Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
There were no swimming lessons to be had the following day.
The heavens had opened and rain had all but poured down from the sky in sheets.
The pebbled paths of the garden looked like tiny rivers, flowing wildly toward the waiting sea.
If there was one thing a rain-drenched summer day could do, it was ensure chaos.
Because Gemma was bored. Not only bored, but bored and disappointed which was never a good combination.
In light of that, Lydia had mixed the day’s lessons with small jaunts through the house or a break in between lessons for a parlor game.
It was for just such a break that they now found themselves in the long gallery.
Spillikins had already been completed, as had hide and seek.
It was only the pair of them so Charades was a bit of a challenge.
But Graces… Graces was a most excellent activity as it would be physically demanding enough for Gemma to work off some of the excess energy which always accumulated when a child was cooped up for too long, and it would serve another purpose—aiding Lydia to gauge the girl’s agility and deportment.
“I’m not very good at Graces,” Gemma said.
“We only become good at something when we practice it,” Lydia pointed out. “Now, it’s your turn. Send the hoop flying. I know you can!”
Gemma held the sticks aloft, the hoop circling them.
When she whipped them apart, the hoop spun up and over, well past Lydia’s own head.
Turning around, she closed the short distance to pick it up and when she rose, found herself staring at an unfamiliar portrait.
She’d walked the gallery at Hartwell countless times…
before. Before everything had altered so horribly.
But that particular portrait was new to her and that meant it could be only one person.
“That is Mama,” Gemma said. “Papa said that portrait was painted before I was born.”
Whether it was simply well camouflaged by her clothing, artistic license taken by the artist, or perhaps it had been early enough that her condition had not been obvious.
Regardless, the portrait gave no indication that the former Lady Charlotte had been with child.
But that was hardly the most remarkable thing about the portrait.
Amelia, Lady Charlotte, had been quite lovely. And yet despite the loveliness, the portrait invoked such feelings of despair. Her deep unhappiness seemed to spread outward from it. “She was very beautiful,” Lydia finally offered, knowing that some exchange was required.
“She died in the lake,” Gemma said in that very pragmatic way of children. It was impossible to gauge whether she said it because it was true or said it because it was shocking.
“I know. Your father told me. Do you miss her?” The moment she’d uttered the question Lydia regretted it. Of course the child missed her mother.
Gemma cocked her head to the side and considered her answer carefully, a very adult expression on her small, piquant face. “I should. Don’t you think?”
“I think you were very young when she passed,” Lydia said. “And it is very hard to miss a person you do not remember all that well. But we can certainly miss the idea of a person. We can miss having someone in our lives to fulfill that role. Do you remember her, Gemma?”
Gemma stared thoughtfully at the portrait for a moment, and when she answered her voice was very small. Smaller than Lydia had heard it prior to that occasion. “I remember that she cried all the time and whenever I was near her I had to be very quiet.”
“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I had begun to think you’d run off.”
Lydia looked up to see Oliver standing at the entrance to the gallery.
He kept his gaze locked on Gemma, a smile curving his lips, but it was obvious from the sadness she could see in his eyes that he’d overheard the conversation.
But then Gemma turned and ran toward him, all but leaping into his arms. Instantly, the sadness vanished.
It was replaced with a kind of calm and peacefulness that she envied.
With Gemma still wrapped about him like a monkey, he walked toward her. “I see Gemma showed you her mother’s portrait.”
Standing there before that painting, looking at Oliver with his near black hair and then Amelia whose hair was only a shade lighter, Gemma’s reddish gold curls and bright blue eyes were a stark contrast. Neither brown like Amelia’s nor green like Oliver’s.
There was, in fact, nothing of either of her parents in the little girl’s appearance.
“Gemma,” Oliver said, easing her down to the floor. “I need to speak with Miss Lydia about something. Why don’t you run along? I believe the maids are setting up a rather elaborate tea for us all today as we’ve all been stuck indoors.”
“With cakes?”
Oliver grinned. “Naturally. With cakes.”
With that, Gemma all but sped off, her slippered feet nearly silent on the well-polished floor. And then they were alone in the gallery, the air between them fraught with unspoken questions and uncomfortable answers.
“It isn’t there,” Oliver said. “The thing you’re searching for.”
