Chapter 35
Despite telling his sister that he was leaving Chelsea, and his claim that he would go immediately, Richard couldn’t seem to do it.
He wrote to the estate agent about selling the house, but the completed letter, signed and sealed, lay on his desk for days.
Finally he told Gerhard to get it out of his sight.
His friend nodded and took it away, but no reply came from the agent.
Richard suspected Gerhard—no doubt acting at Clemency’s urging—had not delivered it, and might well have burned it.
He didn’t ask.
Even without giving up the house, he could still leave.
Karl could pack his things and he could be in Calais by the end of the week, in Zürich within the fortnight.
Perhaps he should go south, into the Piedmont.
There were mountains there. He hadn’t climbed a mountain in an age, perhaps that’s what he needed .
. . to freeze half to death, and possibly plummet all the way to death in an icy crevasse.
A very satisfying ending that would be, he told himself morosely.
But he didn’t tell Karl to pack. Instead he walked for hours every day, sometimes with Hercule and sometimes alone.
He had no destination, no purpose; the exercise served to mute his tumultuous thoughts, and that was all he wanted.
One day he found himself at Hampton Court, some five miles distant, and could hardly understand how he’d got there.
Perhaps he should complete his memoirs. Sluggishly he got out his travel journals and paged through them, trying to find the gripping thread, trying to remember how exhilarated he’d been to embark on these journeys.
He read his own words, written in enthusiasm and wonder and even the aftermath of terror, and thought they all sounded dry and dull, even the very first one, when he’d been barely nineteen years old and had decided to climb a nearby mountain with some friends.
He’d been transfixed as a child by stories of the men who climbed Mont Blanc, and was determined to do the same.
Those men had made it to the summit, only to barely survive the trip down.
But they, young idiots, had survived and thought themselves very dashing and brave heroes.
He’d exulted in their good fortune, and had written a heroic epic about their quest.
He sat and stared out the window blindly. It all seemed so insignificant now. No one cared. Certainly not he.
The rattle of carriage wheels punctured the blankness of his mind.
For days he’d listened for that sound, and now he flinched from it.
Every day so far it had been Clemency, coming to ask anxiously after his health, or to speak far too cheerfully of her sons, or—worst of all—to retreat with Gerhard and whisper about him.
He closed his eyes when the tap came at the door.
“Richard?” his sister inquired softly.
She knew he was in here; she’d brought him a tray of food a few hours ago. It still sat on the end of his desk, untouched. Richard frowned. Oh yes; Clemency had been here since late morning. Who had just arrived?
“Ja,” he said.
She peered around the door. “You have a caller.”
He looked at her and said nothing.
She pursed her lips. “Shall I show up your visitor?”
It must be the estate agent. He doubted Clemency would admit anyone else. He sighed, strangely reluctant to see the man. “I will come down.”
She nodded and left, closing the door behind her. He looked at the tray and sighed again. She would be upset that he hadn’t eaten anything. He took a biscuit and ate it, to mollify her and in an attempt to shake off the lethargy that had engulfed him.
He would go to Zürich, he decided. His parents were both gone but he still had friends and other family there, and he was in no state to plan a longer expedition.
It had been so long since he’d gone on one.
Perhaps his travels would become more of a tour.
He could visit the Americas, or Greece. War had always interfered with his plans to see the Mediterranean.
He would visit famous sites and art exhibitions like a normal tourist, instead of joining a caravan of camels heading into the desert.
He went down the stairs and opened the door to the small parlor. Clemency had had it painted blue and the shrubbery outside the windows cut back, but it was still small and always felt dark. It took him a moment to locate the visitor, who stood looking out the window.
She turned at his entrance. He froze, hand still on the door.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Evangeline said quietly, when he was incapable of speech. “I feared you might not.”
Slowly he closed the door. “I did not expect you.”
Her throat worked, and she seemed to shrink a little. “Mrs. Murray didn’t tell you it was I.”
“No.”
She nodded. She looked tired, with shadows under her eyes and anxious grooves bracketing her mouth.
