Chapter Thirty-One
Portia lay on her back, eyes closed, while the hushed voices of her companions whispered in the air, set against the backdrop of the gentle shush of the breeze through the trees.
In the far distance she could discern the murmur of male voices.
By now, Adam’s shooting party would be gathering in the field at the north edge of the woods, and soon the sound of gunfire would fill the air.
But at least she would be spared their company, tucked away in her favorite part of the estate—a neglected meadow at the edge of a copse, where the ground shimmered with color, as the bluebells had begun to bloom.
With luck, by the time she returned to the house, Adam’s friends would be long gone.
Company was no longer something she craved.
Instead, she preferred the silence of solitude, free from judgmental eyes and the sight of the happiness of others—of all her friends who had found fulfilment and bliss in their lives. Whereas she…
Whereas I have lost everything that made me whole.
Sometimes, particularly when she was asleep, or occupied in some embroidery or other that Nerissa had tasked her with, she could forget.
Or, if not completely forget, she could at least push the pain deep enough into the recesses of her mind that it dulled to a constant, throbbing ache.
It was a welcome respite from the sharp agony that had taken hold of her heart that day at Solthwaite Manor—from the moment the carriage had disappeared out of sight.
No matter how many times she visited the Bensons’ farm, on some pretense or other of benevolence, or a wish for the lady of Forthridge Park to be neighborly toward the tenants, the pain never lessened.
It might abate for a moment when she held her child in her arms, but each time she handed Stephania back to Mrs. Benson it returned, cutting that little bit deeper.
But pain was to be celebrated. Pain meant that she was still a living soul capable of feeling. The day the pain left would be the day she no longer existed.
She drew in a lungful of air and caught the faint, sweet scent of the bluebells. The soft pink glow of the sun penetrated her eyelids and she turned her face toward the sun, letting its warmth caress her skin.
“Lady Portia, are you well?”
She opened her eyes to see the concerned expression on her maid’s face. Then she reached up and Nerissa took her hand, her work-roughened fingers interlocking with Portia’s.
The compassion in Nerissa’s eyes almost breached Portia’s defenses, and she bit her lip to stem the swell of sorrow.
“The fresh air will help,” Nerissa said. “It’s better than any medicine.”
Portia sighed. “Does it heal the soul as well as the body?”
“It will—in time.”
“Shall I pour you a glass of lemonade, Lady Portia?” a light voice asked, and Portia tilted her head up and smiled at the young woman sitting beside Nerissa.
“No, thank you, Tilly,” she said. “But take some yourself. Mrs. Charlton made plenty for our picnic.”
“I don’t think it’s my place to—”
“I insist,” Portia said. “It wouldn’t be right if I ate everything myself.”
“You’ve hardly eaten anything,” Tilly said. “You must—”
“Tilly, hush,” Nerissa said. “Lady Portia has been unwell.”
“But you said His Grace wanted—”
“Tilly!” Nerissa admonished the girl.
Portia sat up, shading her eyes from the sunlight, to see her maid frowning at Tilly. “Perhaps I will take something,” she said. “I wouldn’t want everyone’s efforts on my behalf to go to waste. What did Mrs. Charlton pack for us?”
“Apple pie,” Nerissa said, lifting the cloth from the picnic basket. “Still warm to the touch. Perhaps you could take a slice of that?”
“Mmm, it smells delicious,” Tilly said, sniffing, “but not like any apple pie I’ve had.”
“Mrs. Charlton puts cinnamon in her apple pie,” Nerissa said. “It’s Lady Portia’s favorite.”
“Cinnamon? What’s that?”
“It’s a spice,” Portia said. “Why don’t you try some?”
“I don’t think I—”
“Nonsense!” Portia said, forcing brightness into her voice to drive away the young maid’s apprehension. Poor Tilly had known nothing but hardship in her previous household. Adam had objected to taking the girl in at first, but relented. In fact, he’d agreed to many of Portia’s requests of late.
Save one.
Nerissa reached into the basket and pulled out the pie and three plates, together with a knife.
“Let me cut it,” Tilly said. “Neither of you should be serving me.”
“Why not?” Portia said. “I’m capable of doing what you do. After all, I have arms and legs just as you…” She broke off, cursing herself as her gaze drifted to the maid’s leg.
But Tilly merely smiled and nodded. “Then let me pick some bluebells for your bedchamber,” she said, rising to her feet. She teetered sideways, and Portia reached for her.
