The Masquerade (30 page)

Tyrell strode through the house, his heart pounding with anticipation. He had been informed that Harrington had gone to call on a neighbor, but even if he had remained in residence, Tyrell would not have cared. He had been disturbed all day by Lizzie’s behavior that morning, for it had filled him with the bitter taste of dread.

As he took the stairs to the second floor, he kept reassuring himself that the nagging dread was a response to his upcoming marriage. That terrible feeling of being trapped was consuming him now and he could no longer deny that he was uncertain about his commitment to Blanche. But dear God, surely the urge to escape his duty would pass. Surely, soon, he would be the man he had always been. Yet there was no denying that these past two months had been the most joyous of his life.

The rest of his feelings were undeniable, too. He was deeply in love with Elizabeth Fitzgerald.

His heart accelerated as he pushed open the nursery door. He hated seeing Elizabeth in anguish, and she had clearly been anguished since Harrington had arrived. Now, somehow, he would find a way to ease her distress. He had tried that morning to convince her not to worry, but he knew he had failed.

The nursemaid, Rosie, was sewing and his son was playing with his toy soldiers on the floor. Elizabeth was not in sight. He gazed at Ned with a father’s acute pride, smiling. The little boy shot a soldier and turned to beam at him. “Ned! Ned win!” He crowed.

Tyrell laughed and lifted him into his arms. “Someone is going to have to teach you modesty, my boy,” he said. “I fear your arrogance will terrorize the ton.”

Ned gave him a condescending look. “Ned win,” he said with great purpose.

Tyrell laughed again, ruffling his thick, dark hair.

“Papa! Put down,” Ned demanded. “Papa!”

Tyrell froze, not drawing a single breath.

“Papa!” Ned pushed at his chest.

Tyrell slid him to his feet. “Rosie!” he gasped, not even aware that he was addressing the nursemaid so informally. “He called me Papa!”

But Rosie wasn’t smiling. She was very pale and her nose was red, as if she had been weeping. “Yes, my lord,” she said hoarsely.

He became still, the glorious joy of this miracle vanishing. What was this?

But he knew.

“Where is Miss Fitzgerald?” he demanded.

She wet her lips. “I do not know, sir.”

For one moment he stared and then he strode across
the hall, flinging open her door. The bed was made, the armoire open. It was completely empty.

He was in disbelief.

“Sir,” Rosie whispered, coming to stand in the door with Ned in her arms.

He barely heard her. He went to the bureau and opened it, but it was also empty.

And the comprehension began.

Elizabeth had left him.

He whirled, his heart beginning to beat, each pulse huge and hurtful. “When did she leave?”

“This morning, my lord.”

He stared but did not see her. Instead he saw Elizabeth as she had been that morning, anguish in her eyes.
Elizabeth had left him.

A beast raised its head and howled madly, in pain and grief. The noise was deafening, he thought, deafening and tragic in its huge sorrow. He heard wood crashing, splintering, followed by shattering glass, the beast’s howls filling the room, the hall, the mansion. He wondered at what kind of animal it was.

It howled until it had no voice left.

And then the quiet came.

Tyrell stood in the center of her room, alone and still. He looked at the broken armoire, now on its side, its door torn off and broken into pieces. He looked at the glass littering the floor, shards small and large, from the smashed windowpanes and the broken mirror. He stood there, his hands dripping blood, staring at the fragments of his world.

G
eorgie was humming as she put the finishing touches on their Christmas decorations. Lizzie stood a small distance away, watching her sister, who was smiling as she fussed over the mantel. It was trimmed with gold-and-silver tissue and many sprigs from a fir tree. It was very pretty, Lizzie thought clinically. But she could not get into the holiday spirit. It was simply impossible.

They had moved to London’s West End in the fall. Georgina was hardly ever at Eleanor’s town home on Belgrave Square. She spent her days at bookstores, museums, art galleries and any public debate advertised in the
London Times.
Lizzie was glad that her sister had adjusted so well. Georgie had become a veritable whirlwind of intelligent social action and she loved living in town.