The sunlight from the window caught the silver creeping into her hair.
Her clothing was somber and dark, and she wore her pelisse buttoned up, as if she didn’t expect to stay long.
He didn’t know if he wanted her to, or if he wanted her to leave now.
The sight of her unleashed a searing mixture of yearning and anguish in his chest.
“If you wish me to leave, I will.” She hesitated, darting a wary glance at him.
He didn’t know how to answer, so said nothing.
She drew herself up straighter, gripping her hands together.
“I have come to apologize for my behavior and words when last we spoke. I was cruel and unjust to you, and I know I hurt you. I am deeply sorry.”
She paused, and he tried to think of something to say. “Is there word from Miss Bennet?”
Her eyes flickered. “She married Burke four days ago.”
He’d seen it in the newspaper. “I wish them every happiness,” he said.
“Thank you.” She wrapped the strings of her reticule around one hand, then unwound them.
“My niece came to see me yesterday. She . . . She is happy. She tells me Burke is also well satisfied with the marriage.” She paused, biting hard on her lower lip.
“I believe her. Time will tell, of course, but she is pleased this is how things turned out. She wished me to extend to you her sincere apologies, and Lord Burke’s as well, along with her devout hope that you will not actually shoot Burke. ” She glanced at him uncertainly.
“No,” he replied. “I shall not shoot him now. Love makes a fool of any man.”
She blanched and looked away from him.
Yes, love did make a man a fool. Even after the last several days of misery, it ripped at his heart anew to see her so wretched.
He didn’t want her to leave; he could never want that.
Now he knew why he hadn’t been able to leave Chelsea, even after she’d told him it was over.
He’d been waiting for this. “Is that all you came to say to me?”
Gaze fixed out the window, she gave a slight nod. “I will not ask your forgiveness, because what I did should not be forgiven. You did not deserve anything I said to you. Nothing that happened was your fault.”
“It appears to me,” he said slowly, trying not to misstep, “that what happened was not your fault, either.” She swung around, primed to argue, and he held up one hand.
“The young lady was elated to be pursued so ardently by the man she loved. The gentleman was so mad for her that he acted rashly. Neither was in their right mind. If not at that ball, they would have found other opportunities to be . . . indiscreet. Any chaperone can be thwarted, where the desire to do so is that powerful.”
She shuddered, looking away.
“Why do you blame yourself?” he asked quietly.
Again she stared out the window for a long moment.
Then she turned toward him, without meeting his gaze.
“Yes, what you say it true. I know it is, because I thwarted my parents’ watchful eyes many times.
” She wrung the reticule in her hands. “That does not change the fact that I was meant to keep her from trouble, and I failed. Perhaps it is even worse because I knew very well that girls in love will do stupid, reckless things, and men in the grip of desire will entice them into every sort of sin. I, of all people, should have been more on guard against it. To my immense relief, it appears Joan shall not pay a terrible price.”
“As you did,” he murmured.
She looked at him, her face stark and drawn.
“You cannot know . . . No man can. To be handed to a man, a stranger, against your will, and be told that you—and everything that you think of as yours, including your own body—belongs to him. To know that he can beat you, starve you, lock you away from the world, and no one will stop him. To be held responsible for actions you are helpless to prevent, and then to be blamed for a man’s terrible behavior. ”
“I’m glad your husbands are dead,” he said in a low voice. “They deserved to die.”
Her chin quivered. “I love you, Richard. I have loved you for years, more than I ever thought possible. But marriage has never meant anything good to me.”
Slowly he nodded, finally understanding. “I frightened you.”
“No. That is, it wasn’t you that frightened me—never. It was . . .” She looked at him, as lost as a child.
Richard had never spent much time thinking about Cunningham or Courtenay. They were both dead, and good riddance. Evangeline almost never spoke of them. Today, though, right now, he felt a surge of hatred for those cruel, arrogant men who had hurt this incomparable woman. “I understand.”
She took a deep breath. “You asked me to think about it, and I couldn’t bear to.
