“And for a legitimate heir you need a wife, and you thought, oh yes, I had one of those eight years ago and I left her… Now where did I leave her? Oh yes, a convent, where she’d be in the care of nuns and no bother to anyone. And now, because you’restuckwith me, you’ve come to fetch me like a parcel you set on a shelf and forgot—correct?”
Hot tears of bitter humiliation welled up behind her eyes. She squeezed them back down. She would rather die than let him see how badly he’d hurt her.
Or anyone else. Oh, how she’d boasted… The triumph with which she’d left the sewing room a few minutes ago. Her prince had finally come.
Because he’d tried to get rid of her and failed.
He was silent a long moment. “I can see you’re upset, but—”
“Please excuse me. I feel… unwell.” Clinging to the last remnants of her dignity, she hurried from the room.
Bella ran through the quiet corridors. Penance if she was caught running, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t a schoolgirl anymore. She had to get away, to think, to understand…
She headed for her favorite place, a tiny courtyard on the far side of the convent, shaded in summer, a pool of warm sunlight in winter. A place for contemplation, Reverend Mother had said when she’d found Bella there once.
She’d been in tears then, too. In trouble for fighting, defending the honor of her absent husband. His honor…
The thought brought a fresh spurt of angry, bitter tears as she flung herself onto the cold stone bench that had been witness to so much of her misery.
The other girls had been right all along. It had taken stupid, stubborn Bella Ripton eight long years to learn the truth they’d recognized from the start. He hadn’t wanted her. He’d abandoned her to her fate. And he’d tried to annul their marriage, to erase all trace of it.
And failed.
She felt sick. Devastated. Furious. He thought he could just come and pick her up. Bella the Parcel. Stick her on a shelf until he remembered her.
Because he needed an heir.
Didn’t needher, just a wife.
Didn’t wanther,just an heir.
All those years of worry on his behalf. What afoolshe’d been.
She dashed scalding tears from her cheeks. Her fingers came away pink and streaky. Paloma’s rouge. She pulled the handkerchief from the bodice of her dress and scrubbed at her face, trying to remove the rice powder and rouge. Why, oh, why had she let the girls dress her up like a stupid doll for him? She could have been dressed in a sack for all he cared.
Humiliation roiled in her gut like an angry snake. She felt ill. Such a fool she was, coming all dressed up, primed for a romantic reunion.
So many times she’d sat in this small, sunny courtyard, remembering her wedding day. To tell the truth, she didn’t remember all that much about it, only standing in the little whitewashed village church with the priest saying the words, a mumble of Latin. She remembered holding Lieutenant Ripton’s hand; it was so big and warm, and her hand so small and cold. It was cold in the church, and he’d rubbed his thumb lightly back and forth over her hand, a silent reassurance that everything would be all right, just as he’d promised her in the pine glade…
The priest asked a question, and just as Lieutenant Ripton answered, a beam of sun shone through the narrow windows of the tiny church and gilded his face, and he looked like an angel. He’d glanced down at Bella and smiled, just with his eyes, and she felt so safe, as if she’d been blessed.
She’d been so certain the golden beam of sunlight was a sign that her marriage had been blessed, that it was meant to be.
Stupid, dreamy fool…
When the others found out he’d tried to annul the marriage, how they’d pity her. She couldn’t bear it.
There were whispers once, about someone’s cousin whose marriage had been annulled because she didn’t please her husband. The girl was returned home, shamed and disgraced.
How much worse to have had your husband try for an annulment and fail? All of the shame, and none of the comfort of escape. She’d become one of those stories that girls whispered about. Utter, public, never-ending mortification.
“Isabella?” Reverend Mother’s voice came from thecourtyard entrance.
Isabella hastily wiped her eyes and turned to face her, expecting a scold, but though it was Reverend Mother who came toward her, it was her aunt who held out loving, sympathetic arms, saying softly, “Oh, my dear.” Isabella fell into them, sobbing afresh.
“My dear, I thought you knew,” Reverend Mother said when Isabella had finally sobbed herself out. She handed Isabella a clean handkerchief. “Wipe your eyes and blow your nose.”
“What do you mean, knew? How could I know?” Isabella blew her nose loudly.
