Chapter 36
“Stand back, fiend! I have a sword and a very dangerous stick!”
Henry brandished his weapon—an actual branch, still green and sticky with sap—while his twin, crouched behind a mossy stone, let out an exaggerated gasp and clutched her chest.
Clara collapsed in the grass, the back of her hand to her brow, then, with a rapid recovery, rolled onto her stomach and began gnawing a clump of dandelion with the intensity of a rabid rabbit.
Nancy watched the scene unfold from a garden bench. She was, at the moment, the least useful adult in England.
The grounds of the hilltop house stretched away in every direction, stark and sleeping beneath the pale light of winter.
It was all very picturesque in a subdued sort of way: rosebushes reduced to thorny skeletons, the orangery windows fogged with the ghosts of dying light, even the air itself sharp with the scent of cold earth and woodsmoke.
A fitting backdrop for the twins, who seemed determined to conquer every frozen inch of their new domain before the day was out.
Nancy closed her eyes and drew in the clean, metallic scent of winter soil. You ought to feel happy, she told herself. You are safe, and the children are happy, and you are not required to smile at a single guest for the rest of your days. You should be basking in relief.
But instead, her chest felt like someone had scooped out the insides and replaced them with cold pudding.
She opened her eyes just in time to see Clara leap up and sprint toward the low fence, Henry hot on her heels. They had not spoken a word of their old life in days.
Clara, for all her supposed sensitivity, seemed to have flung her grief onto the wind and replaced it with a sort of wild joy. Henry—always the shyer of the two—had developed a penchant for reckless climbing and mud. The house, or perhaps the land itself, had infected them both with optimism.
Nancy could not summon any for herself.
She wrapped her arms tight around her knees and watched the twins launch a new campaign against the kitchen staff, who had emerged from the back door to hang linens on the line.
Clara darted behind the sheets, then burst out again, brandishing a twig as if it were a cutlass.
Henry followed, but doubled back to scoop up a rock and pocket it—his current obsession was with “treasures,” most of which ended up in the laundry and drew the ire of anyone whose shins came in contact with them.
Henry was the first to notice her watching.
He sidled over, his hair full of grass and his knees dark with the remnants of his last five tumbles. “Aunt Nancy?” he said, tilting his head like a suspicious owl.
She braced herself. “Yes, Henry?”
He looked left, then right, then up at her, his face set with determination. “When is Uncle Oscar coming here?”
Nancy felt the blow in her gut. She smiled—bravely, she thought—and patted the bench beside her. Henry climbed up, swinging his legs, his eyes still locked on hers.
“He’s very busy in London,” she said. “Lots of work.”
Henry nodded, considering. “But he will come?”
He will not come. He does not want you. He never did.
“He will come when he can,” she lied.
Henry accepted this, but Nancy could see the doubt coiling around his tongue. “All right,” he said, but did not jump off. He sat quietly, feet bumping the bench, hands knotting into the fabric of his trousers.
She ruffled his hair, then regretted it when she dislodged a small caterpillar onto her skirt. Henry rescued the creature with a sort of reverence, then scampered back to the fray.
Nancy watched him go. She wondered how many days she could keep up the pretense, how long before Clara or Henry realized that their little family was, in fact, not a family at all. That the great experiment of love and trust had failed before it even started.
You always knew it was a fiction. Why mourn it now?
Because it had begun to feel less like fiction and more like a possible future. Because for a week or a month or even a single night, she’d allowed herself to believe Oscar might choose her, not out of duty, but out of wanting.
Nancy pressed her fist into her sternum, as if she could force her heart to shrink back to its proper, manageable size.
She sat there, motionless, for some time—until the sound of footsteps on gravel signaled the approach of the butler, a man named Flint who wore his livery with a severity usually reserved for undertakers.
He bowed, managing to radiate disapproval without ever moving his face. “A caller for you, Duchess,” he said. “She is in the drawing room.”
Nancy blinked. “A caller? Here?”
“Indeed,” Flint replied, not blinking. “A lady.”
Nancy wondered, briefly, if it was a mistake. Then she realized who it must be.
She stood, shaking grass from her hem. “Thank you, Flint. Please keep an eye on the children.”
“Already done, Your Grace,” said Flint, with the faintest curl of lip.
She climbed the steps to the house, and when she reached the drawing room, she found her mother standing at the window. The tartan shawl Moira wore made her look more formidable than usual, as if she had come prepared for a war and not a parlor visit.
Moira turned when Nancy entered. “Darling, you look half-starved.” She crossed the rug, enveloping Nancy in an embrace that was both fierce and perfumed with some fiercely Scottish spirit.
“I am quite well,” Nancy lied, which fooled neither of them.
Moira released her, but kept her at arm’s length. “Your letter was a puzzle. You wrote as if you were on the run from debtor’s prison, not merely relocating to a house with a better view.”
Nancy attempted a smile. “You know how I hate to overburden you with drama.”
“Drama is the only thing that keeps me upright at my age. What is going on?” Moira’s green eyes were sharper than usual.
Nancy hesitated, considering whether to say nothing, or everything, or something in between.
Moira would not wait. “If you have run off from Scarfield, I need to know whether I must poison him or simply slander him to death at the next Women’s Group meeting.”
“It’s not—” Nancy’s composure broke. She sank into the nearest chair. “I left him, Mama. I left him because he had a mistress. And because he made a fool of me.”
Moira’s mouth rounded into a perfect O. “You must be joking. Oscar Scarfield? A mistress?”
Nancy barked a laugh. “It is not so hard to believe. He has the practice of years.”
Moira sat opposite, skirts rustling. “What happened?”
So Nancy told her, beginning with the letter, the necklace, and the brutal words exchanged in his study. She left out nothing, not the shouting or the tears or the way Oscar had stood, unmoving, as she walked away.
