Chapter 6 #2
“Thank you,” she murmured as she returned the cup, her face hot enough that it must surely be red as a beet. “I—er—am pleased to learn the marquise is not ill.”
“Oh, she is ill,” he said matter-of-factly. “Consumption. But it’s not often quickly fatal, and she’s always had a strong constitution, so she seems likely to remain with us a few years more.”
“I see.” While Kippers rubbed against her legs until she gave him another prawn, Claire’s mind was busy reordering the facts. “Then…when the messenger came to Greystone last Christmas Day, he did bring news of the marquise’s illness? But your mother mistook the urgency of the case?”
“No, and no.” Jonathan grimaced. “I’ve no idea what news the messenger brought—and perhaps there was no news at all, its invention being part of maman’s ruse.
Because she’d already learned of the diagnosis several weeks before.
And, I assume, understood the lack of immediate danger, or she would have sailed to France much earlier. ”
“She knew for weeks and kept it from you?” Claire watched as, apparently satiated, Kippers curled up near the stove and promptly fell asleep. “Why would your mother do that?” she asked. “Just so she could use it to stop our wedding?”
“Probably.” Jonathan shrugged. “But that’s just a guess. I know no details. After seeing grand-mère upright and catching wind of maman’s lies, I left. Hired the first chaise I could find and got as far away from her as I could. We haven’t spoken since.”
Claire felt surprise, and perhaps just a touch of triumph, at this turn of events.
She wished she could have seen Jonathan’s defiance and his mother’s reaction.
If the woman had hoped that sabotaging her son’s marriage and breaking two hearts in the process would result in keeping him all to herself, she must have been bitterly disappointed.
Claire could not help reveling a little in her enemy’s comeuppance.
And she felt glad for Jonathan. Defying his mother was a great step forward.
For him, of course.
As far as Claire was concerned…well, she wasn’t. She had no concern regarding the matter at all. It was far too late for that. Had he rushed immediately from Neuf-Marché to her side, perhaps things might have been different…
“Where did you go after that?” she heard herself ask, abandoning all pretense of incuriosity.
“Paris,” he said ruefully. “To embark on the Grand Tour my dear maman was always too frightened to allow.”
In truth, most young men of their generation had eschewed the coming-of-age tradition of touring the continent—unless sent there to endure the horrors of French warfare. But a hopeful peace had endured four years now.
“Wait. No,” he suddenly added under his breath.
“She said she was too frightened, but in fact she was merely set on keeping me by her side.” A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head in apparent disgust. “In any case, I meant to follow my father’s route.
From Paris to Lyon, Marseille, then on to Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Rome. ”
The picture of him flitting about Europe, traveling in the greatest luxury, days filled with vivid landscapes, palatial cities, ancient treasures—a sultry, buxom Italian lady on his arm—made her jaw clench.
“How splendid,” she said through gritted teeth.
He fixed her with a penetrating gaze, his deep blue, expressive eyes making her fear the imminence of an ill-considered disclosure.
Hoping to head it off, she continued hastily: “Which city was your favorite? Rome, I’ll wager, unless you stopped in Pompeii?
Ah, you did! Splendid. You must have been in heaven among all those antiquities.
” The ones they used to talk about seeing together in future, for Jonathan had always been fascinated by ancient history.
“The temples and amphitheaters and—er—columns,” she heard herself babbling on. “How perfectly splendid.”
La, how many times had she said splendid?
She fell silent.
And still the expression remained in his eyes. She braced herself for a declaration.
But instead of professing his love, he said: “In point of fact, it wasn’t particularly splendid.
It was sad. Since the war…” He shook his head.
“The devastation on the continent is beyond imagining. I found it difficult to enjoy the sights when all around me I saw so much suffering. People are destitute. Their homes and livelihoods were ripped from them. They still suffer from disruptions to trade, heavy taxation, massively higher costs for everything…so much impact. Though they’re beginning to recover, they still have so far to go. ”
“Oh!” Her cheeks burned. “Of course! I was not thinking. We English are like to forget—now the threat of invasion has passed—that the continent was not as lucky. How such scenes must have afflicted you.”
“Some did.” He shrugged. “But, truth be told, I did not dwell overmuch. My mind was otherwise occupied. Any momentary distraction could not but give way, and very soon, to thoughts of you.”
There it was: the confession she’d feared. His tender look made his meaning clear, and her expression must have betrayed the question roaring in her mind—Then why the dickens did you not come back?—since he answered as if she’d spoken aloud.
“I wanted to come back. I should have come in an instant had I any hope of winning you over once more. But I knew all hope must be in vain.”
Claire found that she was holding her breath. “How did you know?”
He gave her an odd look. “You told me so yourself. Have you forgot what you said to me in the carriage sweep? Wretched as I’ve been—difficult as it was to stay away—I was never so far beyond honor as to consider forcing my attentions upon a woman who had declined them so decisively. I have not forgot what you said.”
Nor had she.
Those words would be burned into her brain until her dying day, for she’d had ample time to rehearse them while Jonathan rushed about making all the arrangements for his departure.
And as they’d parted ways in the snow-covered sweep, she’d delivered her speech with a quiet ferocity that had satisfied her pride—if nothing else.
“Should you go,” she’d told him, “you’re not to come back here. Not ever. Nor may you write to me, seek me out, or approach me in public. I never want to see you again.”
His eyes had pleaded with her. “You know I must go.”
“You’re choosing to go. You’re choosing her. And by the time you’ve seen your mistake, it will be too late. I’ll be lost to you forever. So make your choice now…and live with the consequences.”
Though tears had run down her cheeks, she’d held his gaze and refused to wipe them away. Let him see what his betrayal was doing to her. Let him—a man who abhorred nothing so much as the sense of having injured or imposed upon another—see all her naked grief and know he was the cause.
His face was contorted with guilt and remorse, and she wasn’t sorry for it. All she’d wanted in that moment was to hurt him as much as he was hurting her.
And she’d rather thought she was succeeding. He’d looked like she felt: as if his heart were cleaving in two. He’d even looked, for just a moment, as if he might change his mind.
But then an ear-splitting wail had commanded his attention, and he’d glanced over his shoulder. Behind him was the chaise, and in the chaise was his mother—bent over, hands hiding her face, sobs racking her body.
He’d made his choice. He’d climbed in and settled her little yapping dog on her lap.
And Claire was left standing in the snow, an icy wind stinging her wet cheeks.