Chapter 29
MARIANNE
“Iam most happy that you are here with me. I have missed you so,” Charlotte said three days later as the two of them were preparing for the ball together. “But what do you intend to do? Do you intend to stay here with me forever? You are welcome, of course, but you are Countess of Wexford.”
“I know who I am,” Marianne replied. “I am well aware of my title. Do not fret—I shall not impose on you much longer.”
“You are not imposing. I simply do not understand. When I saw the two of you dancing at the ball just days ago, you looked truly happy. As though you were man and wife in truth. As though there was nothing the matter between the two of you. I thought this was all but a charade.”
“It was,” Marianne said, swirling around to face her sister. She was wearing a gown in Pomona green. Not her choice, but she had not brought many of her gowns with her, and Charlotte’s would not fit her. The gown crinkled as she moved, as gowns of the last decade often did.
“I thought things were changing between us, that he genuinely was beginning to love me. But I was wrong. The moment his son called me Mama, it was as though I was standing on one side of a drawbridge and he on the other. And the bridge was being drawn up, parting us forever.”
“Have you attempted to speak with him?”
“Of course I have,” Marianne said, throwing her hands up in the air.
“I would not simply leave him without at least trying to do so. I spoke to him, and he made it very clear that we are nothing but what we agreed upon in the beginning. Two people married for mutual benefit—so that he would not have to contend with ladies and their mothers setting their cap at him, and I so that our aunt would not continue to try to marry me off as Father would have done, though to a gentleman of somewhat better character, one hopes. We both have our freedom now. That is what he wanted. That is what I wanted. And now we must begin the process of separating.”
“But I did not think it was what you wanted,” Charlotte said gently.
“It isn’t. It is what he wants, and so it shall be. He wishes to pretend nothing happened between us.”
Charlotte sat down on one of the seats nearby and crossed her legs at the ankles. “But you kissed. You told me so.”
“We did, but he behaves as though it never happened.” She paused for a moment. “What do you know of the late Lady Wexford? What has Rhys said?”
Charlotte shrugged. “He told me that their marriage was most unhappy and that her death caused him great distress.”
“He shows no sign of grief,” Marianne said.
“I asked Rhys for more information, especially after I found out that you and he were to be wed, but he told me that this was something shared in confidence between him and his friend, and he could not tell me more. He only set my mind at ease and told me that Lucien would prove a worthy husband.”
Marianne scoffed. “Some husband he has turned out to be. He does not care for me. He never has.”
“That is not true,” Charlotte said. “I could tell by the way he looked at you that he cares. I dare say he perhaps even loves you.”
A bitter laugh escaped Marianne’s lips. “He has a strange manner of showing affection, if that is so. In any case, I will not spend my life being shackled to a man who loves me one moment, holds me in contempt the next. I have reached a decision.” She turned to her sister.
“I am returning to the convent for a season.”
“You are going to take your vows?” Charlotte gasped.
“No, I will not, but I sent a letter to Sister Bernadette and the Mother Superior to let them know that I wish to return. I wish to remain for a few months. This time, nobody will be able to take me away by force because I am a countess. I am a lady of the first circle. Nobody can come and take me away.”
“Your husband could,” Charlotte said.
“But he would not. I had planned originally to come here for a few days to gain some space from him and then return, but these last two days have given me some peace of mind that I haven’t had during my time at my supposed home.
And I do not see why we need to wait months longer to separate when that is our ultimate purpose anyhow. ”
“When will you inform him?”
Marianne shrugged. “I do not know. I must choose the proper moment. I must return home and sit with him and discuss how best to proceed. And I must explain it to Henry. I cannot leave him wondering where I have gone. He has already lost one mother, though I doubt he remembers her even. He was but an infant when she passed, after all.”
Charlotte looked at her, and she could tell from the expression in her sister’s eyes that there was much more she wanted to say. Perhaps she even wanted to convince her otherwise. But Charlotte knew her well enough not to even try. Instead, she simply nodded. “If that is what you wish.”
It was not what she wished. She wished that Lucien would finally tell her what was preventing him from stopping the pattern he followed of growing hot and cold, but she knew it wasn’t going to happen, and she had to consider her own welfare.
She couldn’t continue like this. As much as she loved him and as much as she had grown to love Henry, this was her life, and she could not squander it on someone who seemed unable to determine his own mind.
Lucien stepped out of the carriage, his black pantaloons chafing against his skin. He tugged at his cravat, which felt too tight, as though it wanted to suffocate him. He strode forward towards the grand house where music already drifted forth. She would be inside. He knew it.
Marianne. He hadn’t seen her in several days now, and the prospect of seeing her made his stomach fill with dread.
The days had been trying. He had been obliged to explain to Henry where Marianne had gone.
The falsehood came readily to his lips. She had gone to visit her family.
It was not strictly a falsehood. However, after reading her letter, he knew that she wouldn’t return.
Not considering how matters stood. She had made it abundantly clear what she wanted.
An end to the charade. And could he fault her? He could not.
