“Please stay,” she said. “Do sit down. I am sick of propriety and even sicker of my own company. And why should I not entertain a guest who has been kind enough to call upon me despite the pouring rain?”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “because that guest is a single gentleman and you are a single lady without a companion.”
She sighed. He looked uncomfortable standing there leaning on his canes. He must be desperate to leave. But loneliness and low spirits had made her selfish, not to mention indiscreet.
“Did you come, then, just to inform me that it is raining and to inquire after Matilda’s health?” she asked him.
He hesitated. And then he took her completely by surprise. “Hang Lady Matilda’s health,” he said. “And your house has windows. They are not even almost completely covered by curtains today. I came to see you.”
And if she had thought he looked uncomfortable a few moments ago, it was nothing like what she felt now. The very air in the room felt as if it had been charged with something dangerous.
But—hang Lady Matilda’s health. She could not help but smile.
“Oh, do sit down,” she said. “Why should you leave just because Matilda is not here?”
He made his slow way to the chair she had indicated and sat. She reseated herself and they stared at each other.
Now what? At least in Lady Gramley’s garden the day before yesterday there had been flowers to look at and the sky and the house. And there had been sounds even if she had been unaware of them at the time—birds, insects, wind, grooms in the stables. Here even Tramp was silent. He had stretched out before Sir Benedict, his chin on the man’s boot.
“Did you love him?” he asked abruptly.
She raised her eyebrows. Had she expected him to talk about the weather? He was talking about Matthew? It was a horribly impertinent question. It demanded a sharp set-down.
“I was head-over-heels in love when I married him,” she said. “Such euphoria cannot be expected to last forever, of course. There is really no such thing as happily ever after, Sir Benedict.”
“How long had you been married before he was injured?” he asked.
“Two years,” she told him. “I spent the first year with him and the second, after his regiment was sent to the Peninsula, at Leyland Abbey in Kent with my in-laws.”
“And you fell out of love because of his injuries?”
“No.” She gazed broodingly at him for a few moments. She ought to repel him by telling him how impertinent and intrusive his question was. “It did not take me long after my marriage to discover what I ought to have realized before. He could not live without the admiration of men and the adulation of women. He was handsome and dashing and charming. Everyone adored him. But he—”
Ah, she really ought not to be talking so about her own husband.
“But he adored no one except himself?” he suggested.
How could he have guessed that? But he was exactly right. Matthew had seen everyone beyond himself as nothing more than an attentive, admiring audience. She doubted there had ever been anyone in his life whom he really knew or wanted to know, herself included. Even during the last five years he had seen her as he wanted to see her, an obedient and attentive wife, created for his comfort. He had never known her. Not even half.
“His wounds did not change him?” he asked.
“Oh, they did. Or perhaps they changed only the circumstances of his life rather than his essential character.” She turned her gaze on the fire. “His nose had been cut by a saber and broken. His face was not very badly disfigured after it had healed, but he refused to be seen by anyone except his valet and me. He would not have a mirror in his room. He was crushed by what he thought of as the loss of his good looks, as though they were his very identity. If his health had been good apart from that relatively minor disfigurement, perhaps he would have recovered some of his old confidence and swagger. But his health was not good.”
“Beatrice tells me you were devoted to him,” he said.
“How could I not be?” She looked back at him. “He was my husband, and I cared about him. I ought not to have said anything negative about him. He is not here to contradict me or to retaliate with a listing of all my shortcomings.”
“Sometimes, as I told you a couple of days ago,” he said, “one needs to speak from the heart to people who understand and can be relied upon to keep a confidence.”
“And I can rely upon you?” she asked. “Even though you are little more than a stranger to me?”
“You may rely upon my discretion.”
She believed him. She remembered what he had said about his friends at Penderris Hall.
“He did not deserve such a very harsh and prolonged ending to his life,” she said. “I never ever wished that for him.”
“And you do not deserve to be left feeling guilty that you are still alive,” he said. “I told you about Hugo, Lord Trentham, who went out of his mind after successfully leading a Forlorn Hope in Spain. His chief torment—it plagued him for years after and still does to a certain degree—was that he survived intact while all his men either died or were horribly injured. Yet he led that attack of volunteers from the front with extraordinary courage. You must forgive yourself for being alive, Mrs. McKay, and for wishing to go on living.”
“And for wanting to dance?” She half smiled at him.
“And even for wanting to ride.”