Chapter 18
. . . I do not tell you often enough, dear Mother, how very grateful I am that I am yours. It is a rare parent who would offer a child such latitude and understanding. It is an even rarer one who calls a daughter friend. I do love you, dear Mama.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her mother,
upon refusing her sixth offer of marriage
When Eloise awoke from her nap, she was surprised to see that the sheets on the other side of the bed were neat and unrumpled. Phillip had been just as tired as she had been, probably more so, since he had ridden all the way to Benedict’s house the night before, in the wind and rain, no less.
After she’d tidied herself, she set about to locate him, but he was nowhere to be found. She told herself not to worry, that they’d had a difficult few days, that he probably just needed some time to himself, to think.
Just because she tended not to prefer solitude didn’t mean everyone else agreed with her.
She laughed humorlessly to herself. That was a lesson she’d been trying—unsuccessfully—to learn her entire life.
And so she forced herself to stop looking for him.
She was married now, and suddenly she understood what it was her mother had been trying so hard to tell her on her wedding night.
Marriage was about compromise, and she and Phillip were very different people.
They might be perfect for one another, but that didn’t mean they were the same.
And if she wanted him to change some of his ways for her, well then, she was going to have to do the same for him.
She didn’t see him for the rest of the day, not when she took tea in the afternoon, not when she bade the twins good night, and not at supper, which she was forced to take by herself, feeling very small and very alone at the large mahogany table.
She dined in silence, ever aware of the watchful eyes of the footmen, both of whom smiled at her sympathetically as they brought forth her food.
Eloise smiled back, because she did believe in being polite in all things, but inside she was sighing with resignation. It was a sad state of affairs when the footmen (men, for goodness’ sakes, who were normally oblivious to another’s distress) felt sorry for you.
But then again, here she was, only one week into her marriage and dining alone. Who wouldn’t have pitied her?
Besides, the last the servants knew, Sir Phillip had raged out the door to fetch his wife, who had presumably fled to her brother’s house after a horrible row.
Put that way, Eloise thought with a sigh, it wasn’t quite so surprising that Phillip might have thought she’d left him.
She ate sparingly, not wanting to prolong the meal any longer than was necessary, and when she finished her obligatory two bites of pudding, she rose, fully intending to take herself off to bed, where, she presumed, she would pass her time as she had all day—alone.
But as she stepped into the hall, she found herself restless, not quite ready to retire.
And so she began to walk, somewhat aimlessly, through the house.
It was a chilly night for late May, and she was glad she’d brought a shawl.
Eloise had spent time in many grand country homes, where all the fireplaces were lit at night, leaving the house in a blaze of light and warmth, but Romney Hall, while snug and comfortable, held no such delusions of self-importance, and so most of the rooms were kept closed off for the night, with the fireplaces only lit when needed.
And blast it, it was cold.
She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as she walked along, rather enjoying finding her way with only the dim moonlight to guide her. But then, as she approached the portrait gallery, she saw the unmistakable light of a lantern.
Someone was there, and she knew, even before she’d taken another step forward, that it was Phillip.
She approached quietly, glad that she’d worn her soft-soled slippers, and peered through the doorway.
The sight she saw nearly broke her heart.
Phillip was standing there, stock-still, in front of Marina’s portrait. He moved not at all, save for the occasional blink of his eyes. He just stood there, looking at her, looking at his dead wife, and the expression on his face was so bleak and sorrowful that Eloise almost gasped.
Had he lied to her when he’d said that he hadn’t loved Marina? When he’d said he hadn’t felt passion?
And did it matter? Marina was dead. It wasn’t as if she was a true competitor for Phillip’s affections. And even if she was, did it matter? Because he didn’t love Eloise, either, and she didn’t—
Or maybe, she realized, in one of those flashes that knock the very breath from one’s lungs, she did.
It was hard to imagine when it had happened, or even how it had happened, but this feeling she had for him, this affection and respect, had grown into something deeper.
And oh, how she wanted him to feel the same way.
