“He is in pain, Graham,” she said. And she knew it was true. He was not empty of emotion as she had thought at first. The emptiness sat upon a seething well of suffering and pain, mainly the agony of guilt.
“I know.” He stopped walking and turned to gaze back toward the house. He spoke softly without looking at her. “So are you, Chloe.”
Her mind denied it. She had been lonely and unhappy and insecure, that was all. Now she was married and she was happy. Well, contented, anyway.
“And you?” she asked.
“It is the human condition,” he said. “No one who lives into adulthood can escape it. Even children cannot. It is what we do with the pain, though, how we allow it to shape our character and actions and relationships that matters. But life is not unalloyed gloom. One must absolutely not allow pessimism or cynicism to send one into a deep depression. There is much joy too. Much joy. Can you be happy with him, Chloe? Will you be?”
“We have come full circle.” She laughed and completed her daisy chain before throwing it over his head—it was just long enough to clear the brim of his hat. “Can I be happy? Yes, of course. Will I be? Who knows? But if I am not, it will not be for lack of opportunity, or for lack of trying.”
He held out one hand, and after looking at it for a moment, she set her own in it and they began the walk back to the house.
“Have you confronted Papa?” he asked her.
“Yes. At Christmas. Before I left home.” She drew a slow breath.
“And?”
“He swore there was no truth in the rumors,” she said.
“You believed him?”
They had crossed the bridge again before she answered.
“Maybe it does not matter what I believe,” she said. “The past cannot be changed, whatever it was. He has always been Papa. If I had not gone to London last year, I would probably never have been given reason to suspect that perhaps he is not also my father. Perhaps the knowing or not knowing is of no importance whatsoever.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “Papa has always loved you, you know, Chloe, every bit as much as he has loved Lucy and me. And I have always loved you as dearly as I love Lucy.”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand.
Several people were gathered on the eastern terrace, Chloe could see, it being a pleasantly warm afternoon. It looked as if tea was being carried out. She had stolen enough time to be alone with her brother. It was time to take up her duties as hostess again.
Ralph was watching her approach, and unconsciously her footsteps quickened. Was it unnatural and a bit unkind of her to be looking forward to everyone’s departure tomorrow so that they could be alone together at last? So that they could settle into the marriage they had agreed upon? Even his grandmother was leaving. She was going to London for an indefinite stay with Great-Aunt Mary.
* * *
It seemed unnaturally quiet in the drawing room on the evening of the following day despite the crackling of the fire. There were just the two of them, Chloe on one side of the hearth, seated in the chair that had always been Ralph’s grandmother’s, he on the other side, seated in his grandfather’s chair. It all felt . . . uncomfortable.
Her head was bent over a small embroidery frame. She looked elegant in her black dress. Pretty. Her short wavy hair seemed to have stripped several years off her age. And, heaven help him, she was his wife. Until death did them part.
For the first time it seemed fully, starkly real.
Ralph was tempted to get abruptly to his feet, hurry from the room and the house, saddle a horse, and gallop away into the night so that he could have himself to himself again. There was nothing to stop him from acting upon the impulse, of course, except that . . . Well, such a move would give merely the illusion of freedom, for he would have to come back.
He was the Duke of Worthingham—something he had hoped not to be for years and years yet. He had a wife, a duchess—something he would have liked to postpone for at least a decade.
Whoever had said that one was free to do what one wished with one’s life? Had anyone said it? Or had no one ever been that foolish? Or that untruthful? Or that self-deluded? Yet he had thought it true in those long-ago days of his boyhood when he knew nothing about anything but thought he knew everything about everything. He had thought he was free to pursue his dreams and his convictions. And he had thought himself invincible. Youth was a dangerous time of life.
He closed his book without marking the page—he had not been concentrating upon what he read anyway—and set it aside. He got to his feet and crossed before the fireplace before moving past Chloe’s chair to stand half behind it. She raised her head and smiled briefly at him before returning her attention to her embroidery.
She was the very picture of placid domesticity. He felt a purely unreasoned impatience and resentment toward her. Was he going to be looking across his own hearth at embroidery for the rest of his life?
“You must have been sorry to have to say goodbye to your family and friends so soon,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “And you had all too short a visit with your father and your brother and sister.”
Everyone had left this morning. Everyone except the two of them.
“Will your grandmother stay away, do you think?” she asked him.
“It is hard to say,” he said. “Great-Aunt Mary has always been exceedingly fond of her, and she has been lonely since my great-uncle died a few years ago. And Grandmama has always been inordinately fond of her. But who knows whether she will decide to remain away from here or decide to return after a while? This has been her home for a very long time. It embodies most of the memories of her marriage, and that was, I believe, a happy one. But the choice is hers. We both assured her that this will always be her home. Thank you for joining your voice to mine on that.”