Lizzie had not been able to adjust so easily.

She and Georgina had gone directly to Glen Barry upon leaving Wicklowe that terrible summer day. Fortunately, Eleanor had taken one look at the sisters and had welcomed them both with open arms; Lizzie had somehow explained her predicament while begging Eleanor for forgiveness at the very same time. “I am very fond of you, Elizabeth,” Eleanor had said softly. “I under
stood your anger and now I wonder if the decision I made was the right one.”

Their move to London had come just before Tyrell’s return to Wicklowe with his bride. Knowing beforehand that he would return in October, Eleanor had decided to move the family to her London home. She had thought that Lizzie might have a change of heart, or that being in such close proximity would be too much to bear for Glen Barry was only two hours from Wicklowe. Lizzie had not objected. Living near Tyrell and Ned now would only prolong her grief.

They had not learned about the postponement of his wedding until they had passed several weeks in town. Lizzie had been stunned to hear that he had not married Blanche after all. Apparently she had been ill; the nuptials would now take place in May.

Lizzie refused to think too much of the matter, for if she did, she might foolishly start to believe the postponement had something to do with her. Well over four months had passed since she had left him and their son, and if he had any lingering concern or affection for her, surely she would have heard from him. But she had not. In light of the letter she had left him, it spoke volumes; he simply did not care.

No matter how she tried, her grief was a huge and heavy mantle she could not shed. Every day was gray, every night sleepless. But there were no regrets. She treasured every memory she had of him, from the moment she had first laid eyes upon him to the last time he had held her in his arms. If only the memories did not hurt so much.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds. Lizzie even believed it, but clearly, not enough time had gone by to heal hers. And time had not eased the wound of leaving Ned with him, either. Sometimes she missed her little boy
far more than she did Tyrell. But she was certain she had done the right thing. Leaving Tyrell and her son had been the hardest acts of her life, but Ned belonged with Tyrell and Tyrell belonged with the woman who would soon be his wife.

She spent every day determined not to think about them. She focused on whatever tasks were at hand, whether it was accompanying her aunt to a tea, Georgie to the mall or tending sick hospital patients at St. Anne’s, but in the end, that was futile, too. The memories would assail her unexpectedly, and with them, the grief would rise up all over again. In the midst of a stroll in the park she would recall a word, a touch, a look.

At least Ned was well. The countess had written her to tell her that he was doted on by his father and grandparents, that he had grown out of his shoes and that he was trotting a cavaletti on his pony. He could speak full sentences now, too. Lizzie wept over her letter. She dared to reply, thanking her for the news and begging her for more whenever she had the time to spare.

Lizzie was grateful that children had short memories and that whatever loss Ned had felt for her disappearance was by now blessedly over. Was Tyrell happy, too?

He was at Adare, or so she assumed, with his entire family, his fiancée and his son. She tried to imagine him with Blanche, smiling at her the way he had at Lizzie, but it was too painful. She prayed he was content and left it at that.

Georgie touched her arm. “Oh, Lizzie! Just when I think you are on the mend, you vanish from this very earth and appear so terribly sad. Do not think about him!”

Lizzie smiled at her. She had learned how to smile no matter how terribly she ached in her heart and her soul. “I am not sad.” It was a lie and they both knew it. “It’s
Christmas, a time of year I love. Mama and Papa are arriving today and I am so terribly excited to see them.”

Georgie gave her a speculative look. “I am excited to see them, too, but I am also anxious. We haven’t seen Papa since that awful day at Wicklowe.”

Lizzie turned away. She had already worried about her encounter with her father and she really did not want to speak about it.

She had written to her parents on a regular basis and not once had Mama or Papa referred to that terrible day when Papa had claimed to disown her. In fact, Mama seemed to be very popular now and rarely spent a night at Raven Hall without company. For some reason, the countess continued to invite her to Adare whenever she was in residence. Papa’s letters were mild in nature. Lizzie prayed it was completely forgotten by everyone.