Yet after I sent you away, I could think of nothing else.
Even when I knew I’d wrecked any chance of it, I thought of what I had thrown away, and despite my fears and worries, I felt a terrible loss.
” She put out her hand, which trembled. “You are the center of my happiness. If you still want me, the answer to your question is yes.”
He felt lightheaded with shock. God, he’d forgotten to breathe. He took her hand and drew her to him, gently, because she looked as if she might break. When he folded his arms gingerly around her, a shiver went through her before she relaxed against him.
“No,” he said softly. “I withdraw my request that you consider marriage.”
She tensed.
“It was the wrong thing to ask,” he went on, stroking her back in light, lazy circles, which always made her soft and relaxed.
“As it turns out, it was not actually marriage I wanted. What I wanted was to be with you, openly and proudly. Marriage was only the first means that came to mind. But on reconsideration, I do not think it will do after all.”
She hadn’t moved a muscle. “What, then?” she asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
“Marriage would make you my property, which I do not want. Marriage would give me all that is yours, which I do not want.” He shifted, settling her against him better.
She fit so perfectly in his arms. “I was thinking of visiting Zürich again. Come with me. I would like to show you my home, where the air is clean and free of ugly gossip. You can be anything you like there.”
“You want me to go with you?”
He smiled down at her. “Wherever I go, I want you with me. Yes.”
“But without marriage.” She sounded shocked.
Richard took a deep breath and exhaled. “You do not wish to be married. I do not wish to do anything that frightens you. We could be married in our hearts, without setting foot in a church, and that would be enough for me.”
“But . . . you would have no rights . . .”
He shrugged. “I never wanted any right to control you. I don’t want your money, your property . . . certainly not Prince Louis, who would never consent to be mine! All I want is your company and your love, and no priest is necessary to bless that desire.”
She stared at him in amazement. “Everyone will know, when they hear my name . . .”
He smiled ruefully. “My darling, men change their names all the time. Generally to commit an intrigue or to escape the consequences of an intrigue, but they do it. Why shouldn’t a woman be permitted the same license?
” He pulled a face. “You have been Lady Courtenay for too long. I am thoroughly tired of calling you by that faithless swine’s name, as if you were still his. ”
Her mouth dropped open, and then her face slowly brightened. “You’re right!” She fell silent, a distant expression on her face. “Evangeline Campion,” she murmured at last, as if tasting the words.
Richard pressed his lips to her temple. “A beautiful name for a magnificent woman.”
She smiled, then pulled back to look at him, somber again. “You . . . you will never have children, if you remain with me.”
“When have I ever wanted children?” he said in surprise. “Rafael and Gabriel are near enough, and thanks be to God in Heaven, I am only their uncle.” He cast his eyes upward. “Gabriel especially promises to lead my sister a frantic dance, and I do not envy her.”
Evangeline looked at him, her eyes wet. She put her hand on his cheek. “I don’t deserve you.”
He laughed. “A restless wanderer with no purpose in life? You deserve far better, but I fear one of my failings is a ruthless streak of selfishness, when it comes to you.”
She smiled faintly. “A restless wanderer who hasn’t left the tame confines of England in six years.”
Richard started, then tipped up her face.
He felt a bolt of astonishment that she was right.
“Do you know,” he said slowly, “until you said that, I had not realized it had been so long. Not once has the desire to wander come over me, in the six years with you.” He studied her. “Perhaps I wandered in search of you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she tried to say, before he put a finger to her lips.
“No,” he murmured. “I believe it is true. I went in search of adventure because I was restless and impatient at home. What is there to keep a young man of good fortune, no profession, and little family fixed in place?”
“You thrilled to the adventure of it.”
“I did.” He smiled ruefully. “But not as much as I thrill to the delight of having you in my life. Once I achieved that, there was no longer any need to wander. Alone, that is.”
“I have never been away from England,” she confessed.
“I can change that.” He kissed her hand. “Will you come with me?”
She looked at him with love in her eyes. “Always.”