Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The rapid knock at the bedchamber door made Octavia jump so hard that her tea sloshed over the side of the cup, into the saucer.
“Who is it?” she called, her other hand on her heart to try and steady its leaping beat.
The door opened, and Malcolm appeared, his green eyes feverish, his breathing unsteady as if he had sprinted there.
“What are you doing?” she protested. “Get out! I have no desire to speak with you.”
He remained where he was. “Maybe nae, but I have to speak with you.”
“I do not want to hear anything else from you,” she insisted, her eyes narrowed, her own breathing becoming ragged.
“I heard everything the other night; there is nothing more to be said. Indeed, I am only permitting you to stay here because I have no say in the matter. This is your residence, after all.”
And I know that my son would be heartbroken if I sent you away, she neglected to add, though it was mostly that she had no real right to ask him to go away.
“Why, I suppose I do not actually have any say in whether you stay in this room or not,” she continued, crossing her arms across her chest. “You do as you please, and you do not care for how it might make others feel.”
Malcolm clawed a hand through his dark hair. “That isn’t fair, lass. I ken ye’re angry with me, and ye have every right to be, but ye ken I wouldn’t disturb yer peace unless I had a reason. Just as I think ye ken I wouldn’t have held back the truth with ill intentions.”
“What were your intentions?” she challenged, her gaze flitting to his lips.
A burst of vivid memory exploded in her mind: the sweet friction of his mouth on hers, the warm feeling of being pulled into his embrace, the thrill of being kissed by him and kissing him in return, the flutter of hope that it might have been the beginning of something more for their marriage.
She could not help it. Being close to him did something to her that was beyond her control. Even in her anger, she could not stop her mind from imagining that kiss, and how… right it had felt. Until, of course, it did not.
“Ye were focused on Simon. Ye were under enough strain with his sickness that I didn’t want to add to it,” Malcolm replied tightly. “I didn’t want ye to think that I was just going to abandon ye to deal with his illness alone because I’d gotten my memories back.”
She snorted to hide the fact that he was right; if he had told her, she would have thought that.
“Did you consider leaving?” she asked bluntly.
“Aye, because it was what ye wanted,” he replied. “But the moment Simon took ill, there was nothing that could have made me leave. And aye, I probably could’ve said that to ye, but I didn’t think ye needed the doubt.”
She turned her gaze toward the fireplace. “You must have been very amused with yourself, sitting at the dinner table with my brother and my sister-in-law, aware of everything while pretending you were not.”
“I had nay idea about Hugo and Evelyn’s struggles,” he shot back, a spike of real anger in his voice. “As ye may recall, ye and I hadn’t spoken in five years, and we didn’t talk much before then, and I certainly had nay correspondence with yer brother.”
A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks. Again, he was right; he could not have known about Hugo and Evelyn’s difficulties. The sympathy he had shown that night must have been real… or just another part of his performance.
“As for being amused with myself,” he continued. “I didn’t do this maliciously, lass. I didn’t enjoy a moment of keeping the truth to myself. I realize I did the wrong thing, and I am sorry for that, but it was nae some ruse, performed to entertain myself.”
“That is easy for you to say, but hard for me to believe,” she retorted. “You had ample opportunity to be honest with me, and you decided to continue tricking me instead. You let me think you were someone that you are not.”
“It wasn’t a trick!” he urged, coming closer. “It was me being idiotic.”
She shrugged. “Either way, I do not trust you anymore.”
Perhaps, he might win that trust back eventually, but it would take a great deal of work on his part.
One thing was for certain: the next few weeks at Huntfield would be pivotal…
and probably very awkward, no doubt filled with quarrels like this and apologies that she was not quite ready to accept yet.
“Then, it’s fortunate that I won’t be here much longer,” he said thickly.
Octavia’s head snapped toward him, her brow creasing into a frown. “Pardon?”
“Ye said I could remain here until I made a recovery, and I have,” he replied, his eyes glinting with something like pain. “I’ve taken up enough of yer time and yer peace. What I did only proves that I shouldn’t be around ye or our son.”
No… No, that is not how this is supposed to be…
“He was happier before I arrived,” he added. “Any influence I have on him… isn’t what he deserves. Ye were raising him perfectly well, and I’ve intruded on that. So, I mean to be gone by this evening.”
This evening? What? But… But that is so soon.
She stared at him. “I see.”
“The rules of our marriage will return to what they were, and I won’t trouble ye again,” he said, a rasp in his voice. “I’m sorry that I broke yer trust, and I’m sorry for hurting Simon.”
Was that it? Octavia could hardly believe it.
Did he truly have so little notion of just how much he would hurt Simon by leaving?
Did he think that could be remedied with a simple ‘I’m sorry’?
And, of course, it would be left to Octavia to tell their son that his father had decided to retreat to Scotland, removing himself from their lives once again.
“Very well,” she said, for she did not know how else to reply.
He bowed his head to her. “I’ll leave ye to yer tea.”
As he turned and left the room, a great wrench tugged upon her heart, as if he were taking part of it with him. She was angry at his deception, betrayed and heartbroken, but she had never expected him to just… go.
Is that not what you wanted?
She stared at the spot where he had been, and did not know how to answer that.
Octavia crouched in front of her son, the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the drawing room windows. He still had a smear of something on his lip from his luncheon, which she reached to gently brush away.
“Now, my darling, I have something very important to tell you,” she said with a sad smile, her chest tight.
How on earth do I break his heart like this?
She knew that Malcolm would have done it himself is she had asked him to, but she had decided that it would be better coming from her.
“Your father has… some business to attend to in Scotland, where he lives. Do you remember I told you that? That he lives in Scotland?”