She and Anna exchanged letters, too. Anna’s letters were always the same, filled with the happy details of her life in Derbyshire society and her marriage. She never referred to the past, of course, and nor did Lizzie want her to. Lizzie was grateful that Anna was happy and in love—in fact, she was expecting a child in the spring. But it was always hard for Lizzie to write back.

For what could she say? Lizzie could not share the details of her own life with her sister in a letter. Lizzie wondered if Anna had even heard of her affair with Tyrell. Of course, now it hardly mattered, being as it was over. So she wrote about the pleasant times spent strolling in the park at Glen Barry and the hectic nature of their move to town. She told Anna how thrilled Georgie was with life in the city, adding a few anecdotes that might entertain her sister.

But Anna had read between the lines. Her last letter had been far too intimate for comfort.

“But what about you, Lizzie? You never write about yourself! I want you to be happy and I worry about you constantly. Please tell me you love town as much as Georgie does.”
Anna had gone on to invite her to Derbyshire the following summer instead of Lizzie returning to Raven Hall or Glen Barry.
“You will love it here, I think, as it is the most beautiful spot in England! And you will not be bored, as we have many callers, and Thomas has some very handsome bachelor friends. Do say you will come, Lizzie, for I miss you so.”

Lizzie had yet to reply. She would love to visit Anna at some future time, but her wounds remained too raw to contemplate such a visit now, especially as Anna seemed to think she could match her up with one of Thomas’s friends. Lizzie was not deluded. Her reputation was such that she would never marry now—which was a relief. Even if her reputation would allow a marriage, she had no doubt that she would never stop loving Tyrell. There could be no one else, not for her.

Eleanor came into the salon. Lizzie was glad to be distracted from her brooding. “What do you think? Do you like our holiday decor? I must confess, it is mostly Georgie’s fine handiwork.”

“The salon is very festive.” Eleanor smiled. She was, as always, magnificently dressed in black with more diamonds on her person than a duchess. Lizzie was never going to forget that in her greatest time of need, Eleanor had welcomed her with open arms, refusing to hold any grudge.

“Your parents are here. I saw their carriage driving up.” She smiled at both girls. Then to Lizzie, “Did you make that rum raisin cake I saw in the kitchen?”

Lizzie nodded. “Last night,” she confessed. “It is Papa’s favorite.”

Eleanor touched her cheek. “And at what time was this? Midnight? Two in the morning? Three?”

Lizzie looked away. She had come to hate the night. In those dark hours she was assailed by her loneliness, her memories and her love for Tyrell and his child. If she dared to sleep, there were dreams, wonderfully vivid dreams. Sometimes he made love to her and at other times he laughed with her, held her or teased her. Ned was often with them and they were a family. Waking up from such dreams was agonizing. The moment of utter comprehension—that she was in London, unloved and alone—was like the twisting of a knife in her chest.

“You are too thin,” Eleanor chided, “and wandering the halls all night long doesn’t help.”

Lizzie was aware that she had dropped a size or two in her gowns, as all had been taken in. But she had only to glance down at her voluptuous bosom to know that she was hardly a wraith. She smiled at her aunt. “And you worry far too much. Do not scold.”

But Eleanor lowered her voice, handing her a letter. “This just came,” she said with some disapproval.

Lizzie saw the postmark and her heart lurched with excitement. The letter was from Ireland. She flipped it over and saw that it bore the countess’s seal.

“Lizzie, I do not think this correspondence is helpful,” Eleanor said.

Lizzie looked up at her. “I
must
know how Ned fares.”

“He is well. He is very well. I really think you should insist that the countess no longer send you letters.”

“I miss him,” she said simply. She would brook no interference in her correspondence with the countess.

“You must let go,” Eleanor said firmly. “Darling, there is no other way for you to get on with your life.”