Moira listened, not once interrupting, but her frown grew deeper with every word.
When Nancy finished, she sat back, exhausted. The words had taken more from her than she’d thought possible.
“I see,” said Moira, quietly. “And you are certain the letter was real? That the words were meant for him?”
“I read it with my own eyes, Mama. I have seen enough to know.” Her voice cracked. “He did not even bother to deny it.”
Moira reached for her hand, squeezing until the bones ached. “You love him.”
“I despise him,” Nancy said. “But yes, I love him.” The admission was raw, like skin scraped from the heart.
Moira made a humming sound. “I always thought you would marry a poet, or a mathematician. Not a man who could barely manage a sonnet to his own name.”
“Don’t be kind,” Nancy said, burying her face in her hands.
“I’m not. I am being practical. Listen to me, darling.” Moira’s voice softened. “I do not believe it. Not for one second. That man looks at you as if you are the only person on earth worth looking at. I have seen it, and I am not a sentimentalist.”
“Then you have better eyes than I,” Nancy muttered.
Moira was relentless. “What if you are wrong? What if this is all some grotesque misunderstanding?”
“There is no misunderstanding,” Nancy snapped. “There is only pain.”
“Pain can be the beginning of truth,” Moira replied. “You must confront him, not run.”
“I have nothing left to say.”
“Then listen,” said Moira, her voice iron. “You are a Gallagher. You do not shrink from conflict. You face it until it surrenders. If there is one atom of you that wishes to see this resolved, you must go back and fight.”
Nancy closed her eyes. She remembered the way Oscar’s hands had felt on her face, the warmth of his breath, the ridiculous way he laughed at her jokes.
She remembered the hurt, too—the cold, the rage, the silence. But when she sorted through the debris of her heart, what remained was not hatred, but loss.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
Moira pulled her up and held her tight as ever. “Then I will do it for you. I will write to Scarfield and demand an explanation. No, do not protest. If he has an ounce of manhood left, he will come crawling.”
Nancy shuddered in her arms and let herself weep. For the first time in years, she felt like a child again, safe and helpless and entirely undone.
They stayed like that for a long time. Nancy was not sure how long, only that when she finally surfaced, her face was sticky and her lungs felt wrung out.
Moira dabbed at her cheeks with a borrowed handkerchief, then, abruptly, changed the subject. “Did you know your daughter and son have turned the lawn into a battlefield?”
“They are not my children,” Nancy said, but it came out soft and without conviction.
“They are as much yours as any child born of your body,” said Moira, and her voice was so warm that it nearly undid Nancy all over again.
She tried to protest, but at that moment the twins burst into the room, trailed by a huffing housemaid.
“Gran-mama!” Clara shrieked, running to Moira’s lap and burying her face in the tartan. “Aunt Nancy said we may call you Gran-mama!”
Henry hovered at the threshold, but when he saw his sister’s joy, he followed suit.
“Oh, I love that title, my little one!” Moira welcomed them both, arms wide. She pressed kisses to their heads, and for a moment, the world was perfect.
“We got you a present,” Clara declared. “It’s a bug.”
“I am delighted,” said Moira, accepting the wriggling thing with a composure that would have impressed even the Queen.
Nancy watched them. She wondered, for a moment, if it was possible to survive on the affection of others when her own heart had gone cold.
Nancy was peering at a book, forcing herself to comprehend the words that they might distract her, when a knock came at the door.
The butler’s voice came, “A caller, Your Grace. In the drawing room.”
Nancy’s heart gave a slight kick, even though she should never hope that Oscar would follow her here. “Who is it?”
“Did not say, Your Grace.”
Nancy steadied herself, summoned every ounce of dignity left, and excused herself. The drawing room was empty when she arrived.
She waited. Ten seconds, twenty. Nothing. The air in the room was thick, as if someone had just left in a hurry.
She turned to find Mr. Flint and ask, but before she reached the hallway, she caught a sound—a low, urgent murmur—floating in from the conservatory.
Nancy followed, moving as quietly as she could. The door to the conservatory was slightly ajar. Inside, voices, both too familiar.
Edith Mercer’s calm, modulated cadence: “You are certain the Duchess will not return to London?”
The answering voice—sly, amused, unmistakable: “She will if I wish it. But for now, let her wallow. I want Scarfield desperate. The more public his disgrace, the better.”
Nancy stiffened. That was Adrian’s voice if she was not mistaken. She leaned closer, her heart pounding.
Edith spoke again: “And the children?”
“The children are insurance. If Scarfield wants them, he’ll have to crawl for them,” he replied. “The letters worked, then?”
“They worked, my lord,” Edith laughed. “He believed every word. So did she. I have rarely seen a couple so easily unraveled.”
Nancy’s vision swam.
The letter. The necklace. The accusations. All of it was Adrian? She felt cold, then hot. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Edith said, “She will never recover her reputation, my lord. Not with these rumors.”
Nancy felt something inside her shatter.
She pushed open the door.
The pair inside turned, Edith pale and composed, Adrian startled, then immediately smirked.
“Nancy,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “You are even lovelier in exile. Scarfield does not deserve you.”
“Why are you here?” Nancy’s voice shook, but she did not care. “What do you want?”
Edith said nothing. Adrian, as always, filled the air with words.
“I only wished to check on your welfare. And perhaps to remind you that not every man in London is a brute or a liar.” He bowed mockingly. “I am at your service, Duchess.”
Nancy ignored him, fixing her gaze on Edith. “And you, Miss Mercer? What are you at?”
Edith met her eyes with no remorse on her face. “I am only doing what is best for the children.”
“They are not your children!”
Edith took a step toward Nancy. “What if I became Duchess and they fell into my care?”