“Then you …” Why was it so difficult to speak the words? “Then you ceased to come to the garden.”
“I came once more. I lost control of myself. I loved her in every forbidden way … and I did not know she became with child until the day of my wedding nine months later.”
Evening shadows thickened. Bushes and flowers stirred in the silence, smelling of things lost and hearts unsettled.
Isabella shuddered. This did not change the reality that he had not loved her mother. But he had loved and he had loved deeply. The same sharp, unrelenting pain that throbbed in her chest had throbbed in his these twenty years past.
Somehow, that bonded them.
“I made my choice here in this garden. I do not know what my life would have been had I married the woman of my heart. I do not know if the poverty would have destroyed us, or if having … having each other would have been enough.” He glanced at the ground, the bench, then back to her face. “But it is the choice I made, and God forgive me, it is the choice I live with. I had no right to make that choice for you.”
The bulwarks crumbled, and she pressed herself against him. She longed to say something, but nothing came. What could they say—either of them? That she was sorry? That he was?
What was finished was finished.
They were half themselves and half what they had lost in this garden.
“For as long as you wish it of me, I shall keep searching. Perhaps one day I shall find him.”
She nodded, gratitude wiping clean any remnants of anger or resentment. “I know you shall find him,” she whispered. “But you must not leave until you are rested. I shall not see my father wearied to death.” Wiping her eyes, she took his arm, leaned her head against his shoulder, and followed him back through the garden path in the last hints of daylight.
As they returned to the manor, her spirit knew a small touch of comfort. She understood everything now.
Memories of the dark stairway would not haunt her again.
William slammed himself outside, his pulse maddened. Regret already sank to the pit of his stomach. Why had he lashed out?
He had partaken of Mr. Abram’s celebration with feigned smiles and forced enthusiasm. For three hours after, he had listened to the old man crow about America in their small chamber, until the simple words pounded into William’s temples like nails.
He groaned and started down the street in the lamplit darkness. He should not have lost his temper. He should not have retorted with something sharp.
No doubt, Mr. Abram was confused and hurt. William had dampened the man’s dreams.
But if William heard one more word about America tonight, he would lose control of himself. Walking faster, he shoved his hands in his pockets and scooped a few cold farthings and sixpences into his palms.
He almost laughed when he remembered Rosenleigh. The master bedchamber that had belonged to him. The stables full of gleaming horses. The labyrinth. The garden. The two-story house.
All that had belonged to him … and now he had farthings and sixpences.
From the fog, the worn façade of a brick tavern gleamed into the night. He told himself to walk past the building, but for once, he did not listen to his own sense of reason. Why should he? What had morals ever gained him before?
The low-timbered room reeked of smoke, and the overwhelming odor of unwashed flesh wrinkled his nose. From one corner of the room, on a makeshift stage, two scantily dressed women swung at each other with wooden swords.
The crowd cheered. A few coins were tossed to the stage.
William shoved his way to the rectangular bar, his conscience already forming perspiration. “Ale, please.”
“Please?” The obese woman, whose bosom was not quite concealed by her thin fichu, barked out a laugh. “Wot you think this is, guv’nor? Westminster Abbey, eh wot?”
He glanced back to the stage at the loud smack of wood. One of the females lay sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from her temple.
The crowd’s laughter rose in glee.
“Don’t pay no mind to the likes of them, guv’nor. The little devil trollops come ’ere every night, they do, to beat each other silly and rake in a few coins.”
He swallowed when the woman pushed the pewter tankard across the bar. He cupped it in his hands. This was for Shelton. This was for Rosenleigh. For his aunt. For Lord Gresham. For the loss of Isabella. For theRoyal Montagueand the faraway country of America.
He brought it to his lips and tasted the foam. More than anything, he wanted to do as Horace had done. He wanted to lose himself in rebellion and oblivion. He wanted to escape.