Lydia stared back at him with confusion. “What is it I am meant to be searching for?”
Oliver turned his gaze toward the portrait of his late wife.
A woman who, despite their years together, had become more of a stranger to him every single day of their union.
It had never been a love match. He hadn’t wanted that and apparently, neither had Amelia.
But in the beginning he had hoped for some semblance of affection.
That they might, despite everything, as two heartbroken people, find some solace together.
But she had not wanted solace. She’d embraced her heartache as though it were a missing piece of her and never tried to move beyond it.
“The resemblance, Lydia… You won’t find it because Gemma resembles neither her mother nor me. She resembled a certain army captain who possessed a great deal of charm and a surprising lack of honor.”
“Then Gemma is—.”
“My daughter,” Oliver said firmly. “I am her father. In all the ways that truly matter.” It was all he ever intended to say on the subject.
There could come a time when he had no choice but to discuss it with Gemma.
After all, the world could be cruel. And any hint of weakness might be seized upon and exploited by those heartless enough to do so.
But until such time, he would claim her entirely for himself so long as he could.
He’d loved her from the moment she was placed in his arms, squalling and angry at the world she’d been thrust into.
She’d been so tiny and so perfect and so unwilling to be still or silent.
There had been a vivacity in her even in infancy that had marked her as being uniquely different from Amelia and he wanted to foster that different, to encourage it and intensify it.
Not because he despised his late wife but because he wanted Gemma safe from the kind of devils that had plagued her mother.
“Of course she is your daughter,” Lydia agreed.
“Anyone who sees the pair of you together will be left with no doubt of it. What is hair color but a chance of fate? Your resemblance is in your strength of character, your curiosity about life and the world, your intelligence… your humor. All the things that make a person worth knowing are common to you both.”
A glance over his shoulder told him that Gemma was nowhere near, not lurking to overhear conversations she should not. So he offered a truth that had not been asked from her. “I knew. From the outset. I chose this so do not think to pity me for it.”
Lydia nodded. “Why would I pity you when Amelia gave you such a remarkable gift? The love of a child, especially one as extraordinary as Gemma, has a worth that cannot be measured.”
It was an opportunity to press her, to gauge her present frame of mind on what he felt were very pertinent topics. “And is that not something you long for, Lydia? To feel the love of a child that is yours whether by blood or by heart?”
She turned away, her gaze once more resting on Amelia’s portrait—a moment of sadness frozen forever in time. “I thought the opportunity for such things had passed me by.”
“Thought? Past…. Or present?”
Lydia turned back to face him. “I am no longer certain… That is not a question I can answer right now.”
It was more of an opening than he’d anticipated. Guarded, yes, but still allowing for some possibility. “And what would need to occur in order for you to have an answer to that question?”
“Atonement,” she said. “I have things I must put right first… and I’m not certain where to begin. Or if I can.”
He nodded. Taking that in for a moment. Letting it settle. “So you seek forgiveness.”
“Not forgiveness. But… understanding. Compassion for what I felt was an untenable situation with only one solution… Oliver, why were you at my mother’s funeral?”
It wasn’t the question he’d thought she would ask.
It took him off guard, but he recovered quickly.
“Your mother was a very kind woman. She sent for me, prior to her death. And she pleaded with me on her deathbed not to lose hope for you… She insisted that there were things I did not know, but she was growing weaker. I urged her to rest rather than pressing for answers. Then there were no more opportunities to question her. She passed that night. And… I could not allow her to be buried in a pauper’s grave.
Not when she had been so very near to being part of my family. ”
Lydia nodded. “I think I shall forgo tea today. I find myself needing a bit of solitude… I have a great deal to consider. But I must thank you for that kindness. I know my father must have harangued you terribly about it.”
“He did not have to. He asked. And I felt it the least I could do… and I would have hoped, had our situations been reversed, you would have had the same regard for me.”
Lydia stepped closer. She rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
It wasn’t a heated gesture. It wasn’t about passion.
It was about something much more precious to him than that.
It was a gesture that spoke of the deeper connection they’d once shared…
of love. “My regard never wavered… nor did my faith in you.”
With that, she walked away and he was left staring at the face of the woman he’d married and the retreating form of the only woman he had ever loved.