Chapter 18
By the time Gwen reached her bedchamber, she was too tired to be properly angry and too angry to be properly tired.
Her head hurt. Her heart throbbed in an odd, hollow way, as if some important piece had been knocked out of place and could not be set right again.
She gently shut the door behind her and leaned against it, staring at the familiar shapes in the dimness. The narrow bed. The little writing desk under the window. The chest that held her few treasures. Everything looked exactly as it always had.
She did not.
Her gown still carried the faint scent of the lodge, of woodsmoke and Victor’s cologne.
The memory of his hands on her skin burned beneath her stays.
The memory of his voice, cold and even as he reminded her that their arrangement was nothing more than business, pressed like a bruise against her ribs.
“Fool,” she muttered to herself. “Absolute fool.”
She took off her gloves, then crossed to the desk and lit the candle with unsteady fingers. The small flame sprang up, casting light over the worn surface.
A sheet of paper lay waiting. She had set it there that morning, before the ball, when plans had felt sharply theoretical rather than desperately necessary.
Now, there was no room for hesitation.
She sat, smoothed the paper, dipped her quill, and began writing.
My dearest Cousin Edith,
Forgive the nature of this letter and the urgency with which it must arrive. I write with urgency, which I will not fully explain, as I do not wish to burden you with more than necessary.
Circumstances at Fenwick House have become untenable, and I recall your kind offer that I might visit your home in Cheltenham. So, I dare to hope that your kindness might extend a little further.
If you have any need of a governess, a companion, or any modest position suited to a lady who has been well educated but has no fortune of her own, I beg you to consider me. I am willing to work and to live quietly.
If you cannot help, I will think no ill of you. But if you can, I would be grateful beyond words. Please send your reply as soon as you can.
Your affectionate cousin,
Gwendoline Reeves.
Her hand trembled only once. She sanded and folded the letter, sealing it with the small crest her father had used.
I will send it by private courier in the morning. That will cost me… eight pence.
She snuffed the candle, undressed with the numb efficiency of habit, and slipped into bed. Sleep came in fits and starts, broken by images of dark eyes and a lodge and her own voice saying, It is over.
At some point, exhaustion triumphed.
The next morning, she woke to the sound of voices in the corridor. Her maid’s anxious whisper. Another woman’s shaken reply.
Martha slipped into the room without knocking, her face pale. “My Lord, Lady Fenwick wishes to see you. At once.”
Gwen sat up, her heart lurching. “Is she ill?”
“She is… upset,” Martha said carefully. “The Viscount did not come home.”
Gwen threw on a wrapper, ran a brush through her hair once, and hurried down the corridor to her mother’s room. She found her standing near the window, her arms wrapped around her middle, her eyes red.
“Mama,” she sighed softly. “What is it? Martha said he did not come home.”
Cordelia turned around, looking almost bewildered. “He did not come back last night. He left after we had quarreled. He went to his club. He did not return. I believe he is going to leave us.”
The first thing Gwen felt was relief. Then guilt. Then a cold, bruising worry she refused to give shape.
“He has stayed out before,” she said gently. “There are nights when he drinks late and sleeps at the club.”
“This is different,” Cordelia whispered. “He was so angry.”
Gwen crossed the room and took her hands, feeling how icy they were. “What happened?”
Cordelia shook her head. “It does not matter. I should not have provoked him.”
“Provoked him?” Gwen frowned. “What did you do? Breathe in a way he disliked?”
Cordelia gave a short, broken laugh. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Don’t. Please.”
Gwen softened her voice at once. “Mama, tell me. Please. You never tell me. Just this once, tell me what the quarrel was about.”
Cordelia looked at her with an expression that Gwen had rarely seen. Then, very slowly, she said, “It was about you, my dear.”
Gwen’s throat tightened. “Me?”
“Yes,” Cordelia whispered. “He is tired of the whispers. Tired of having to defend you in company. He says every time he enters his club, someone feels entitled to mention your name. Your scandal. Your refusal to behave as he believes you ought. He says it reflects badly on him. On us.”
Heat crept into Gwen’s cheeks. “I see.”
“I told him that you are my daughter,” Cordelia continued, her voice gaining strength.
“That I will not allow anyone to disparage you in my presence. That, whatever the ton says, I know your heart. He did not like that. He said that I chose you over him. That we were ruined. That he had to fight tooth and nail to regain his standing at his club, and that you undo his efforts with every breath you take.”
Gwen’s fingers tightened around her mother’s. “That is hardly fair.”
“He does not deal in fairness. He deals in humiliation,” Cordelia said softly. “He said my defense of you embarrasses him. That I ought to remember my place as his wife and not contradict him.”
“And you did?” Gwen asked, a small note of awe threading through her fear.
“For a little while,” Cordelia admitted. “Then he shouted. I shouted. It was dreadful. He threw a glass. It shattered against the hearth. I told him to go if he could not bear the sight of us. So he went. He has not come back.”
Gwen’s heart twisted.
Cordelia’s lips trembled as she added quickly, “I am not blaming you, my love. I would do it again. I will always defend you without putting you in danger. The last thing I want is for either of you to be harmed because of me.”
Gwen’s eyes stung. “You have never said anything like this.”
“I should have,” Cordelia whispered. “I have been too frightened. But I love you. I know I have not chosen well. I know you have suffered for it. I will not pretend otherwise today. I know he loves us. Deep down.”
Gwen swallowed hard. “I love you too, Mama.”
Cordelia drew her into an embrace, holding her tightly. For a moment, Gwen allowed herself to sink into it, to feel something like safety, however fleeting.
Then heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Cordelia flinched before she pulled back, wiping her cheeks quickly. Gwen turned.
Howard staggered in without knocking, the smell of brandy and perfume preceding him by a pace. His cravat was askew, his hair mussed, his eyes bloodshot and mean.
“Well,” he slurred, “here are my two ungrateful burdens, conspiring in daylight.”
Cordelia’s entire posture changed. Her shoulders hunched, her hands anxiously smoothed her gown, and her voice turned thin and placating. “Howard, you are home. I was so worried. Are you unwell? Shall I fetch coffee? Shall I send word to the kitchen?”
“Do not fuss,” he snapped. “You made your opinion of my company clear last night.”
She flinched. “I spoke in anger. I did not mean—”
“You rarely mean what you say,” he cut in. His gaze slid to Gwen, hard and contemptuous. “I hear you now inspire your mother to your level of disobedience.”
Gwen schooled her features into a polite mask. “Good morning, My Lord.”
“Do not pretend. I know you for what you are,” Howard sneered.
Cordelia stepped in hastily. “Howard, please. This is not necessary. Let us speak later, when you have rested.”
He looked at her, and with bitter familiarity, Gwen saw her mother fold in on herself, the courage of moments ago retreating beneath a desperate desire to soothe him.
“I will go,” Gwen said quietly. “You do not need me here.”
“No,” Howard agreed. “We never did.”
The words hit her like small stones.
Gwen bobbed the briefest curtsy, placed a brief kiss on her mother’s cheek, and left the room before either of them could see how much it cost her to walk away.
As she closed the door, she heard her mother’s voice change again. Soft. Appeasing. Almost girlish in her efforts to charm Howard.
Gwen walked back to her room, her resolve strengthening.
I am leaving. And soon.