Lizzie smiled at her aunt. “I
am
getting on with my
life, Aunt Eleanor. We have moved to town, we have had supper parties, and I have been volunteering at St. Anne’s Hospital,” she said. She had been working there for several weeks, attending the sick women and children, both by day and by night. “I could not be busier, in fact.”

Eleanor sighed.

The doorbell chimed, and Lizzie quickly turned from her aunt. Going to the salon’s threshold, she watched as Leclerc went to answer it. Standing there was Rory McBane, a very dashing sight.

Lizzie was surprised, for she had been expecting her parents. He held a bag, one clearly containing Christmas gifts.

Lizzie smiled. She had always been terribly fond of Rory. He was so witty and so charming, not to mention handsome. She had not seen him since last summer when he had been so upset with her for her one terrible lie. But so much had changed since then. She was genuinely pleased to see him and she walked forward, hoping he had forgiven her and they could put the past behind them. “Rory! How wonderful to see you—Merry Christmas,” she said softly.

Rory put the bag down and bowed. “Hello, Lizzie.” He straightened and studied her, not smiling. “It has been some time. Merry Christmas.” And there was an unspoken question in his eyes, one Lizzie understood.

He regretted their argument as much as she did. She smiled in real relief. “Thank you for calling.”

He smiled back. “How could I not call on my favorite relations?”

“Oh, you remain the most gallant of gentlemen!” And taking both of his hands in hers, she laughed. The sound actually startled her and she realized it was the first time she had genuinely laughed since leaving Ireland.

But he was no longer looking at her. His gaze had moved to some point behind Lizzie. “I do hope this means you have missed me,” he murmured.

Lizzie glanced behind her, not releasing him. Georgie and Eleanor stood on the threshold, Eleanor beaming with delight at the sight of her nephew. Lizzie turned, pulling him with her, aware of Georgie’s visible tension. “You are staying for supper,” she warned him.

He laughed. “We shall see. Hello, Auntie. Will I receive as enthusiastic a greeting from you as I have from Lizzie?” He looked at Georgie.

Lizzie also looked at her sister, and she was pleased to note that Georgie had never appeared better. She wore a plain robin’s-egg-blue dress, had a white apron tied about her waist, and there were smudges of dirt on her cheeks and gold glitter on her nose. Her long, dark blond hair had come down earlier that afternoon, when she had decided to haul a ladder by herself in order to decorate the salon. The color of dark honey, it fell in soft waves about her face and shoulders. Although disheveled, Georgie had become a beautiful woman. And she was even prettier, Lizzie thought, because she was flushing.

Eleanor was berating him for his long absence. “It’s about time! How neglectful a relation you have become,” she scolded, but she was smiling.

He bowed. “Auntie, my most sincere apologies.” And straightening, he nodded at Georgie, a slight flush on his cheeks, as well. “Miss Fitzgerald.”

Georgie looked away, curtsying. “Mr. McBane.”

He quickly tore his gaze away and smiled at Lizzie and Eleanor. “I should love to stay for supper, as long as I am not intruding.”

“You are hardly intruding, is he, Eleanor?” Lizzie prompted.

Eleanor eyed her briefly. “You rascal!” she cried, finally kissing his cheek. “We have needed some good cheer in this house for some time now. It has taken you this long to find us?”

Rory grinned at her. “I have been very busy, Auntie, with my various affairs.”

“And I am afraid to ask what those
affairs
might be. I do hope you refer to business concerns?”

“Of course.” He laughed. He winked at Lizzie and she imagined he had had the audacity to refer to some torrid love affair.

Eleanor looped his arm in hers, leading him back into the salon. “The girls are expecting their parents and it will be a festive evening. You will stay.” It was not really a question.

He chuckled, murmuring, “I have missed you, too, Auntie.”

Behind his back, Georgie sent Lizzie a dismayed look. As the duo went into the salon, she strode to her. “Why did you invite him to stay for supper?” Georgie cried in a hushed voice. She seemed very distraught. “I am a mess!”