He needed her. Of that she was quite sure. He needed her maybe even more than she needed him, but that wasn’t it. She loved being needed, being wanted, being indispensable, even, but there was more to her feelings.
She loved the way he smiled, slightly lopsided, a little boyish, and with a little lilt of surprise, as if he couldn’t quite believe in his own happiness.
She loved the way he looked at her, as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, when she knew, quite patently, that she was not.
She loved the way he actually listened to what she had to say, and the way he didn’t allow her to cow him. She even loved the way he told her she talked too much, because he almost always did it with a smile, and because, of course, it was true.
And she loved the way he still listened to her, even after he told her she talked too much.
She loved the way he loved his children.
She loved his honor, his honesty, and his sly sense of humor.
And she loved the way she fit into his life, and the way he fit into hers.
It was comfortable. It was right.
And this, she finally realized, was where she belonged.
But he was standing there, staring at a portrait of his dead wife, and from the way he was so still and unmoving . . . well, God only knew how long he’d been doing that. And if he still loved her . . .
She choked back a wave of guilt. Who was she to feel anything but sorrow on behalf of Marina? She had died so young, so unexpectedly. And she’d lost what Eloise considered every mother’s God-given right—to watch her children grow up.
To feel jealous of a woman like that was unconscionable.
And yet . . .
And yet Eloise must not be as good a person as she ought, because she couldn’t watch this scene, couldn’t watch Phillip staring at the portrait of his first wife without envy squeezing around her heart.
She’d just realized she loved this man, and would, to the very last of her days. She needed him, not a dead woman.
No, she thought fiercely. He didn’t still love Marina. Maybe he’d never loved Marina. He’d said the morning before that he hadn’t been with a woman for eight years.
Eight years?
It sank in, finally.
Good God.
She’d spent the past two days in such a flurry of emotion that she hadn’t really stopped and thought—really thought—about what he’d said.
Eight years.
It was not what she would have expected. Not from a man such as Phillip, who clearly enjoyed—no, clearly needed—the physical aspects of married love.
Marina had only been dead for fifteen months. If Phillip had gone without a woman for eight years, that meant they hadn’t shared a bedroom since the twins had been conceived.
No . . .
Eloise did some mental arithmetic. No, it would have been after the twins had been born. A little bit after.
Of course, Phillip could have been off in his dates, or perhaps exaggerating, but somehow Eloise didn’t think so.
She rather thought he knew exactly when he and Marina had last slept together, and she feared, especially now that she had pinpointed the date of it, that it had been a terrible occasion indeed.
But he had not betrayed her. He had remained faithful to a woman from whose bed he’d been banned. Eloise wasn’t surprised, given his innate sense of honor and dignity, but she didn’t think she would have thought less of him if he had sought comfort elsewhere.
And the fact that he hadn’t—
It made her love him all the more.
But if his time with Marina had been so difficult and disturbing, why had he come here tonight? Why was he staring at her portrait, standing there as if he couldn’t move from the spot? Gazing upon her as if he were pleading with her, begging her for something.
Begging the favor of a dead woman.
Eloise couldn’t stand it any longer. She stepped forward and cleared her throat.
Phillip surprised her by turning instantly; she’d thought that he was so completely lost in his own world that he would not hear her. He didn’t say anything, not even her name, but then . . .
He held out his hand.
She walked forward and took it, not knowing what else to do, not even knowing—as strange as it seemed—what to say. So she just stood beside him and stared up at Marina’s portrait.
“Did you love her?” she asked, even though she’d asked him before.
“No,” he said, and she realized that a small part of her must have still been very worried, because the rush of relief she felt at his denial was surprising in its force.
“Do you miss her?”
His voice was softer, but it was sure. “No.”
“Did you hate her?” she whispered.
He shook his head, and he sounded very sad when he said, “No.”
She didn’t know what else to ask, wasn’t sure what she should ask, so she just waited, hoping he would speak.
And after a very long while, he did.
“She was sad,” he said. “She was always sad.”
Eloise looked up at him, but he did not return the glance. His eyes were on Marina’s portrait, as if he had to look at her while he spoke about her. As if maybe he owed her that.