“Tilly, do take care. Perhaps you shouldn’t…”
“It’s no trouble, Lady Portia, beggin’ your pardon,” Tilly said. “Dr. McIver said I was to walk on it as much as possible, so I could get used to it.”
“Ah yes, my brother said he’d sent for him when you were in Town.”
“It was ever so kind of His Grace,” Tilly said. “To think—a doctor taking the trouble to visit, just to see me. And then there was…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Mrs. Platt tells me I oughtn’t gossip, especially about folk above stairs.”
“Quite right,” Nerissa said.
“I daresay my brother had plenty of visitors while in London,” Portia said.
Including one who’d given him a rather impressive bruise just below the left eye.
Adam had insisted—a little too vehemently—that he’d stumbled against a door.
But Mrs. Scarlet was known for her fiery temper.
And, at least according to William Congreve, the fury of a woman scorned was not to be taken lightly.
Perhaps he’d insulted his mistress somehow, or perhaps Mrs. Scarlet had suffered the misfortune of falling in love with him, resulting in his inevitable rejection of her.
“I saw only one visitor for His Grace,” Tilly said, “but Mr. Reeve told me not to speak of him. He’s so strict, I think…” She hesitated, blushing. “Beg pardon for saying.”
Portia smiled. “Shall I tell you a secret, Tilly? Reeve has been strict with me ever since I was a child. I often wonder if he believes I’m a child, still.”
“I’d best fetch them bluebells,” Tilly said. “They won’t pick themselves.”
“Pick enough for your room also, so you may benefit from your efforts as much as I.”
“Ma’am,” Tilly said, bobbing a curtsey. She listed sideways, then regained her balance and limped toward the copse.
Portia caught her breath as the sadness swelled within her, and Nerissa squeezed her hand.
“You’ll recover in time, Lady Portia,” she said.
Portia shook her head. “Every waking moment, I question whether I did the right thing. But…” She caught her breath, but a soft sob escaped her lips. “H-how can I care for her when I can barely care for myself?”
“You’re stronger than you think,” Nerissa said.
“Think how you’ve cared for young Tilly there.
She’s thriving here, and it’s thanks to you.
There’s no other ladies I know would be willing to take her in, and you stood up to your brother when he objected, and—” She broke off.
“Forgive me for speaking ill of His Grace.”
“You’ve said nothing I’ve not said myself,” Portia said. “I cannot forgive him for…”
She shook her head and drew in a shuddering breath.
“No, I’m the one who did wrong,” she said. “I let her down, abandoned her for my own selfish reasons. One day I might forgive my brother—but how will I ever begin to forgive myself?”
“She is well,” Nerissa said, “and she has two loving parents. The Bensons…”
She trailed off as Portia shook with sorrow.
“Oh, Lady Portia!” Nerissa drew her into an embrace. “Forgive me. I know they’re not her real parents. I know you’re…”
“I-I’m her m-mother,” Portia said quietly. “Steph—” She broke off, the urge to speak her daughter’s name conquered by the rising blackness of loss.
She curled her hand around Nerissa’s arm while her maid rocked her to and fro, as she had done most nights since their return to Forthridge Park.
“My brother says it’s for the best, a-and he does love me. B-but every day I see her…” She caught her breath again, as her maid’s soft caress breached her defenses. “Every day, it breaks my heart a little more to leave her.”
“Then perhaps His Grace could—”
“No,” Portia said, shaking her head, her eyes stinging with moisture. “He mustn’t know how unhappy I am. If he knew, he’d insist I don’t see her again.”
“He can’t stop you, Lady Portia.”
“He was so insistent at Solthwaite that I found myself handing her over to him before I could think of a reason not to.” She drew in a shuddering breath.
“I-I know he thinks it’s for the best—for me, for her…
” A sob swelled in her throat, and she caught her breath.
“It’s like a part of me has been ripped from my soul… Like…”
She gestured toward Tilly, who was limping back, clutching a posy of deep-blue blooms.
“Tilly will carry the scars of what happened to her for the rest of her life. My scars may not be visible, but they exist all the same—even if I may not speak of them.”
Portia wiped her eyes as Tilly approached, her brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, Lady Portia, you don’t look well.”
“A slight headache, that’s all,” Portia said. “The sun’s so bright today, one could be mistaken for thinking it was summer already, even though last week there was frost on the ground.” She picked up the pie plate. “Now, how about a slice of—”
A volley of gunshots echoed in the distance, and, with a cacophony of squawks and caws, a multitude of black shapes exploded from the treetops, forming a cloud that seemed to fill the sky, circling like smoke particles until they settled into a formation and began spiraling down to settle once more in the trees.