watched himself in bemusement. Had he really come to this?

When he finally made his way home in the deep darkness, he found himself sitting at his desk and dipping his steel nib in the ink once again.

Mrs. Marshall,
he inscribed.
I am delighted that your new home is what you wished for, and that everything is as you’ve hoped. Please accept my best wishes for your happiness.

He didn’t send the shawl. He couldn’t think of a way to do it—what, admit that he was thinking of her? That would have been the height of foolishness. The last thing he needed was to mislead her into believing that he would make a proper husband. It wouldn’t be kind to raise false hopes—not in her, and certainly not in himself.

But perhaps she sensed it anyway, because a few days after that, he received her next response.

Mr. Marshall,
she wrote,
I am delighted that you are delighted that I am delighted with my new home. Can I predict the substance of your next missive? That you are delighted that I am delighted that you are delighted, et cetera.

I have just saved us both a great deal of postage and awkward conversation. If we keep this up, we shall quickly run through our ink. And so I shall say this as simply as I can, without once hinting that I expect any more of you. I am glad—damnably glad—that I had one night with you. There are dark times in the evening when I imagine your arms around me. For all you claim to be ruthless, you have been my shining, guiding star. Let us not pretend that we mean nothing to one another. We may not be husband and wife in the truest sense, but we have been friends and we have been lovers, and I hope that we may be friends still.

His lungs ached when he read that. His entire body ached, truth be told, from his toes to his heart.

Still, the next morning, he spent an immense sum shipping the shawl to New Shaling, along with a note:
Bought this a few days ago. It made me think of you.

His days passed by rote. Everything was now falling into place. He’d had a message from the duke, indicating that he’d managed to smooth things over with his recalcitrant wife. Investments were coming through. In three months’ time, with the duchess’s revenue finally secured, he’d have made the duke more than a thousand pounds—more than five thousand pounds. He’d win his wager. From there, he’d begin to expand his empire.

The problem was that his heart wasn’t in it any longer. He’d spent his entire life focused on making something of himself: on the thought that he might one day argue his father’s voice into silence.

That evening, before he’d heard back from her about the shawl, he wrote to her again:
You can call me your friend if you like, but I think of you when I stroke myself. When last I checked, that points to feelings that are decidedly more than friendly. Have I horrified you too much?

He waited days for her reply. When it finally came he read it instantly:
Sir: I am a respectable married woman. I cannot express in words the horror and revulsion that arise in me upon reading the sentiments you have communicated.

Hugo raised his head from the letter. But he hadn’t finished, and some penchant for punishment forced him to continue:
Your letter only underscored my own failings. After all, as your wife, it is my duty to stroke you. Is it not?”

It was all Hugo could do not to leave for New Shaling on the spot.

T
HE HOUSE WAS BUSTLING
in preparation for the duke’s return. Hugo couldn’t find it in him to care about much of anything. He could scarcely make himself bother over even the basics of the accounts; he didn’t want to think of the future.

It was Clermont’s fault—all of it. These last months had robbed him of his certainty. And what he’d taken from Serena…

Hugo shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had only a few months to go. If he could stomach that, he’d win his wager, collect his money, and never see the man again.

He heard the carriage arrive below. All the other servants must have gone down to greet their master; Hugo stayed up in the office, sorting through bills and payments, reports from estates. It seemed rather ironic that even though Hugo had almost stopped exerting himself, everything prospered. Ships had come in ahead of schedule, bearing cargo that was vastly more valuable than what had been paid on the other end. The price of wheat was rising; wool was doing even better.

It was as if the entire universe was rewarding him. If this luck held up once Hugo started investing his own money, he’d be a wealthy man by the age of forty. He’d have servants and his own estate. He would beat back that dark, dismal voice inside of him by the sheer dint of his accomplishment. Perhaps in ten years, he might make another visit to New Shaling, and see if he could rekindle...

No. No. He couldn’t think that way.

It took hours for the duke to recover from his journey—eating and cleansing himself, or whatever it was that dukes did after retrieving their errant wives. Hugo sat in his office, waiting for the duke to show his face. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to confront him about his lies, or if he hoped the man kept away, so he didn’t have to look at him.

Eventually, the man wandered into Hugo’s office.

The Duke of Clermont hadn’t changed. He was still a big, solid mass of a man. He hadn’t grown any fatter; his eyes weren’t any narrower. And yet Hugo’s first thought was that the man seemed a hundred times more swinish.

“I see the governess is gone,” he said cheerily. “And the duchess is back, and in a few months, assuming all is well, I’ll have another payment from the trust.”

“Yes,” Hugo said tersely. “Good.”

But the duke was in a voluble mood today. “What do you think I should buy, first thing?” he mused. “Horses? Or a mistress?”

He couldn’t believe the man was still talking that way—not after all he’d been through.

“I have a better idea,” Hugo heard himself say. “You could go on a journey.”

“A journey? Now, there’s a capital idea for escaping my wife. Brighton, perhaps? Or France?”

“None of those,” Hugo said. “I was thinking that you could go to hell.”

He didn’t curse. He
didn’t
. And yet he could not make himself regret those words. A fierce sense of rightness beat in his chest, alongside his awakening heart.