Chapter 20
An Unlikely Attraction
Georgie 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 mantle.
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 understood 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.