He regretted it now. And yet he did not. He still believed it was the right thing, but it grieved him to see her leave. To know that she had gone. Perhaps there might yet be some means that he could rectify things? Maybe he could still set matters to rights somehow. But how?
“Lucien?” A voice came, and he turned. Rhys was standing there in the dark, the shadow from the balcony overhead obscuring his figure. He stepped out into the light, dressed, like Lucien, in formal attire.
“Rhys,” he said. “Good to see you. I was not sure if you would be here.”
“I was not going to be,” his friend said. “But Charlotte insisted. She wants me to talk to you, to see if I cannot bring you to reason.”
He wet his lips. “To reason?”
“Do not take me for a fool. You know full well what I speak of. What has happened between you and Marianne? I feel as though things between the two of you have changed with such rapidity that I cannot make heads nor tails of it.”
Lucien sighed. “I have fallen in love with her. That is what has happened.”
“But that is wonderful,” Rhys replied. “I do not understand why you must render it so complex. I suspected as much might occur when you installed her in your household. She is a lovely young woman.”
“Yes, she is a lovely young woman. But I am ill-suited to her. I would ruin her. I cannot be in love with her. I cannot let her be in love with me. I cannot let Henry think of her as a mother. I cannot—”
“But why not?” Rhys asked.
Lucien seized his friend’s arm and drew him some paces away. He didn’t want anyone to overhear their discourse.
“You know why. You know what happened to Arabella. I killed her.”
“You did not kill Arabella. Venturing into the tempest was her choice. Taking a lover was her own doing.”
Lucien shook his head. In his mind, he knew all of this to be true.
He knew that Arabella had chosen the path she was on.
Yet his heart condemned him still. He thought back to those dreadful days preceding her demise.
How estranged they had become. How he had longed to mend the breach between them, to at least persuade her to take an interest in the boy.
She hadn’t wanted it. She had grown yet more remote.
She had barred him from her presence. She would not so much as look upon the child at all.
A nurse had fed him, and nurses were raising him, while his mother gave him no heed and spent her time buying gowns, visiting Vauxhall Gardens, and enjoying herself.
He had suspected the reason why. She didn’t love him—that he knew—but he suspected there was another, some other gentleman who had captured her fancy.
Lucien looked up at Rhys. “I ought to have confronted her when I found out about the affair.”
“And what would that have done?” Rhys asked. “She would’ve denied it.”
“No, I think she would’ve admitted to it.
She would’ve been gleeful about it. Instead, I let her arrange her escape.
I knew she was going to leave me that night.
I knew it. I also knew that the storm was bad.
I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve told her that I knew about the affair with Rochford.
I should’ve told her to stay until at least the weather had improved and then separate come morning.
But I didn’t. I permitted her departure.
I knew there was danger. I knew it. I knew that the conveyance she chose was ill-suited to such conditions. I killed her.”
“You did not kill her,” Rhys said, seizing his friend’s shoulders and shaking him.
“You were dealt a poor hand by your father. He married you off to a woman who was an ill-suited match. A woman who chose to pursue her pleasures elsewhere. That is all. The universe, or God, or whoever created that storm. That wasn’t you.
You didn’t make the carriage crash. You didn’t make her die.
You didn’t make her cheat on you and leave. ”
“I might have been a better husband.”
“No, you couldn’t. I was by your side throughout, and I saw what efforts you made. She didn’t love you, and if you would but acknowledge it, you never loved her either. You were infatuated with her in the beginning. You wanted to love her.”
Lucien sighed. “I think I loved what I thought she could be, not who she truly was.”
“That is true,” his friend replied. “That is very true.”
“But I am still responsible. I made her more miserable. Just as I would make Marianne even more miserable if I persuaded her to remain with me. We are ill-suited.”
“You are admirably matched. I have witnessed the alteration in you. She has restored something that I thought was lost forever. The cheer in you, the happiness. Don’t let that slip away out of sheer obstinacy.”
“I am not stubborn,” Lucien said.
“Trust me, I am married to one of the Langley sisters. I am well-acquainted with obstinacy,” Rhys said. “Talk to her.”
“I am afraid,” he confessed at length. “What if I reveal all about Arabella and I? What if she comes to despise me? What if she thinks I was responsible for Arabella’s death, even if you absolve me?”
“She will not. I know her. Speak truth to her. Tell her everything that’s happened.
Allow her to decide for herself. At least then you shall know her mind.
Do not make decisions for her. It does not suit you.
She is here tonight. She has been at my home for the last two days, and she is wretched.
Talk to her. End her suffering. Put yourself out of your misery.
For the sake of everything that is still good in the world. ”
Lucien sighed. Perhaps he ought. If he told her everything about how wretched his marriage had truly been, about the affair he had discovered, about the night Arabella fled—perhaps Marianne might determine that she didn’t want him.
But that would be her decision. Perhaps she might look beyond the past. He doubted it, but Rhys spoke truly.
He should grant her the opportunity. She deserved to know all before she made her decision about her future, and theirs.