The boy nodded.
“Well,” she continued, “he is going back to his castle there. You see, he was not very well when he came to us. He had a… um… sore spot, like when you fall down and scrape your knee. That is why he was staying here with us, so he could get all better, like you did when you had your fever. But now that he is all better, he is going to go home.”
It took every shred of strength she possessed to get through the clumsy explanation, knowing it was not nearly enough to prevent the devastation that would surely come.
“He will leave this evening,” she added, “and… I do not think we shall see him again, because he lives so far away and it is difficult for him to make such a terribly long journey.”
She had no idea why she was protecting Malcolm with her careful words. The anger and disappointment that fizzed in her chest would have chosen less pleasant wording.
Because he thinks this is what you want from him, her mind whispered.
“Is papa cross with me?” Simon asked, his chin dipping to his chest.
Octavia frowned and tipped her son’s head up. “What? No, of course not. Why would you say that?”
“I… called him nasty,” the boy murmured, rubbing his eyes. “He hurt me. He didn’t mean to. Millicent said… I was lucky. She said papa saved me, but I was sore. I was mean.”
Her frown deepened. “What? Your father hurt you? What are you talking about?”
She thought back to Malcolm’s words earlier, how sorry he was that he had hurt Simon. She had assumed he meant that Simon would be hurt by him leaving, not that he had caused any actual harm.
“There was an incident by the river, Your Grace,” Millicent jumped in.
“The young master didn’t want to come back to the manor for his luncheon.
He wanted to play another game with his father, and when His Grace tried to encourage Simon to come back here, Simon ran.
He slipped, Your Grace, and the duke caught him before any harm could come to him.
Unfortunately, there is a slight mark where the collar rubbed against his skin. ”
Stunned, Octavia pulled aside the collar of her son’s shirt and saw the mark for herself: a faint pink line against his pale skin.
Is this why he is leaving? The thought was so outlandish that she immediately shook it off. Accidents happened. Children were unruly sometimes. Surely, that would not be reason enough for Malcolm to suddenly depart Huntfield.
“I was naughty,” Simon admitted, chagrined. “Papa was cross. That’s why he… goes.”
“No, my darling,” Octavia urged, putting her arms around her beloved boy. “Of course, that is not the reason. He is just a very busy man, and he is not unwell anymore, so he has to go home.”
It pained her to think that her darling son could believe that he was to blame, and yet she could not bring herself to tell him that she was probably more to blame. Almost as much to blame as Malcolm himself.
“But… I love papa,” Simon whimpered into her shoulder. “I don’t want him to go.”
“I know, my darling.” Octavia held him tighter. “I am sure he will write, and we shall see about that pony for you.”
Simon pulled back, smearing his cheeks with his little fists. “Do you want papa to go?”
She swallowed uncomfortably and brushed the tears from her son’s face, realizing as she looked upon that sweet boy, the very echo of his father, that she did not. She did not at all want to return to a life that did not have Malcolm in it.
But she could not tell Simon that.
So, with the brightest smile she could muster, she said, “He has to go home, my darling. Now, what do you say to a slice of apple pie?”
Children were easy to distract. She, however, did not have that luxury.
Rogue was saddled and ready to depart, tossing his majestic head and pawing at the gravel. Malcolm, however, had gone back inside to fetch something from his guest chamber, while Octavia stood there on the porch with Simon at her side, lost for what to do with herself.
“When will Papa be back?” Simon asked, peering up at her, his voice anxious.
Octavia gulped; she had been worried this might happen.
“Do you remember what I told you before? That your father has to return to Scotland, which is too far away for him to come back?” she said, already dreading the moment that he was old enough to realize that, although Scotland was a fair distance, it was not so far that Malcolm could not visit.
But that was a problem for a future version of herself. Perhaps, Simon would have forgotten the joyful weeks he had spent with his father by then.
The boy’s face fell. “Oh… I forgot.”
“But you must be brave, my darling,” she urged. “You must say farewell to him, and you must not let him see that you are sad. Can you do that?”
Simon gave a small nod. “Yes, Mama.”
At that moment, footsteps in the entrance hall heralded Malcolm’s return, though Octavia could not bring herself to look at him. She did not want him to leave, but she would not stop him from going; he had made up his mind.
“Well then,” Malcolm said, clearing his throat. “I’ll say goodbye to ye both.”
Octavia kept her eyes on the ground. “Goodbye, Malcolm.”
“Aye, farewell to ye.”
She thought she heard a slight catch in his voice, but she could not be sure if she was just imagining what she wanted to hear.
“Goodbye, Papa,” Simon said, in the bravest voice he could manage, a faint tremble giving away his true sorrow.
Malcolm stooped and picked the boy up. “Goodbye, laddie. Don’t ye forget yer lessons about riding, and ye be good for yer mother.”
“I will,” Simon murmured, burrowing his face into Malcolm’s broad shoulder for a moment.
Out of the corner of her eye, Octavia watched as Malcolm gave his son a tight squeeze and then slowly set the boy back on the ground. With that, her husband headed down the porch steps and climbed up into the saddle with all the ease of a man who had done so a thousand times before.
Then, all too soon, Malcolm turned the stallion around and began to make his way down the driveway. A canter at first that stretched into a dramatic gallop, his coat flapping out behind him like wings, taking him away from Huntfield House for good.
A cry fought to escape Octavia’s throat, a shout to call him back, but as he passed through the gates and disappeared from view, not a sound had emerged from her lips.
Goodbye, Malcolm… I fear I shall miss you terribly.
Far more than she had ever thought possible.