Chapter 43
The long hours passed, and the watchman trudging by in the street called them out inexorably, as if to torment her on purpose.
Allegra lay awake as dawn came creeping across London, tossing and turning, wondering if their situation was truly as hopeless as it appeared to be.
It was in her stubborn nature to fight, not submit to fate or the will of others.
She could not find a clever solution – as far as she could see, there was none – but she could tell Max that their love was stronger than the hellish situation his life had forced on him, through no fault of his own.
She could argue with all the passion and tenacity of which she was capable that they should set all their difficulties aside and marry, and live as freely and happily as they could for as long as they could, letting the uncertain future take care of itself.
After all, who could ever be guaranteed perpetual felicity?
No one in this world. Happy endings were for fairy tales.
Kings and queens, princes and princesses, married in the most propitious of circumstances, buoyed up by wealth, power, and sometimes beauty, every material advantage and universal good wishes, and yet even they were suddenly struck down by illness or by other grave misfortunes.
Good, honest people, like poor King George, went mad and then recovered, only to relapse at unpredictable intervals, a cause of constant anxiety to their loved ones.
Treasured children died, even in palaces.
Ships were wrecked, fortunes were lost and innocent families ruined.
Life was unpredictable always, and disaster was no more to be anticipated with any certainty than strokes of good fortune.
Was a life together with all the manifold joys they could share not worth the risk that came with choosing to be hopeful?
But then she thought of the hideous strain that Max had clearly been suffering under ever since he’d learned the truth, close on ten years ago now, and she feared that it would be grotesquely selfish to overbear his quite rational fears, to persuade him to court that mortal danger, even if indeed she could achieve so much.
Imagine if they married. He’d spend every waking minute of their existence looking over his shoulder, fearing the worst, and if that worst ever came, as one day it might, his self-reproaches for involving her in ruin would be bitter indeed.
Could she live with her conscience, if she saw disaster unfolding, quick or slow, and knew she alone bore the responsibility of causing the man she loved so much unnecessary pain?
It was easy to say that it was her risk to take, not his – but it was a risk that he had vehemently refused to contemplate on her behalf.
Loving him, knowing he loved her, which gave her undue influence over him, should she not respect his clearly stated wishes?
She could not be confident of the right and wrong of it, and in her dire need she could seek no advice or help from anyone.
Not that she believed that anyone could really advise her even if they knew the truth.
There was just one thing she could do, and must do, even in her state of confusion and frozen misery.
No more putting off. She rose, and sat at her tiny writing desk in the early-morning chill, took up pen and paper, and wrote to Lord Milton.
Letters might always be intercepted, of course – Lady Milton seemed just the type of woman to have no respect for others’ privacy.
It was all too easy to picture her, magnificently unconcerned in her grey boudoir, ripping the seal from any correspondence she felt the slightest interest in, no matter to whom it might be addressed.
And so Allegra couched her missive in guarded terms, declaring only that after much reflection and uncertainty she had come to the conclusion that she must decline his very flattering offer.
If His Lordship wished to call on her to discuss the matter further, she would be at home to him any afternoon this week, but he should know that her mind was made up and she was not open to persuasion.
She thought of adding something about her discretion, but could find no way of expressing the sentiment in a manner that was itself sufficiently discreet.
He would come, she knew, to assure himself of her continuing silence. She would, in his position.
One of her minor worries had been whether her mother would interrogate her on what had occurred last night after she and Mr Severin had been left alone.
Nothing would drag the truth from her, naturally, but it would be a painful interview all the same.
It was inevitable, she could see, and so she sought it out, rather than having it hang over her all day, going resolutely to her mother’s sitting room straight after breakfast, once the girls were safely shut away with Miss Macintyre and her irregular Italian verbs.
She began abruptly, as Mrs Constantine had little time for small talk.
‘I’ve written to Lord Milton to decline his offer – I expect he may visit me today as a matter of courtesy.
But that’s of no moment, really, except to him.
You will be wondering about last night. Mr Severin did not ravish me on the table, Mama, you will be pleased to know.
We talked – for a long time – and then he left. ’
Leontina’s gaze was steady on her face, and not unkind. ‘He told you… whatever it is.’
‘Yes. But I can’t tell you. Or anyone. Really I can’t.’
‘Was he right when he said it was an insuperable impediment to your marriage?’
She hesitated, struggling to formulate her thoughts in a way that would make sense to her mother, and yet not risk even the slightest hint at the terrifying truth.
‘I think so,’ she said slowly at last. ‘At least, I can see no solution, not even a glimmer of hope of one. The only way such a serious issue could be overcome would be if I set all my energies to persuading him that it did not matter, and given his feelings, I am not sure that it would be right to do that. Not when I enter fully into his sentiments on the problem; I cannot say even to myself that he is wrong, or exaggerating, or otherwise deluding himself or me. It is a truly horrible dilemma.’
Mrs Constantine said with unusual delicacy, ‘Forgive me, Allegra, but if his qualms relate to the matter of… of race, I honour his consideration of you and your future children, but I must think him over-scrupulous. Times are changing, though slowly, and for the better. This matter, or a similar one, was raised by Laurence, in fact, when he offered for your sister. His family is Portuguese Jewish, you know, in its origins. Your father respected his frankness, and told him so. If Papa were inclined to care about this, which I believe, to do him justice, he would not, be sure that I would soon set him straight.’
Allegra smiled rather mistily, and was aware of an unusual, almost unprecedented desire to hug her mother and cling to her for comfort.
‘Thank you, Mama, but it’s not that. If it had been only that, everything would be resolved by now.
Such scruples on my part would be foolish, wicked even, when I love him so, and after all, with the recent revelations about our background, we are hardly in a position… ’
‘That’s true enough,’ Leontina said, with a return to her normal dry, sardonic manner. ‘Then I am sorry, my dear. I will not importune you further.’ If she had particularly noted Allegra’s bold and futile declaration of love, she chose not to remark upon it.
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mama.’ And then, fearing a loss of control on her part and a collapse in her fragile composure that must be painful to both of them, she left the room.